Post by Anna on Apr 19, 2008 18:54:02 GMT -5
NOTE: This is not nessecarily the start of the story. Also, this is the first time I have written from an adult point of view, so I'm still a bit wobbly. Please comment.
1998
“I appreciate your coming here, Ms. Austin,” Lily’s teacher says, with a pained pinch to her voice that tells me that she’d rather be anywhere else.
I am confined to a Lilliputian chair, trying to make sense of what my daughter’s kindergarten teacher is telling me. “What is this about, Miss…” I frantically try to remember the teacher’s name. Flynn, Blint, something like that.
“Flint.”
“Miss Flint.” I feel the heat rise in my face. “Has Lily done something wrong?”
The teacher rises from her desk and walks over to where I am sitting, a lemon-yellow folder tucked under her arm. “Not exactly…I mean, no. No, she hasn’t. I just wanted to speak with you about some of her drawings.” She extracts a few sheets of paper from the folder, scribbles and stick figures colored in bright crayon.
Immediately, phrases like artistic genius and natural ability and get her into classes rush to my brain. But these are ordinary crayon drawings. I look up at Lily’s teacher, still trying to make sense of this.
The teacher shuffles the papers. “Do you see what I’m referring to?”
I shake my head, an ignorant schoolgirl all over again.
She looks up at me, incensed. “You don’t see anything unusual about these drawings?” She holds one up. Two stick figures that I assume are Lily and me stand holding hands, although it is difficult to tell since most of the drawing is purple.
“I honestly have no idea what you mean.”
She sets the picture on the table, which is ridden with marker streaks and smears of Elmer’s glue. Waving a hand at the paper, she says, “These…clouds of color that your daughter has drawn around everyone. She always does those.”
I am so used to this by now that is doesn’t faze me; Lily has always drawn people like this. But even so, I cannot see how it is a problem.
“She does different colors around every person, and she does it every single time she draws anything.”
“What’s wrong with that?” I feel my temper flare and my fierce maternal instinct rear its head, a protective wall for my daughter.
Miss Flint blinks, obviously surprised. “Well, nothing really. It’s just quite unusual, is all.”
“Is there something wrong with being unusual?” It is at this point that my fiery temper starts to get the better of me. “Do we all need to be clones? I’m sorry, Miss Flint, but if all you wanted to tell me was that my daughter has a sense of originality, then I’m afraid I really need to be somewhere.” This is a lie; I do not have to pick Lily up from dance class for another half hour. I scoop up my purse and head for the door.
The startled young teacher looks up after me, but does not try to stop me. “There’s one more thing you should know,” she says, as I have one foot out the door.
I turn, curiosity getting the better of me. “What?”
Jennifer Flint doesn’t look up, just keeps shuffling the papers in her hands, trying in vain to stuff them back into the folder. “She calls them auras,” she says.
1998
“I appreciate your coming here, Ms. Austin,” Lily’s teacher says, with a pained pinch to her voice that tells me that she’d rather be anywhere else.
I am confined to a Lilliputian chair, trying to make sense of what my daughter’s kindergarten teacher is telling me. “What is this about, Miss…” I frantically try to remember the teacher’s name. Flynn, Blint, something like that.
“Flint.”
“Miss Flint.” I feel the heat rise in my face. “Has Lily done something wrong?”
The teacher rises from her desk and walks over to where I am sitting, a lemon-yellow folder tucked under her arm. “Not exactly…I mean, no. No, she hasn’t. I just wanted to speak with you about some of her drawings.” She extracts a few sheets of paper from the folder, scribbles and stick figures colored in bright crayon.
Immediately, phrases like artistic genius and natural ability and get her into classes rush to my brain. But these are ordinary crayon drawings. I look up at Lily’s teacher, still trying to make sense of this.
The teacher shuffles the papers. “Do you see what I’m referring to?”
I shake my head, an ignorant schoolgirl all over again.
She looks up at me, incensed. “You don’t see anything unusual about these drawings?” She holds one up. Two stick figures that I assume are Lily and me stand holding hands, although it is difficult to tell since most of the drawing is purple.
“I honestly have no idea what you mean.”
She sets the picture on the table, which is ridden with marker streaks and smears of Elmer’s glue. Waving a hand at the paper, she says, “These…clouds of color that your daughter has drawn around everyone. She always does those.”
I am so used to this by now that is doesn’t faze me; Lily has always drawn people like this. But even so, I cannot see how it is a problem.
“She does different colors around every person, and she does it every single time she draws anything.”
“What’s wrong with that?” I feel my temper flare and my fierce maternal instinct rear its head, a protective wall for my daughter.
Miss Flint blinks, obviously surprised. “Well, nothing really. It’s just quite unusual, is all.”
“Is there something wrong with being unusual?” It is at this point that my fiery temper starts to get the better of me. “Do we all need to be clones? I’m sorry, Miss Flint, but if all you wanted to tell me was that my daughter has a sense of originality, then I’m afraid I really need to be somewhere.” This is a lie; I do not have to pick Lily up from dance class for another half hour. I scoop up my purse and head for the door.
The startled young teacher looks up after me, but does not try to stop me. “There’s one more thing you should know,” she says, as I have one foot out the door.
I turn, curiosity getting the better of me. “What?”
Jennifer Flint doesn’t look up, just keeps shuffling the papers in her hands, trying in vain to stuff them back into the folder. “She calls them auras,” she says.
