“Purple” by Alexis Rotella
“In first grade / Mrs. Lohr said / my purple teepee / wasn’t realistic enough / that purple was no color for a tent… that my drawing / wasn’t good enough to hang / with the others.”
Rotella goes on to describe the “black crayon nightfall” that was scribbled all over the purple tent in – what? – shame? Anger? Decades later, the poet wrote “since the day Mrs. Lohr told me my artwork wasn’t good enough to hang above the blackboard with the other kids’ stuff, a door in my heart closed shut.”
(By the way, when I imagine a Mrs. Lohr saying such a thing to my own child, my imaginary self steps uncomfortably close to the woman and growls something like “say that again – I dare you.”)
Let’s step back a moment to look at Mrs. Lohr. She’s a full-time working adult. She’s responsible for meeting deadlines and benchmarks and for overseeing the development of other people’s children. She has concerns and challenges that have nothing to do with the classroom. She makes a teacher’s salary.
Mrs. Lohr is exhausted. Mrs. Lohr, decades later, almost certainly doesn’t remember this exchange. Mrs. Lohr was just trying to do her job.
In the very next stanza, Rotella remembers Mr. Barta, her second grade teacher, and an encounter of equal but opposite weight.
“In second grade / Mr. Barta said draw anything, / he didn’t care what. / I left my paper blank and when he came around / to my desk / my heart beat like a tom tom. / He touched my head / with his big hand / and in a soft voice said / the snowfall / how clean / and white / and beautiful.”
Can’t we assume that Mr. Barta, too, felt the pressures of the workplace? The needs of his family? The strain of the everyday? Can’t we guess that there’s nothing so very special about Mr. Barta but that he took a moment to truly see this child?
Because child-rearing is almost always something we do while doing other things, it seems easier to demand our children fit into proper boxes. It’s hard to listen to why the flower my son is drawing for my mother has fangs and villain eyebrows while I’m taking a work call and making sure the pasta doesn’t boil over, for example. It would be easier if he could just draw a normal flower, and I snappishly and peevishly say so. I am exhausted and overwhelmed. I am Mrs. Lohr.
What if, instead, I put down my phone and turn down the burner? What if I sit down next to my son and find out the story behind the carnivorous flower?
Just a few hours from the publication of this column, our community will host an artist who specializes in seeing – and helping others see – everyday items in unexpected ways. Hanoch Piven has made a career of creating portraits of famous characters from found objects.
“As I was drawing that great dictator, Saddam Hussein, a box of matches appeared next to the illustration. This was the fall of 1990; Saddam and Iraq had just conquered Kuwait and the whole world was getting ready for the Gulf War. These matches not only looked perfect as a mustache but also seemed a perfect metaphor for the imminent war/fire coming,” Piven said.
Matches for moustaches, bananas for beards, microphones for mouths — with such a unique way of seeing the world, I wonder how many Mr. Bartas it took to outweigh the thoughtless (see: impatient and exhausted) Mrs. Lohrs of Hanoch’s upbringing.
Time with Hanoch Piven this weekend should be seen as a gift. It is a couple hours to spend with your child without multitasking and discover how they see the world. (What do we learn, for example, when they suggest we use old earbuds as our ears?) It is a rare chance to be a Mr. Barta: a person who takes a moment to truly see our children – to look at things through their eyes.