|A collection of my hand and brain children. Just the special children that have obtained my honor.|
|A collection of incredible art that I have the privilege to enjoy, fan girl over, be inspired by, and experience sadness over how I wish I could do this/ thought of it.|
Every day when I walk into my parent’s bedroom, my gaze never misses the wooden skyscraper that occupies the side of the room. My father chose the most masculine dresser he could find, while my mother settled for the grand car-length mirrored dresser that also ate most of the room’s space. The masculine appearance of the dresser was contradicted by the many of my mother’s shoes that would not fit in the closet with the other heaping piles of shoes. As a child, I was always curious as to what filled my father’s dresser. He never spent much time digging through the drawers or shoving clothes into the overflowing space, as mom my usually did. On days of wonder, I would open one of his drawers in secret pretending I was a detective looking for evidence. His drawers held the simple items that comprised my father’s straightforward lifestyle. One drawer of his was filled to the brim of dark beige and black knee-high socks that would adorn my father’s everyday outfit for work. The next drawer I peeked into always made my immature self-giggle. In the drawer was my father’s perfectly folded, incredibly white underwear and t-shirts. To this day do I still poke at him as he insists on washing his undergarments persistently, ensuring that his whites do not make any contact with another article of clothing. Upon viewing the other drawers, I can feel the tenderness of my rather quite dad as they are full of silly cards that my sister and I crafted together as children, pictures, and little gifts we have gotten him through the years. The secret to what he holds in his drawers may not seem dramatic or exciting, but this dresser is what encapsulates who my father is and the most important parts of his life. He is a rather uncomplicated man that is devoted to his family.
It’s a gloomy walk on the way to school, mostly in part to the temperamental weather that covers the sky with pending rainclouds, but also with the remembrance of my dad. It would have been his 56th birthday today, if he had managed to survive long enough to reach it. On days like this do I lose all ability not to think of him. Every blue pickup truck, every casually dressed man, every bearded face, do I instinctively think of him. Only having been in my life for a limited time, he is more of a part of me than my own mother. I hate taking this way to school. I usually drive, but my mother’s car broke down the other day, leaving me to take the same path that my father would take me when I was younger. On days, such as dim and depressing as this, he would hold my hand and talk about just about anything he could imagine. I relive the time he told me the story of the sunshine superhero and his foe, the rain monster. It was corny, but he was able to make a childlike-self giggle the entire walk to school. He illustrated the intense battles and the heroicness of the sunshine superhero with such vitality. One could spot the twinkle of his blue eyes, and his tense smiling cheeks through his scruffy beard as he spoke of such imagery. He was patient with my constant questions as I asked him what was going to ask him next to what the characters did on the weekend, all of which he was able to answer. As we arrived closer to the school, did my dad trail off with the story, saying he would save the rest for next time. We stopped, he let go of my hand, and told me to go off and have a good day. However, I grabbed his arm, pulling his body down closer to my small frame. I insisted he tell me the end of the story, proclaiming I would cry if he did not tell me. Looking at me with his soft eyes as I latched on to his uncombed arm, he reminded me to be patient, that the everything is coming together. Taking one last moment before he left, he pointed towards the sky, to where I could see the precipice of sunlight breaking through the small openings of the clouds. I never heard the end of the story, and ever since the weather seems cloudier and cloudier. Yet, the sunshine that is supposedly hero of the story still remains in me through him. He was the sunshine that broke through the storms of the rain monsters, even on the dreariest of days.
It’s hard to keep a smile on your face when one is painted on. Every morning, a different persona, a different face, a different booking. I leave my house, bracing the comments, points and stares as I approach my car. I get all the jokes about being a clown. I get the disappointment of my parents who question why I would want to be in this dying industry. I get all the people I must scare with my innocent face makeup and exaggerated clothes. I just want to make them laugh, but all they do is cry in my presence. I arrive at my third birthday party of the day. I guess most people spend their weekends going out with their friends, or just relaxing, while I visit both children and adult birthday parties in fear of which one I will be more humiliated by. I enter through the pleasant suburban house that I would never be able to afford on a clown salary and am escorted towards the backyard by the birthday boy’s parent. She makes small talk with me, obviously not knowing quite how to conduct a conversation with a grown man in mediocre drag. I don’t take it personal, I am just hired to entertain, not to converse with. I spot the group of children that a handful of parents are trying to wrangle to seating position. This is my favorite part of doing outdoor parties, watching the parents force their constructs to a child. A child will never be the same as an adult, but these parents never quite understand that until it is too late. I spot the one child in the front, the birthday boy. He dons a blue birthday hat, and a little badge honoring him the title of the one who is celebrated. He sits complacent to all that is occurring around him. He refuses to look at the cake, or his erratic friends, or even towards the mountain of gifts. His innocent hazel eyes remain locked on me, on the entertainment. I walk over to the front of the little audience and begin my routine bits. Some illusions, and some jokes, and yet the only child who remains in my performance is the boy. By the time I reach the end of my act, blowing up balloons and squirting water in my face, do I receive the obligatory claps from the parents, signaling the recession of powerful claps from the absent-minded children. I waved goodbye, and the birthday boy’s mother rushed to my place announcing that it is time to cut the cake. I see that it is my cue to leave, but before I leave I feel a little tug on my costume. I look down to see the little birthday boy, his cap sliding off his head as he stares at my face. The boy thanks me and tells me that I made his birthday, giving me a hug on my lengthy leg before running off to blow out his candles. The boy takes a seat at the picnic table that homes the football field size of a cake, he turns one last time to wave me goodbye. I exit the gorgeous household, walk the three blocks to where I parked to create the wonder of having a clown magically appear. I sit there in my run-down Subaru and take a moment. That boy is the reason I do this. No matter what this job brings me, that one smile is what makes it all worth it.
It was definitely cold
And it was definitely an enormous crowd,
But we remained
Standing in front of the spectacle.
I was too small to see over the cornrows of people,
Nor strong enough to push forward,
But I remained
Tossed upon the shoulders of my father.
With the sun beaming in my eyes
And I saw what I had only experienced on television.
Flying in the blue sky,
Characters I recognized from my youth
Passing by Grand Central Station with ease.
Floating So close to skyscrapers
I was afraid they would pop,
But they remained.
We could have been home,
With a turkey and some stomachaches,
But we remained
For the parade anyways.
Sacrificing sleep time to watch the parade
And effort spent navigating the subway
My dad held my hand, and my mom with my sister
In this time, and this place in awe.
At a young age, I was already interested in taking some responsibility in my life. It became an occurrence that I would be the one to pack my lunch for school every night, mainly to take the hassle of the process off my parents. I may have felt seemingly more grown having this new job, but did I fail to apply this adult mindset to my lunch choices. My packing would consist of anything that could be put in a ziplock bag, or still in a wrapper. It was food that did not need refrigeration and was absent of anything that was not disposable. The need to come home empty-handed was of much importance to me. I did not even use a proper lunchbox; it was just a plastic grocery bag filled with an unhealthy arrangement of Ritz crackers, pretzels and an apple. Those days were simple, I never felt envious of the lunches of others. They, on the other hand, had to carry their lunchbox for the rest of the day and worry about removing the contents when they returned home. I simply ate my snacks, disposed of the trash and my makeshift lunch bag. Considering, I may not have made the wisest decisions on my food choices, but I remained efficient.
As my class scurried out of our classroom to enter the lunchroom did the whole seating procession commence. There were three tables designated for our collective class. We assumed one table as the boys’ table and the other two as the girls’ tables out of custom. I always wondered why not one of the girls in my class would take the step to sit with the boys; I sometimes preferred the company of the boys over the nippy girls. Seating in our class was essential, the invariable best friends were destined to sit near each other, making everyone question their own alliance to the other. The room was quite loud and boisterous up until the hand of the teachers raised for prayer. However, as the last syllable left the mouth of our principle, did the ruckus start to render. It is hard not to expect such volume from an entire school, but after multiple days of joining for lunch, the noise seems to fizzle out. At lunch, we talked of things that lingered in our minds, of school, of something we watched on TV. There were even days when we would play small games, or frustrate the teachers as we kept changing seats and standing at other tables. My class was always the one that most of the lunchroom monitors would have in the corner of their eyes.
I enjoyed when the clock would signal lunchtime, it was our timely escape out of the overbearing pressure school laid upon our young shoulders. The gymnasium was transformed into a makeshift lunchroom that held many white, round industrial tables and foldable lunch tables that were an ever-blinding gold color. This lunchroom sat for an hour a day, but it was an hour that felt less of school; it became a common room for a community to reconvene. The gymnasium had a dull white and black schemed, but what made the hall special was the immaculate window panel that shaped the arc like façade of the school. As we ate, did the sun cast its effect on us, almost as if we were plants absorbing our energy from it. Our place in the lunchroom was not set on our grades or our academic performance. It was a time for all students of a range of age to refuel and enjoy the company of others without fear of being told to hush.
Welcome, I know you may be confused on to how you got here, but trust me, everything will be fine. I'm just a specimen some how mulling through earth by moving a pencil on a piece of paper,. Creating work that can be exactly described in one sound "Eh".
Just working to gain the Whaling Hobgoblin Artist Tribe or WHAT golden transparent, but stylish infinity belt that contains a whole lotta power and can control all penguins. I mean what's better than that. Other than gaining that awesome prize, I'm mostly just creating for the love of creating, but mainly to gain the belt.