Drawing Dreams

Drawing Dreams

I am sort of an odd duck. At least, that’s what my parents, teachers and all the other grown-ups say, when they think I’m not listening.

How can I not be listening? I’m sitting right there. They think that because my head is down, while I draw, I am not paying attention, I hear every word.

I am coloring at at a desk in the opposite corner from my teacher and parents so I can’t hear what they’re discussing. They think by whispering, I won’t hear. But whispers are sometimes louder than regular voices.

“All she does is draw and color all day,” the teacher says. “Well, I mean, she does do her work…”

“She does her work?!” My father whisper-growled. “I had to drive back home through the night and cancel today’s customers because she does her work?!”

This is all so typical. My father is mad, again. Always mad at someone. Always yelling. I like to sneak peeks at him like this. The redness of his face —it’s hard to describe . It’s not a red in my crayon box. I watch the muscles in his neck bulge as he continually tugs at his tie.

The conference continues and my mother has calmed my father, though the red remained. He took off his suit coat and neatly draped it over his lap and politely told my teacher to please continue. He often told me that arguing is a waste of time. ‘If you just shut up, and nod and be polite, it will all be over faster and you can then get on to what’s more important.’

After the conference, I knew that I was not going to be lectured about my drawing, but instead, about how many customers he lost today and how much money I cost the family and if the teacher says, don’t draw, then DON’T! Just do what the teacher says. Period! Simple! Cabish?! We are not Italian, but it seemed to be my father’s main word for when the discussion was over and I better behave as he directed or else!

My mother will be behind him, giving me supportive smiles. “Just don’t make any waves honey,” she’ll say gently. “Your father is right.”

As the conference went on, the teacher pulled out a stack of my papers. All my assignments done to the “best of my ability”, like the report card says, all bordered with intricate flower doodles and extra papers with the same doodled flowers but with color.

I was coloring one of those flowers while they talked about me being a day dreamer, not interested in reading, doing assignments fast, with indifference.

I picked up the blue crayon when I heard ‘day dreamer’ and made a sky, Green for grass and then red, bold circles, soon to be exotic, unseen before, blossoms. With each stroke of a crayon, the grownup words became a faint hum in the background as if an invisible shield rose around me, and though I could still hear the grown up words, they can no longer could touch me. It’s very quiet in my shield. My brain can think, or not think and my body feels soft, warm and protected.

The teacher told my parents that I don’t seem to have any friends, that I prefer coloring under a tree or on a bench, than playing dodge ball or the swings or tag—anything that involves other children.” I felt bad for my mother. Later, when once again, they will think I am not listening, my father will yell at my mother for my not having any friends. He will insist she get a class list and start making calls tomorrow to invite other girls over.

In my doodles, I dream that Mrs Cleaver is my mother and Ward is my dad. Ward wouldn’t yell. He’d be the sensible one of the family to find a solution. Mom would keep hugging me and, cry out, “Ward, dear, what are we going to do?” As I loop a line to make a spiral, I imagine Mrs. Cleaver and Ward asking me why I draw all over my school work. They would listen to me. They would hear me. They would make me feel safe. I start to draw little flowers, while wishing that I was the Beave.

I like where my mind wanders to when I draw. It goes to happy places, like to the ballroom in those late night black and white movies I watch with my mother. Fred Astaire was in love with me, and it was me that he swirled around the room and lifted over stairs. Sometimes my mind just goes quiet. I keep my head down against the constant racket of the other kids in my class. People are loud, especially Mary and her friends who are constantly whispering and passing notes and laughing.

Mary is just as stupid as the grown ups. She assumes that because I draw and never look up, that I’m not listening. I don’t want to listen, but I hear everything. I hear everything that the teacher does not. The teacher does not know that while I am “constantly”drawing, Mary is “constantly” copying off my paper. I wonder if her parents will be called in.

Just as I was beginning a polka dot pattern, my father nudged my shoulder, startling me. “C’mon, let’s go. Put all those crayons away. Hurry. Up.”

The shield crashed. I fumbled to put each crayon back in the box and ran about the room, putting away the supplies. I went to the closet and put on my coat. My mother was standing in from of my teacher’s desk, thanking her and telling her not to hesitate to call again if needed, but they would certainly work this out with me at home. My dad stood impatiently at the door. Oh, he’ll work it out all right. By shouting orders.

At home, I was sent to my room to do my homework, (And no drawing!), while they discussed my situation privately in the kitchen. Of course it wasn’t private. I heard every word. In the end, mom promised she would make some calls to get me some friends. I finished my homework quickly and took a blank paper out of the drawer and began to draw. Then, I heard my father coming down the hall so I reopened my math book and hid the drawing underneath. He came and stood over my shoulder. There were no drawings on my math paper. “Good,” he said, then left the room, pulling off his tie off as he went.

A week later, I learned that Mary was coming over my house after school the next day. Mary? Why Mary? My mother said she just went alphabetically on the list and Mary Anderson was first and her mother said yes and that was that. My mother said I will learn to like her if I knew what’s good for me, because she didn’t want my father breathing down her neck any more about getting me friends and getting me involved in doing something other than sitting alone and drawing. I pleaded to no avail, that I like sitting alone and drawing.

How I dreaded going to school. As predicted, Mary and her friends whispered and laughed and pointed at me. ‘My mother’s making me,’ I heard her say to the others.

At the house, my mother fed us milk and cookies and then sent us up to my room to play. When we got to my room, Mary hesitated at the door and said, ‘My mother made me come here.’ And I said, ‘Yeah, my mother made me have you over.’ Mary shrugged and walked into my room. She sat on my bed and bounced as if testing it out to buy. Then she got up and went to my desk and saw a pile of drawings. “Why do you draw so much?’ she asked. ‘Why do you always copy off of me?’ I asked back. ‘You know?’ she asked. ‘Of course,’ I said. ‘Why don’t you tell on me?’ ‘I don’t know,’ I said. ‘I guess I don’t care.’

She went on to explain that her father was really strict and if she didn’t get all high marks, she’d lose privileges. She told me she was afraid of her father.

I asked her if she wanted to draw and she said yes. We sat on the floor and colored and talked about our fathers. We laughed so hard imitating them to each other. And we both had the same dream of Ward Cleaver being our father. I couldn’t remember the last time I laughed like this.

‘Mary,’ I said, ‘You’re finny.’

‘You too,’ she said, ‘And a wicked great drawer!”

‘Thanks!’ I said. I was having such a great time.

I waved good bye as her mother drove their car away, and then turned to see my parents, also waving, and smiling. They looked happy together, which was rare. For one instant, my dream came true. In that moment, they truly were June and Ward.