Tricycle, Author NobbiP (GNU Free Documentation License Verson 1.2 or later, CC BY-SA 3.0 Unported, 2.5 Generic, 2.0 Generic, and 1.0 Generic)
WARNING: Graphic Images
“Search me, O God, and know my heart; Try me, and know my anxieties; And see if there is any wicked way in me…” (Ps. 139: 23-24).
Early on, one of the older boys in the neighborhood did something unforgivable. He borrowed my shiny, red tricycle without permission. Outraged, I was not permitted to tell the grown-ups my side of the story when the tricycle overturned in the street, injuring him.
This small — now amusing — incident left a lasting impression on me. It just may be the reason I became a lawyer.
Obedience and Authority
I attended a Catholic grammar school, run by the parish. The Dominican nuns there emphasized obedience as the highest virtue. Though I now recognize the spiritual significance of that virtue, their intention was likely more practical. Class size for years exceeded sixty students.
I felt at some fundamental level that there were things more important than obedience. Consequently, I developed a rebellious streak in response to this well-intended tutelage. It was easier to rebel in school than at home.
My first grade teacher was universally lauded by parents and universally despised by the children under her care. She ruled with absolute authority in her small universe, so much so that bathroom breaks were not tolerated if unscheduled. Consequently, accidents in the classroom were frequent and deeply humiliating for the children involved.
I could not at six have said why these situations so angered me. Nor could I understand why the adults around me seemed incapable of recognizing that the teacher was the one actually responsible for them.
Inauthenticity
My second grade teacher was a woman in her early sixties who encouraged the children in whom she saw intelligence or talent — at least those children who conformed to her expectations.
I was quick to perceive this, thriving on the added attention, though it served to drive a wedge between other classmates and myself.
I began in the second grade to experience a feeling of inauthenticity, and a sense of failure which pervaded my life for years [1]. I attribute this in part to the weekly art classes the teacher arranged for me at a nearby school. Rather than a pleasure, those classes became a burden.
I had learned while I had measles how to make paper dolls. Designing and drawing clothes came easily, and seemed a way to share in the glamor I associated with my mother, even when she was absent.
It may be that an interest in art ran in the family. In Hungary, Grandma was renowned for her breathtaking paper flowers, extravagantly displayed at religious festivals. This avenue of expression was unavailable to her in America. Cut off from it, she drew inward.
My interest in art offered Grandma the chance to reconnect with a part of herself otherwise buried. This was not something I realized at the time.
My art classes — if they could be termed that — consisted of little more than proximity to paints, pastels, and canvas. The so-called classes were presided over by a nun we were instructed to call “Mother.”
I never knew the details of Mother’s life. But, from the outset, I could feel her contempt.
Throughout the year, Mother collected students’ drawings and paintings for the ostensible purpose of compiling individual portfolios. What she failed to disclose, either to parents or students, was that she independently re-worked each student’s output, herself.
Without doubt, the resulting pieces were less amateurish and more polished than when they had been submitted to Mother for safekeeping. There were, also, forgeries. The pieces reflected the level of her skill, rather than the aptitude of her pupils. For me, this was another violation.
Though I repeatedly attempted to explain to adults that the art work was not truly “mine,” I was consistently praised for it. My discomfort was compounded by the fact I was called on to show the work to my class at the end of each year. That ultimately led to my abandonment of art.
Having purchased a costly mail order course for me shortly before her death, Grandma more than once asked, plaintively, “Anna, don’t you want to finish your art work?” It breaks my heart that I disappointed her.
Continue reading
