That Innocence
In elementary school, risk and adventure were thrown out of my life and replaced with chores and homework. I tried to be the so-called perfect child, who did what he was told at home and in school. I truly believed that I was happy living a life of strict routine, and never diverging for special pleasures like art or sports. I hadn’t always been that way, but an unfortunate event in my early childhood scarred me and left me more confused than I thought possible.
When I was very young, there was one thing that excited me more than anything else. It was the airplane that flew high above our house. At that age, I had no idea what it was and how it worked, but that’s what made it so wonderful. The mystical quality to the plane forced me to skip my chores. My mother said they were important, but I skipped them all the same. I had such a strong interest in this plane that I listened to her scolding not regretting what I had been doing for the last hour. I chased the airplane through the fields outside my house over and over again.
I ran as fast as I could, following it. I felt that one day I would lift up and meet it in the sky. But that day never came. No matter how many times I skipped chores and ran with the airplane I never got any closer to my dream. I jumped off hills and tumbled in the tall grass, but I never took off.
Regardless, I never gave up on my childish dream. Instead, I thought up crazier and crazier plans. I made it a habit to wear all white, for the thing I was chasing was all white. I spent hours looking in the mirror mimicking the form of the airplane. My mom later told me she thought I was crazy, but it all made sense to me. I even found boulders that were three times the size of me, and I jumped. This resulted in my bruised bony body, in a child’s body. Every night I would come in and take a bath, for my legs and arms would be all muddy and my blond hair would no longer be blond. My mom would wash my all white outfit for the next day.
This profound innocence was a great thing, but like all great things it couldn’t last for ever. Eventually, age and maturity choked it to death. I just turned three when my mom first sent me to preschool. Even though I was in school, I still entertained myself each evening with an attempted flight. Then the day came when we learned about airplanes. For a while, I sat there confused about how an airplane worked like the rest of my class, but then it hit me. I made the awful connection that destroyed the ultimate innocence I had achieved.
I stood up and said “Wait, if airplanes can only fly because they’re machines, then does that mean we can’t fly?”
My teacher responded “No, silly! People can’t fly.”
My world was suddenly thrown upside down. Everything that I ever thought I knew, I was no longer sure of. Nothing made sense, nothing at all. I couldn’t understand how the thing I cared most about, my attempted flights, could leave me so easily. The only thing I thought I could do was retire the white clothing for a more standard outfit. Over time, I changed in to the elementary school child that gave up on adventure and fun.
Little did I know the thing I most needed was to take a risk. I needed to find a new passion, a new airplane, but one that wouldn’t leave me because of age and maturity. I needed another revelation, just like the horrible one I had experienced in preschool. I was running as fast as I could from the one thing that could help me.
It was a quiet day. I woke up on the earlier side so I could make myself a nice breakfast. But when I walked down the stairs an aroma of biscuits, eggs, and bacon hit me. My mother was one step ahead of me. As I ate with her, we talked. I asked her what chores I needed to do once I got home from school. She told me I needed to clean my room, bring some firewood in from outside, and rake the leaves piling up in our driveway. She asked me what was going on in school today. Then I remembered. Today was the first day of art class at school. I wasn’t excited at all for art; in fact, I dreaded the thought of art class. Back when I was a young child, once I learned that I couldn’t fly, I didn’t no what to do. Nothing really made sense to me after that sudden realization because I didn’t know how the thing I most cared about could desert me so quickly. All I knew is that another day like the one in preschool would be unbearable to me. As I reflect as an older person, I understand that this day scarred me, and created a true fear in having real passion about anything. The thought of another thing that I loved so much being erased from my life in a moment’s notice kept me completely away from adventure and risk for most of my older childhood. Even though I didn’t understand the root of all these feelings, I knew I didn’t want to go to art class. I wasn’t going to be convinced by anyone that I would enjoy it.
Regardless, my mother did exactly that; she tried to convince that I would like art class. She said “I know you haven’t ever taken art, but you have to try something new every once in awhile, honey.” She hit a nerve I didn’t no I had. I snapped at her and said “No! I don’t have to try something new. I’m fine the way I am.” It became completely silent. It was the most awkward time I have ever had with my Mom. Both of us desperately wanted to say something, but neither of us could find the words. This went on for a twenty seconds that felt like years. Then my Mom said “Look outside, honey.” The recently risen sun had just peaked over the hills, and streams of light shot through the windows. The light hit the wooden chairs we were sitting in, warming them ever so slightly. I replied “It’s beautiful this morning, isn’t it?” I was thankful that the silence between us was over. After finishing the delicious breakfast, I slung my backpack over my shoulder, said “Goodbye” to my Mom, and headed out the door.
The walk to school was always my favorite part of the day. I loved being able to reflect on everything on my walk across the hills to school. I normally thought about everything that needed to be done today, making a mental checklist in my mind. Regardless, I couldn’t create a nice checklist today because I was too busy worrying about the upcoming art class. I heard something very familiar. I looked back and couldn’t really see anything for I was blinded by the bright sun. Then I realized what I was hearing: an airplane. Consciously, I made no connection, but unconsciously this symbol of my childhood made me sadder than ever.
I walked to history class with my buddy. I hoped first period would never end. I don’t remember what we learned that day in History because I was too busy worrying. But there was no way out of art class; there was no escaping it. Eventually, the bell sounded waking me up from my trance. I knew I had to face that it was time for art, but I still didn’t want to. I walked to class slower than I have ever walked in my entire life. I dragged my feet, not sure if I was going to take the next step. I made it to a hallway, one with everyone else’s art hanging on the wall. How intimidating, I thought. I reached for the door to the art room as a shiver ran down my spine. I opened it, walked in to the room, and sat down next to a couple of my friends. To be honest, the art teacher was pretty funny looking. She had small beady eyes, but the largest nose I have ever seen. Many strange mannerisms, like the random cliquing of her heels and raising of the right pinkie while speaking, plagued the woman. Her right eye twitched giving the illusion that she was looking at a new person’s individual face every quarter of a second. When she talked, her irritating, nasal squeal of a voice sounded through the room.
She told us that today we were painting a picture of the most important thing to each of us. This was a pretty difficult topic for a person who worked hard to avoid trying anything that might become important to him. There was nothing for me to paint, for throughout my years in school I was too focused on keeping it that way. I took my canvas in dead silence and sat staring at the whiteness of it. Eventually, the strange art teacher approached me. “What are you doing over here? You haven’t started painting yet?” I didn’t say a word. I just looked at her. She said “Just paint a picture of your family, okay?” I didn’t reply. I just stared onward at the whiteness. She looked at me, confused at what I was doing. She got me paint and ordered me to start.
Something took over. At that moment, from the second I picked up the brush, it was no longer me painting. I just remember looking at the canvas, not sure what was going to pop up next. Then I figured out what I was painting: an airplane. It was flying low, close to the hills outside my house. I continued looking. Then I saw me: a small, blond kid sporting his all-white garments. All the fear was instantly washed away. As I felt it trickling out of my body as I finished my painting, I found that there was a tear in my eye. I was crying; I was crying in relief.
I’m in college now. I’m at one of the best art schools in the country. Painting has become my passion; it is my new airplane. I am just as devoted to it as I was to my attempted flights; the only difference is I know that art can’t desert me because of age or anything else like the plane did so long ago. But I’m not resentful of the airplane anymore. I realize even though I was never able to fly with the plane, my passion was a truly great thing in of itself. I used to think my young childhood was wasted, but now I know the wasted years were in elementary and middle school when I hid the plane away behind the so-called perfection I sought.
