Another day of English goes by and a
paper-cut appears on my hand. Or maybe scissors created the blemish? Perhaps a crayon
somehow scarred my hand. “Impossible!” you say to yourself. “Only an idiot could cut himself with a
crayon.” Well I have a confession to make: I am that idiot when it comes to
art. In fact, when my English teacher informed the class last week that we
would participate in a friendly competition involving creativity and
imagination, my stomach landed on top of a freshman’s head while she sat in Mr.
Kerul’s room. I hate art for a variety of reasons. To begin with, sharp objects
and I go about as well together as Hanukah and Christmas. Let us flashback to
my sixth grade year when my entire grade took a field trip to The Pond. To this
day I do not understand how the ice became sprinkled with red while a puddle of
blood formed in my right hand, all happening while part of my right pointer
finger dangled from a thin piece of skin. I ended up losing that small portion
of my finger and have the scar in remembrance. Again, I do not do well with
sharp objects, like ice skates. Only to make matters worse, my siblings found
it amusing to call me Peter Pettigrew the following month after the incident.
Hopefully I have portrayed the fact that art utensils and I butt heads. My rock
bottom creativity also adds to my distaste for crafts, such as creating
collages. Allow me to explain. I think most teenagers enjoy decorating their
Christmas tree with their siblings. I, however, can barely tolerate the
experience. Many of my family’s ornaments come from the creations of the
Stevenson children at young ages. Unfortunately, I learned how to draw a circle
after I learned how to ride a bike. Therefore, the ornaments I created at a
young age deem indistinguishable. My siblings, always the genuine supporting
cast I need in my life, ask me if Stevie Wonder helped me meld together an
attempted image of a star and manger. My creativity and skills with a marker
depicted itself again just this past November. One of my mother’s friends
walked into our home and pointed to one of my youthful decorations hanging on
the wall: “Wow Barb! I cannot believe you’ve already started decorating for
Thanksgiving!” In actuality, my mother had yet to relieve the walls from our
Halloween decorations. Ouch. Despite these slight artistic disabilities, here I
sit today, alive and well, writing on a keyboard with ten fingers and two eyes
after cutting out magazines and gluing my hands together. I suppose miracles do
have a tendency to happen.
I agree that crafts can pose great danger to all involved (see my latest blog: Shepherding Blues), and I admire your bravery in the face of our recent collage creation task. Luckily, we both made it out with clean hands and fingers fully intact. As for the risk of self harm you encounter in all other sharp objects, I can only advise that you proceed with caution, or next time you may turn out looking like more of a pterodactyl than a Peter Petigrew.
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