We are going to do self portraits of a different kind, she said, our eccentric teacher with her paintbrush behind her ear. We are going to draw what we are on the inside. She showed us her true self, a purple butterfly, an overly bright painting hung on the chalkboard. The class stared at her, and she smiled encouragingly. Show me the real you, she told us, I want to know who you are.
I was confused. Who was I? I was not a canvas butterfly. I was not a sunflower, like the girl next to me. I stared at the paper in front of me, not knowing what to draw. I felt a hand on my shoulder, and she examined my blank paper as though she could see a picture that was not there. What are you? She asked me. A fish? A bird? No. I shook my head. No, no. Keep thinking, she instructed, and then she was gone.
My paper was still blank when she collected them. Do it tonight, she said. I will, I lied. I did not think that I would draw anything that night.
But her question, What are you? haunted me. I could not get it out of my head. I tried to answer it. A wolf. No, I was not a wolf. Wolves were wild and free, I held myself captive. A panther. No, panthers were beautiful. I was not beautiful. An owl. No, owls were wise. I was a fool. No, no, no.
I turned to my memories for answers, maybe someone had told me. A warm, soft, honey sweet hand on my head, a musical voice, You are my star, it said. No, I was too dark to be a star, that would not work. A young girl laughing as she played on the grass with her dog, innocent and carefree. No, I was no longer innocent, it had been taken from me. A slender, graceful girl, dancing with her eyes closed, in her own enchanted world. No, no, no. I no longer felt free when I danced, I could not pour my soul into the music, the movements felt awkward rather than graceful and releasing.
Nothing felt right. Maybe I am nothing, I said, using excuses. But a more recent memory tugged at my mind, and I soon found myself in my bedroom with a pencil in my hand. I turned the music up loud, heavy sounds to drown in. I tried to procrastinate, telling myself, No, that is not what I am. Instead of drawing, I looked around my room, thinking to find a different answer in the charcoal grey walls. Maybe the black and silver bookshelves held the answer, or maybe it was tucked into the neatly made bed with its red clothing. It was not there.
I drew. The real me. Every line my pencil made took a piece of me with it. But I finsihed, and in the end, my self portrait was drawn. I had drawn the only memory that seemed right, one from that very morning: A mirror, and reflected in it was a girl. A pale, slender girl. A girl with dyed black hair. A girl with heavily kohl-ed grey eyes and black lipstick. A girl with too many piercings, tattoos, and scars. It was the me I saw when I looked in the mirror every morning.
Because I am me. I am not a butterfly, a flower, a wolf, or anything but myself. I looked at picture, I looked in the mirror. That was the true me.
She looked at me, her paintbrush behind her ear, and she smiled. Perfect. I was surprised, I had been waiting for her to frown and tell me that I did not understand the assignment, that I would need to re-do it. But she just smiled. Perfect.
Posted at 10:46:43 am by Disillusioned
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