22 Feb Reacquainting with Myself
In second grade I loved drawing, especially dinosaurs; reading and writing were also a favorite pastime. That is the last recollection I have of what I enjoyed or loved because I liked it and not because I was trying to please someone, wanting them to love me, like me, or accept me.
In elementary school, the stacks of fresh-off-the-printer paper sat in a wire basket in the corner of Mrs. Sharp’s classroom. It was understood that after classwork was completed, the students had access to the library, the special paper, pencils, and crayons to occupy their imaginations while peers finished the assignments and Mrs. Sharp attended to those that needed extra time or nurturing. I was one of those who needed extra attention; English was still a struggle but thanks to the guidance of Mrs. De Leon, my kindergarten teacher, and now Mrs. Sharp, my second grade teacher, progress was being made.
Even though English was challenging, in private, the names of the dinosaurs flowed effortlessly from my lips: Brontosaurus, Triceratops, Tyrannosaurus rex, and Pterodactyl were some of my favorites. The multi-syllable words confronted even the most proficient reader, so if I messed them up aloud it wouldn’t be as noticeable. One day, to my sheer delight, Mrs. Sharp let me know that my assignments were complete and I could have free time.
“Me?” I surprisingly asked.
Smiling brightly, she took hold of my shoulders and spun me around towards the treasures that awaited.
“Yes, Samita – you,” she replied.
“It’s a sacred honor to educate.”
I can still feel the warmth of her smile basking on my skin, pouring over me a magic that teachers are privy to: the hallowed ground of a learner’s mind and soul waiting to have the seeds planted to grow into great minds, fearless thinkers, and independent dreamers. It’s a sacred honor to educate. It is nothing short of miracles occurring all across classrooms and all over the world: on beaten desks, tattered rugs, pristine seats, dirt floors the goal is the same – to nourish and nurture a young mind. The sense of accomplishment still resonates within me – 37 years later – as if it just happened.
My steps were deliberate, in a dream state, transfixed on the paper and pencils, I glided my way towards the wire basket. The paper: a dull grey rectangle, possibly 10×18; the top half a blank canvas for drawing; the bottom half separated in pale blue lines with red dashes to mark the halfway point; capital letters should touch the blue; lower case should touch near the red – never higher.
Children all around me tussled over crayons, wanting their favorite colors; some sharing while others were still in the process of learning how to share; daydreamers staring into their wondrous worlds; thinkers pondering the frenetic energy of their friends; a microcosm of the adult world was playing out but I was mesmerized by the paper and pencil. It was mine for the imagining, creating, and exploring.
Almost as if hypnotized I approached the stack of papers. Delicately, as if plucking a dandelion in spring not wanting the wind to scatter the puffs, I picked a single sheet of paper. To my right, in what was the previous home of coffee grounds, sat newly sharpened #2 pencils (to this day, one of my favorite things on Earth). My feet carried me to the library where I collected my favorite dinosaur book, worn from use, inviting the reader to study creatures that once roamed our planet (possibly even at the exact spot our school stood). In a secluded area of my mind, amongst the hustle and bustle of the class, I drew the dinosaur on the cover – a Brontosaurus (also called an Apatosaurus).
The pencil flowed lightly over the paper making the neck, a long curve, on the blank space where previously nothing existed until I came along and drew it. Then came legs, feet, mouth, and details. When I was satisfied, I retraced the entire sketch with a firmer push of the #2 pencil, marking the areas that the creature needed to come to life. Slowly, I wrote – I love dinosaurs. Proud of my own work, I stared at it in shock that I had the opportunity to create something on a blank canvas.
Mrs. Sharp was standing over me, “Samita, did you trace this over the book?”
I didn’t understand the question. She took the piece of paper, placed it over the dinosaur book, and motioned with her hand outlining the dinosaur’s form.
“Like this,” she asked.
I shook my head no, took the pencil and sketched – in freehand – the same dinosaur on the opposite side of the paper right before her eyes. Mrs. Sharp’s face looked funny; a look I had never seen on her before. She took the paper, asked me to follow her, and we walked down the hallway to Mrs. De Leon’s room.
What came next was nothing short of a delightful game of charades. Mrs. Sharp was inquiring to Mrs. De Leon if she had known of my artistic skills. After shaking her head no, Mrs. Sharp continued to explain to her that this was the first time I had drawn a dinosaur and written a sentence without help. They both looked physically down at me but simultaneously up towards me as if to say, “What magic your life will hold! The possibilities are endless.” I received a hug from them both, as they beamed from ear to ear, proud of the work they had placed in a young girl who was just beginning to know her potential.
My potential came in fits and bursts throughout my life. As much as I wanted to experience and explore, trying to figure out what was best for me, and what I liked and didn’t like, my main concern was always: What will people think? Our fear of being accepted, liked, and loved sometimes surpasses our deepest desire – living to our fullest potential. At best, it is a very personal undertaking, being guided by your truth – a value that no one else can create or delegate to you. Throughout the journey, opportunities for greatness and failure will strewn your path, gifts in disguise of lessons learned and territories explored.
“What if we all lived like we were second graders?”
What if we all lived like we were second graders? Explored the world around us; tried new foods; made friends with total strangers; picked up a book because the cover looked interesting; greeted everyone with a smile when we were happy; frowned if our feelings got hurt; talked endlessly about our favorite color; had sleepovers with friends; laughed until our tummies hurt and tears ran down our cheeks; cried because we saw someone else get hurt; thought that a dollar bill was like a million bucks; picked up a #2 pencil and drew; talked to ladybugs, butterflies, lizards, trees, and flowers because they too need friends; explored until our hearts were content; fell asleep knowing tomorrow would be another great adventure learning more about ourselves. What if…
My inspiration.
I’ve done all those things in this last year not because someone forced me but because I was so broken that I had to figure out my potential all over again – on my own – without Mrs. Sharp and Mrs. De Leon cheering me on. Yes, it is scary, full of unknowns, and unchartered possibilities; people may not accept, like or love you. I remember the paper and pencil. I remember creating from nothing. I remember enjoying it. I remember the thrill of loving dinosaurs, drawing, and diving into myself.
Journals sit atop my desk, in the console of my car, in my purse, on my vanity, pencils or pens are always available, a set of coloring pencils purchased at Costco – not for my children, but for myself – guide me to creating and coloring. My potential is just beginning; 37 years later Mrs. De Leon’s and Mrs. Sharp’s warm smiles guide me to being the best version of myself: What magic my life will hold! The possibilities are endless.
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