"You are different." So often that statement is meant as an insult, when in reality it is a truth that we should learn to embrace about ourselves. All humans are
born with innate characteristics that are unique to our person. Qualities and attributes and personalities that differentiate us from the next person. Many times, we are aware of our differences from an early age. I have blue eyes but always envied my cousin's dark brown eyes. That sort of thing.
But there are other unique qualities that sometimes we do not recongnize in ourselves. Things that may stay hidden, and require just the right circumstances and timing to come pouring
out. It is internal art. We often do not
even know it’s in there, waiting, standing at the door. If left inside, we are
keeping the best of ourselves from the world. It is a disservice to not only
our true beings, but to those on the outside who might just need what you have to offer.
The
art that spilled out of me when I was an awkward little twelve-year old was
words. Through all of my schooling, I was not a high achieving student. This
was not for lack of intelligence, I was just happy to let other students shine
brightly and let myself skate by unnoticed. So when my 7th
grade teacher presented us with an optional extra credit assignment for our
English class, it didn’t even register with me. “Optional” in my brain meant
something not worth doing.
But
the night before the extra credit was supposed to be handed in, I had second
thoughts. It was nearing the end of the year and my English grade was less than
great. So I grabbed a spiral bound notebook and started writing about the given
topic of the essay, “Why I’m Proud to be an American.” This was 2002, barely a
full year after 9/11. A time when everyone had yellow ribbons tied to trees in
their front yards and the stars and stripes raised proudly on their car
antennas. Patriotism oozed out of every
corner of small town America, so this assignment made sense.
I
remember sitting in my living room that night only half paying attention to the
words I was writing. Maybe it was my ex-air force Dad in the next room, or just
the thought of hot dogs on the 4th of July, but I did my best to
communicate the proper amount of American Pride. I tore the 2 pages out of my
notebook and set them on my teacher’s desk the next morning. I had done my
scholarly duty, and walked away just hoping it was enough to raise my letter
grade.
A
few days later my teacher pulled me aside. The words she spoke to me that
day in school still resonate with me. She had my paper in her hand, looked up
at me and said, “Lindsey, this is very good.” Her compliment was met with a
blank stare. It was the last thing I was expecting and didn't know how to respond. It had taken me 20 minutes the night
before to complete this half-assed excuse for extra credit. But she was
serious. Nothing more was said, but those few words bolstered my
self-confidence more than maybe anything else has in my life. I didn't realize it until much later, but in that middle school classroom in Gettysburg she called out my art.
Most
of the kids in my class had submitted essays for the extra credit
(overachievers). But what I didn’t realize at the time was that this whole
essay thing was a much bigger deal than I thought. The teacher probably
explained this when she told us about the assignment, but as soon as my brain
heard the word ‘optional’, I tuned out. My 7th grade teacher, along
with many of the other 7th grade teachers in the county, were
submitting these essays into a contest run by the American Legion Association
(the essay topic made even more sense now). The top 4 essays would be awarded
with a certificate and cash prize. I was suddenly much more interested in this
extra credit gig.
A
few weeks later my Dad flicked a letter my way. Not having any clue who would
be sending a 12 year old mail, he stood by as I tore into it. It was from the
American Legion congratulating me on my essay. I won 3rd place in
the contest out of all the 7th graders in my county! I screamed and
ran the 2 flights of stairs and nearly busted down my parents bedroom door to
tell my mom. They picked me? They picked me! (After two others, but hey!)
 |
| 7th grade Lindsey (on the left) had a hard time doing well in school and keeping her eyes open in pictures. |
My
parents were so proud, my teacher was proud. My small private school had chapel
every Monday morning, and asked me to read my essay aloud to the whole school.
My mom took me shopping to buy a new outfit for the award ceremony held at the
American Legion. My grandparents came and I rode in the back of their car. I
got my picture in the paper and the cutout hung on our fridge for months.
At
the end of 7th grade, my teacher had a small ceremony for the class
where she awarded each student with a certificate. The certificate listed that
students’ strengths and talents. When she gave me my certificate it said,
“Great Writer.”
Throughout
high school I wrote into the late night hours when I couldn’t get to sleep. I
kept journals and tattered notebooks in piles around my room. I wrote about
things I was dealing with. Awkward boy encounters, falling-outs with friends,
times when my sisters got on my nerves and my parents weren’t fair. I wrote on
the plane when I left America for the first time, and I wrote in my bedroom the
night I first met Kevin (I was 17). I
couldn’t explain why I wrote about everything. It would be like trying to
explain why I breathe. The things I wrote didn’t always make sense, and they
weren’t pretty or meant for other people to read. It was an unwinding process for my tangled
teenage mind.
I
can’t count the number of files on my computer that are half finished
paragraphs of thoughts that came spilling out. Writing often feels like
throwing my brain at a white wall and hoping the splatters make sense. And if the splatters are incoherent, that’s fine. They are
often just meant for myself. But even if one person can make sense of my
ramblings, and relate or gain understanding and strength, then I cannot ask for
more.
Us women are
appreciated for many things. Unfortunately, we are often first valued for our
physical appearance, but those things are fleeting. Clothes and hair are not representative of who I am. But when a person compliments
my writing my heart swells like when the Grinch comes to love Christmas. I remember every single person who has ever
had a kind word to say about something I have written. They are their own
unique category of incredible people, beginning with my 7th grade
teacher in 2002. I am so thankful to her for calling something out in me that I
didn’t know was there.
We all have the power to do that with people around us.
We can sometimes see things living inside others who are unaware. When we highlight a strength or talent in someone,
we may be giving them courage and confidence that has an effect on the rest of
their life. If you see art in someone, speak it, and if someone sees art in
you, believe them when they say it.
