A Defining Moment

Planted 11x14 oil 2016

As teachers and students return to their classrooms, I thought this chapter from my book (Art and Soul) might be pertinent.

I believe our strongest and longest-lasting memories stem from intensely positive or negative experiences. The rest fade away because they just weren’t memorable enough. Over time, these experiences we carry in our memories shape us and bring perspective to how we think and feel about ourselves and the people with whom we share our lives.

My memories of childhood are scattered, but some are crystal clear messages, as if from yesterday. I waiver over the value of going back in time to recall the child I once was. I hesitate because every time I visit her, I leave in tears. I realize, though, that it’s not going back at all, but merely re-examining those weighty memories that I’ve been carrying for so long. It’s time to lay those down.

Even now, as I broach the subject, I feel like I’m a kid again, standing in the doorway to my childhood, unable to move, unsure whether I should go in. Will this help? Will this bring me peace? Or only more tears? I’m not sure. So I take my child self’s hand, and assure her that this time, my adult self will accompany her so there won’t be anything to fear. I tell her, “We won’t only visit the harsh words spoken, but also the kind words that were dispensed, even if the doses seemed small.” Come along if you like—you may see yourself, too, in some aspects of my life.

As I enter the classroom, I can see my second-grade self, a skinny little girl with a pixie cut and a cowlick that is sticking straight up. Her head droops in dread as she drags her chair behind her to the front of the room, where her teacher is sitting in a big blue wicker chair. Mrs. Bacchus has wiry, graying hair, wrinkles, and a face frozen in a scowl, never generous with smiles. She tells this child she’s not good enough to be in a reading group. Instead, the girl has to endure the humiliation of reading out loud to the teacher in front of the class.

The class is supposed to be working while the teacher reads with her, but what they’re doing instead is snickering at her attempts at reading, and at every mistake she makes. She’s already missed the word “oh” a couple times, calling it “ho” instead. (She has dyslexia, but nobody knows that yet, especially not Mrs. Bacchus.)

When the word comes again, two sentences later, she misses it for the third time. At this point, Mrs. Bacchus, in her frustration, erupts into a rage as she pounds the book repeatedly with her finger, yelling, “The word is oh, O-H; why can’t you get it?! You stupid, stupid girl!” The sound of laughter erupts as well, as Mrs. Bacchus sends the girl to the cloakroom for punishment. Shame and tears are with her as she leaves. Nobody knows that the little girl will carry the weight of the word “stupid” for the rest of her life. She will allow it to define her and convince her of her worthlessness.

I see the same girl painting a picture of trees in the art class down the hall. Her art teacher notices it and thinks it’s incredible. She compliments the girl as she accompanies her back to class with the painting in hand to show to Mrs. Bacchus, telling her that, for a second grader, it’s really quite impressive. I wish that little girl could’ve allowed those words to accompany her as well through life, but by then, I think she was deaf to words of encouragement. The negative words in her head yelled too loudly for the soft-spoken, positive ones to be heard.

I remember other words I was given in third grade, words I memorized. I don’t know the teacher’s name. I can no longer see his face, but he taught a class on Wednesday nights at our church. Through pictures on a flannel board, he encouraged us, with smiles and treats, to memorize Psalm 1 out of the Bible: “Blessed is the man who does not walk in the counsel of the ungodly, nor stands in the way of sinners, nor sits in the seat of the scoffers. But his delight is in the law of the Lord, and on it, he meditates day and night. He is like a tree planted by the rivers of water, which brings forth fruit in season. His leaf does not wither, and whatever he did, he prospers.”

Those verses spoke of hope. Those words told me I had a chance; I could even prosper! Those words had pictures I could comprehend, so I slipped them into the pocket of my memory and often took them out to whisper aloud. The teacher also told us that God loved us, and I hoped that included me as well, even if I was “stupid.” God was going to grow me like a healthy tree and help me to bear fruit!

This psalm has accompanied me through my life, reminding me that taking the time to talk to God each day is helpful. He wanted me to listen to His words, not the mocking ones in my head. Those verses gave me a way to pray to God. I began asking for His help. (I do recollect imploring Him to come and get me so that I would never have to go to school again, but when that didn’t happen, I devised ways to feign sickness by putting the thermometer on the radiator when my mom wasn’t looking.)

This is what I’ve concluded from my experience: how we dispense words is vitally important, especially to young kids. It is critical to the growth of those who receive our words. They have the potential to bring life or death, to tenderly love or critically demean, to help children grow healthy in mind or ruin their view of themselves. Children are like young saplings that need extra care in their planting, watering, pruning, and staking, to nourish their growth process and lead healthy lives.

I’ve also learned that visiting the defining moments of our lives and our memories from the past, as tough as they may be, can provide insight into the way we define ourselves today. It’s made me notice my pencil has an eraser—and I’m thinking of using it on the word “stupid” and writing the word “creative” instead!

Post Script: Recently I reconnected and had a three-hour conversation with the woman who was my best friend in grade school. We hadn’t talked for over forty years. We reflected together on second grade and Mrs. Bacchus and how mean she was to me. This friend was a witness to my life back then. She called Mrs. Bacchus’ behavior toward me “child abuse.” We discussed and reminisced about all the fun we had growing up, recalling the times of laughter and our two very creative selves playing and making up stories, dressing up in my mother’s old gowns, dividing up and rearranging dollhouse furniture, all the candy we ate, and our mothers and how good they were to us. We also reviewed our childhood faith in God, getting the giggles in church and how both of us still love Jesus today. As we were saying goodbye, my friend said, “ . . . and Leigh, I love you!” I let those words seep down into my little girl’s heart and like a salve, cover the wounds of abuse that were inflicted on me from an unkind old woman. Healing has come. Her words swiftly altered my second-grade year into something remarkably wonderful. I’m grateful I had a friend who, despite my struggles in school, loved me just the way I was. Now that little girl emerges once again, back out of the door of childhood, with tears streaming down her cheeks—but this time they are tears of joy! (Thank you, Michelle; I love you too!)

Psalm 1: 1-2, ESV

— Art and Soul: An Artist's Reflections by Leigh Fitz