In Memory of Aidan
In Honor of Ever
In Lieu of I
Fuck Big Brother watching. I could feel everyone watching. Watching me watch them watching me…. Trying to learn how to be in the super serious world that blasted the top off of the Imaginarium I’d come to Love and cherish in the first four years of my life. I didn’t realize it at the moment, but I was what you’d call a slow learner.
As I stumbled through the doors of the ever-exalted world of American public education, it became obvious to me that something wasn’t quite right when I was put into a group of “like-minded” kindergarteners. My tribe and I would sit inside and perform speech therapy exercises while the other kids could be heard living the lavish land of imagination outside on the playground.
I’ll never forget that feeling of being not only excluded but slow. Oh yeah, and instead of telling my special group of kids and me why we weren't outside playing, the teacher thought the best reason to tell us was that we were elves. I kid you not, this full-grown lady who was supposed to help us catch up with the Hurd, decided to walk around the room to feel each of our ears, confirming that we were the chosen Elven first graders of Britt David Elementary and I guess elves don’t practice recess.
Welcome to the land of the free from honesty lmao. Naturally, I came home that day pissed off that my parents didn’t tell me we were elves. My dad responded verbatim: "Yo wtf? Who told you this?” While laughing his ass off so he could get real serious and down to my eye level. So yeah, I never mentioned being an elf again until now. Needless to say, I struggled to read and learn because of massive levels of anxiety and perfectionism causing me to get in my own way, so I could freak the fuck out, followed by a smooth lean into cuteness and tears, to let me off that weird hook. I didn’t get it.
When the anxiety would take full reign over my glitchy operating system, no info could penetrate my exterior, but that of all those fucking faces. The condescending ones, the “bless your soul” ones, the red ones that usually meant they “taught” math, and the ones of the other kids I couldn’t always see, but always felt, staring at me. I hated the confused and frustrated faces that belonged to the children who couldn't comprehend why I couldn’t just repeat the answer they'd been whispering to me—back to the “teacher.”
I’ve never reflected on the faces and what resulted in mine staying down, constantly drawing all the faces I’d see on my notes in class, desperately seeking the ward of my perfect inner world. I became the kid who could draw well at an early age and I liked that, but I liked the faces we created together in the margins more. I suppose my study of faces, especially that of my parents and siblings, exposed me to what felt like a superpower at such a young age of development.
I quickly realized that faces were nuanced and often lied as observed in the tension in the room before the total outrage of my mother, or the toothless smile and nod of my father’s face he’d wear when I’d show him a face I'd drawn for him with my best aim at realism. My dad liked realism and the only art we had in my home growing up was that of wildlife, Hudson Valley-esque landscapes, and Indian artifacts my dad found around Georgia. That is of course assuming I even showed him the drawing I was proud of, and not the thirty sum crumpled sheets of paper that preceded.
My attention to detail overwhelmed the shit out of me, and the reaction of the people I looked up to most was usually frustrating, to say the least. I was my own harshest critic and I just got done whooping my own ass—unbeknownst to the fresh eyes on my childhood drawings. Hey, at least they didn’t spank me, just my brother twice while they had me watch. Always watching, so many faces.
Luckily I didn't suppress everything. I excelled in writing once I learned lol so I took to poetry in private to give some of my pain a healthy place to live. “Can’t wait for you to add color” was my mom’s, and teachers', favorite response to seeing my sketches.. The world of color excited me to the point of immediate overwhelm, increasing the amount of freedom to choose ironically constricts the creativity of so many like us. Just ask Aldi and their marketing success. By offering two whole options for all things grocery consumers choose an item instead of fleeing from overwhelm. Lol
I still had years of public school where taking notes with a full spectrum color palette would’ve been suspicious. In other words, I was diagnosed with ADD, OCD, dyslexia, dyscalculia, synesthesia, and oh yeah being an elf.
Soon after the hormones hit when I got to middle school, drawing in class didn’t seem to fit the criteria of being popular and getting girls. So naturally, I swapped out drawing in class with actual notes, along with perfectly matching pastel polos, cause I knew if I didn’t go to my dad's favorite football team, I mean college, my backup plan was to crumble myself like my imperfect drawings in a melodramatic display of self-destruction.
Oh yeah, and college meant girls, too. I knew I was “supposed” to like all these things society told me to, but as it turned out, wearing the myriad of masks that everyone I was “supposed” to look up wore, made me sick.
I didn’t realize how saturated my being was with cortisol, but I did know that I was very depressed by the time junior year of high school rolled around. I knew that I wasn’t allowed to feel this because I had it all from the outside looking in. I felt guilty about my shame and ashamed about my depression. I got so good at wearing the mask of my idea of perfection that I got into my dream school. Can't forget being way more depressed and having a fuck ton of even more confusing faces reverberating through my psyche souffle.
L.R.Bennett
