But I don't KNOW HOW to draw a baby chick!

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DATo
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But I don't KNOW HOW to draw a baby chick!

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My Great Big Philosophy

(Chapter 2)

by DATo


The following year found me in First Grade and I was in for a rude awakening. The novelty of having my very own desk and the feeling of self importance as a result of now being in REAL school, where one could sing 'Kintergarden Babies' with impunity to the under-classmen ("Kintergarden baaaaabies, wash your face in graaaaavy.") was offset by the imposition of having to actually SIT in that desk for long periods of time and endure countless hours of mindless instruction, not one iota of which was of any practical value to any six year old ever born. Another rude awakening was my first experience with nuns. Sister Marcedes Julia was a short, plump, youngish looking woman of Germanic persuasion who wore metalic-framed glasses. She belonged to that order of nuns known as The Sisters Of Charity, which I always considered an oxymoron for I received little charity from any nun I would ever meet as a child.

I have come to understand that women have an innate and irrepressible instinct for wanting to bear children which men cannot understand. Now when you deprive a woman of the ability to bring to fruition those innate and irreconcilable instincts of Motherhood and then force her to teach, on a daily basis, the very object of her yearning ... well ... it makes them a little bit goofy. Goofiness takes many forms. In the case of Sister Marcedes Julia the afore-said affectation became manifest in the form of unreasonable art project assignments. Leave it to a nun to make art class a thing of dread!

Sister Marcedes Julia gave us each a box of Crayola crayons. There were eight .50 caliber crayons to a box. You know the ones I mean. The crayons, relative to the size of our hands, were about on the same scale as an adult holding one of those cardboard tubes at the center of a roll of paper towels. She also handed out paper and I was getting all excited in anticipation of drawing a dump truck which was my particular forte' and which I was sure would result in my being promoted to Second Grade by the end of the day. I was leaning so far forward in my desk to be sure I heard the command to commence drawing that my butt was waving in the breeze.

"Class, I would like you all to draw a baby chick for me." said Sister Marcedes Julia.

The meaning of her words took a while to penetrate into my brain and when the full realization of what she had said finally hit me I literally crapped my pants. I quickly made the mental calculation that I had no idea how to draw a baby chick so I decided to confront a task I could deal with and stuck my hand down my pants and manipulated my drawers in such a way that I could evict that unwanted tenant which had taken residence in my underpants by shaking my leg. Beside my desk now lay an object which closely resembled a popular chocolate candy bar of that era whose moniker must remain nameless, for by the time one becomes a great big philosopher he is wise enough to know that a candy company can sue what's left of your ass off after the nuns get through mangling it. With a deft flick of my toe I sent that unspeakable object forward, down the aisle, to end up where the forces of physics and the will of God determine.

I looked down at the paper and tried to visualize what a baby chick looked like but all I drew was a blank. So I just sat there chewing on my green Crayola crayon and looking bewildered. Soon my mind began to wander and my thoughts turned to pirate ships and cannon fire. There I was on the bridge of an eighty gun man-o-war getting ready to command my men to open fire on the dastardly pirate ship which had come into view. As the minutes passed the battle raged on, and after coming along-side the pirates my men and I were about to board the enemy ship. Our weapons were drawn. All of my men were looking at me and waiting for my orders to board the enemy vessel. I raised my sword over my head, took a deep breath, and with malice in my eye was just about to give the fateful order which would result in blood and carnage for those high-sea marauding pirates, which was just what they deserved, when I noticed that all my men were looking behind me. I turned around to see what they were looking at and standing there was Sister Marcedes Julia looking at my blank piece of paper.

"Why haven't you started your baby chick drawing?" She asked.

The surprise of seeing her standing there, along with the realization that I had nothing to show for half of our allotted time for art class brought sudden tears to my eyes and I started to cry. "I don't know HOW to draw a baby chick!" I whimpered.

"Well you better get started because you're running out of time." was all Sister Marcedes Julia charitably offered by way of advice. Then she continued walking slowly toward the front of the class looking over the shoulders of each student in turn to see how they were progressing, just as she did with me. I was still crying when Sister Marcedes Julia made an abrupt stop beside Ellen Marie Kujiak's desk and said something which caused Ellen Marie Kujiak to bend over, look at the floor and begin shaking her head in the negative with such violence that I thought it would become dislodged from her shoulders. Timothy Macke began to snicker and whispered something to Bruno Celisi and they were both looking at Ellen and laughing silently. I had no idea what was going on and I could care less. I continued to sit there crying as Ellen Marie Kujiak was escorted out of the classroom by Sister Marcedes Julia who had one hand behind Ellen's back while the other held a wad of Kleenex. The word spread like wildfire through the class while they were gone that Ellen Marie had crapped her pants. I was relieved to know that I wasn't the only one in First Grade who crapped his pants, but then my consternation returned as I began to panic in the knowledge that there would be no way in hell that I could learn to draw a baby chick in the time I had left. A few minutes later Sister Marcedes Julia returned with Ellen Marie who's face turned a red as a tomato when she saw half the class looking at her and snickering, and both she and Sister Marcedes Julia returned to their desks.

All of a sudden the door opened and a man walked in. He had a red beard and the bluest eyes I have ever seen. He was wearing old clothes which were kind of dirty and a large floppy hat which was also somewhat dirty. If I didn't know better I would have sworn it was one of Grandma Antonia's bums who stopped by from time to time for a handout. Sister Marcedes Julia ignored him as he walked past her and straight for my desk. I began to panic again thinking Sister Marcedes Julia got this man to come in and holler at me for not starting my baby chick drawing while she was out of the room with Ellen. The man seemed very nervous for some reason and kept looking all around like he expected something bad to happen. Then he looked down at my drawing and whispered ... "Why haven't you drawn anything little boy?" I started crying again and said, "I don't know how to draw a baby chick!"

He then knelt down beside my desk and whispered, "It isn't important if you know how or not. Just draw your impression of what a baby chick would look like."

"But I don't know HOW to draw a baby chick!" I repeated.

"Pick a color from your crayons." he said. Since I had already chewed the tip of my green Crayola crayon off I picked blue. "Now make a mark in the middle of your paper." he said. I did as I was told and then he said, "Now pick another color and make another mark." Once again I did as I was told, this time with the brown Crayola crayon. He then picked up my paper and looked at it intently before replacing it on my desk, and then he said, "Now use the yellow and make more marks quickly, quickly!" My yellow crayon was striking the paper repeatedly making a sound like a toy machine gun which caused Sister Marcedes Julia to look up from her desk in my direction. When she did, the man cringed as though he expected her to get mad at him or something, but he never left my side. Sister Marcedes Julia looked back down at her desk and continued with whatever she was doing. I looked up at the clock and the big hand was just about touching the '12' and the little hand was on the '3' and I knew school was just about over for that day. Soon the bell would ring and Mom was already waiting for me in the playground to take me home. My hands were flying like mad now as the bell rang and I dropped my brown Crayola crayon on the floor, but I never gave it a second thought. "NOW DRAW THE LEGS !" said the man, who was getting just as excited as I was. I dropped another crayon as the children began to stand for the final prayer of the day, which was mandatory in Catholic school, adding one more pain-in-the-ass ritual to my childhood.

"Place your baby chicks and crayon boxes on the corner of my desk as you leave and assemble in line in the hall ... AND NO TALKING IN LINE." Said Sister Marcedes Julia.

I just barely finished my baby chick and the man who helped me escorted me to the front of the classroom. I placed my baby chick with relief on the corner of Sister Marcedes Julia's desk along with a half box of half eaten Crayola crayons and turned around to thank the man in the floppy hat for helping me, but he was gone. My thoughts quickly turned to Mom waiting for me in the playground and the walk home where I would indulge in the generally more temporal daily ritual of eating my bowl of Rice Krispies with sliced bananas and two Oreo cookies.

As it turned out, my baby chick drawing had a remarkable resemblance to my appendicitis vomit, only my chick had one black, one red, and one purple leg and my vomit didn't. The next day when I came into the classroom I noticed that someone had pinned all the baby chick drawings to the cork border over the blackboard. I soon found my baby chick which was pinned between Mary Louise Maher and Ronald Vernon Salonski's baby chicks ... and you know what? ... we all got gold stars!

Throughout the journey of my life I would meet a lot of people who didn't know how to draw a baby chick. Some chicks came in the form of not having enough money to take care of a family, or in some cases, having to deal with substance dependence. Some came in the form of an inability to psychologically deal with an illness or death in the family. Other baby chicks presented themselves as an inability to communicate with a wife, husband, child or parent. Some baby chicks came to people I would later meet in the form of insecurity, or hopelessness, or anger resulting from some unresolved quarrel. These artists too would sit at their desks and stare at the blank paper before them just as I did in First Grade, chewing on their crayons, and ever mindful that the clock was ticking. They'd sit there frustrated, frightened, and angry with themselves, - berating themselves for a talent they did not possess, a talent they did not know how to acquire.

There are several common characteristics which appear in various combinations among all people who are unable to draw a baby chick:

1) The artist lacks experience regarding the qualitative nature of the subject.
2) The artist is unwilling, through fear of failure or the potential of embarrassing results, to begin the composition.
3) The artist feels that he or she is ignorant of the standards expected or required to adequately draw a baby chick.
4) The artist is not familiar or comfortable with the medium in which they are expected to work.
5) The artist is afraid that his or her work will be judged by some nameless and hostile jury of critics.
6) The artist, as a result of some inner rebellion, refuses to accept help, advice, or constructive criticism with regard to the drawing.
7) The artist does not show up for art class because he or she simply doesn't care if the baby chick gets drawn or not.

I have come to learn that the man in the floppy hat was right - no matter how desperate the situation appears you have to try, and the most important part of the drawing is making the very first mark with your crayon.

Throughout mankind's history all individuals have sooner or later had to confront the problem of drawing their own personal baby chicks. One example that comes to mind concerns the very man who came to visit me that day in First Grade. Long ago he was forced to find the courage to draw his baby chick despite the curses and derision he endured and the hopelessness of his task; and in so doing he achieved, even in failure, an indefinable dignity which found confluence with that universal dignity which has forever exemplified nobility, and stature worthy of a man. For one day long long ago, this outcast found a tiny flickering flame of strength and inspiration which was all he had left to light his way - which was all he had left to shield himself from the self-doubt and the recriminations of others; and from that timid yet courageous effort, which resulted in the swirling morass of pain and paint and tears which were all he had to offer his canvas, emerged a Starry Night.

/
“I just got out of the hospital. I was in a speed reading accident. I hit a book mark and flew across the room.”
― Steven Wright
Brooke Adams
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Post by Brooke Adams »

This is an adorable, fun read! It hooked me from the beginning. I love the idea & concept of writing from a childs POV. Truly wonderful. I'm so glad I stumbled upon this story. Thank you for sharing your work! 💯❤️
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