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...continued from yesterday's post (view yesterday's post here)

I worked with every medium I could find.  I transformed egg cartons into dragons, grey bits of plastercine (stolen from school in small increments) into never-ending labyrinthine houses full of secret rooms and tiny furniture. Bags of wool scraps became fodder for dozens of projects, anything from weaving to doll hair; fabric scraps were sewn into a variety of shapes and characters, paper plates into masks worn with fervor. 

Every day brought forth unlimited potential for creation.

And then I would have to go back to school again and I would feel suffocated and bored.

I was caught between two conflicting worlds.

 

When I was in kindergarten my parents were called in by the teacher for a "meeting." She had a bucket full of rolled up drawings done by me. She pulled them out and unrolled them one by one. Each page had a drawing of a square house with three windows and a door, an apple tree, and a few clouds scattered about. They were all identical. The teacher expressed concern at my lack of originality.

Looking back now I think my drawing rut reflected my mental state at being forced to go to school. I did what I felt was expected of me. Every day, the same thing. Ad nauseum. I had taken on their perception of me.

But in my private life I became invincible. My imagination ruled.

As I grew I became a seasoned "clock watcher"...

...counting the minutes until the bell.

I did the bare minimum of work necessary not to fail. No one asked for anything more from me. And I didn't offer. It was the same for middle school and into high school.

As I struggled with family conflicts, my mother's diagnosis with a terminal illness, and adolescence I became disconnected from my imagination. I felt completely lost. I rebelled against everything and everyone.

In my mind the world was very dark so I wore only black. It was at this point that I began to believe that my failure in high school was due to a deficiency of some kind. Some unavoidable lack of intelligence. I was the stereotype of the white-faced goth kid in the back of the classroom just putting in time until the bell rang so I could go out for a smoke.

 

Check back tomorrow for PART THREE (the final chapter) of Keri Smith's essay!

This is Not a Book Keri Smith Wreck This Journal Perigee