I’m not sure when I first experienced the emotion of embarrassment, but I am still haunted by one of the most embarrassing moments of my life. It was kindergarten parent night. We had spent days, if not weeks, in preparation for this event. One of the things was preparing various artworks to put up in the classroom. We did simple finger paintings which were to be displayed in the classroom. I entered with my Mom, looking forward to sharing my work with her. But we couldn’t find it.
My last name started with a “B” so my Mom, holding my hand, naturally went toward the front of the classroom looking for my picture. We looked, among the pictures, discerning no rhyme or reason to how they were organized.
Sensing confusion, Miss H, announced to all filling the room that “the finger paintings are not in alphabetical order, they are in the order of how good they are.” So, we walked and walked, passing the pictures of my classmates. With each step, I felt the color in my cheeks rise. It seems it was at the very end of the room! There we found my finger painting.
On the walk, shame filled my heart. “I’m not good.” “What’s wrong with me?” “My painting is ugly.”
The long walk symbolized my inadequacy, my lack of creativity, and my lack of artistic imagination. I recall walking with my head down, listening to the praise others received, and looking to my Mom, who assured me it was a good picture. My mother, who was a social worker and a strong advocate for her children, I’m sure had some words later with the teacher. But, at that moment, I was thoroughly embarrassed and defeated.
From a finger painting, I learned, “I am not creative,” “I am not good,” and “I am not an artist.”
Worse, the message of my inadequacy was relayed to my peers. I had the worst finger painting. Funny, a friend of mine remembering the same event and the same shame, thought her picture was last. Following Miss H’s example, we kindergartners learned to judge, mock and tease, and to value each other according to a standard of beauty of unknown origin.
I cried to my Mom, “I don’t want to go back,” “I don’t want to see my picture at the back of the room,” “I will not fingerpaint again!” EVER!
So, what does this have to do with my creative process today, 60+ years later? It is said that to quell a negative voice, one needs to hear many more positive voices. Fortunately, I’ve heard many. My third-grade teacher saw possibilities in me, and declared “You are a writer!” But that did not necessarily extinguish that first experience of my creativity being publicly shamed and mocked.
So, now to publish my creative efforts, I have to crawl through the muck of Miss H’s and others’ enduring screeches, to find the encouraging voices, and the courage I need to share. So, much of my writing resides in journals, on drives, and in my secret places. I’m still learning to share my work without worrying of judgment. Sharing this recollection is part of that effort.
How about you? Do you have an early memory that undermined your sense of your creativity, intelligence, or worth? Was there a teacher who embarrassed or humiliated you? Does the sting remain? I’m grateful for those who spoke words of affirmation and encouragement to me. All these years later, they help me to press “publish.”
Grace Carter
I am writing this post only a few days after visiting the ancient Mayan ruins at Chichen Izta and Tulum in Mexico (right). The Mayan people believed in cycles. Their calendar of days, months, years and generations reflect an understanding that just as the moon moves around the Earth, and the Earth around the sun at a predictable clip, life too, can be viewed in seasons and cycles.