Art Broken
by Marc Spahn
Genre: Drama
Swearwords: None.
Description: Sometimes you end up pitying the monsters you once feared.
_____________________________________________________________________
“Go on, take your time. You all have plenty of that, don’t you? Not a care in the world in a single one of you. It’s all hugs and kisses and next birthday’s wishes. Take your seats!”
That was a pretty standard greeting from my second grade Art teacher, Mrs. Lewolski. She was short, with a sandy blonde bowl cut and thin rimmed glasses that her crazy gray eyes peered out from. She was a monster, famous for going into fits of blind rage for what, to a child, seemed like no reason at all. These fits included, but weren’t limited to, screaming her voice raw, tearing up artwork, stabbing her desk with scissors, and snapping yard sticks over her knee. She loved to tell us about the rude awakening we were all in for later on in life,
“Oh, you don’t think it’s fair? Let me tell you about fair. Disappointment, and shortcomings, and getting the raw deal, that’s life! You’d better get used to it now to dull the shock later on.”
She often told us that she wouldn’t let her own child watch Sesame Street, because,
“Life isn’t about Big Bird, and the Cookie Monster, and nursery rhymes, and you better believe the world isn’t a make believe street full of puppets and do-gooders!”
As second graders, all that was registering was, ‘angry adult…not sure why’. It happened so frequently that it became par for the course whenever she would fly off the handle.
One such episode took place in the middle of class during a “free draw” period; girls drawing butterflies, and castles, and self-portraits, and the boys drawing cars, and men with guns, and airplanes. As was often the case, we worked on in fearful silence while she stalked the room interspersing her macabre lectures on imminent doom with helpful art tips, reminding us all that the sky can’t be pink, and that cars aren’t made from pickles. We’d nod and erase and change paints and she’d carry on ranting about the inescapable sorrow that we’re all destined for. I was a child, but I knew anger, and I knew sadness, but I didn’t know what Mrs. Lewolski was emoting. Her face was frozen into a contorted mass of expression; she was in constant reaction, reliving over and over again the first moment of her now inextinguishable anguish.
This day was different, though; her tirade was coherent. She seemed to be telling a story,
“…And it took 19 hours of surgery to put me back together. Six months later I found out that I left the hospital with a bit more than I’d arrived with.”
She went to the black board, and wrote in big capital letters,
“H…I…V. That stands for Human Immunodeficiency Virus. Do you know what that means?”
We didn’t.
“That means I’m sick. I’m sick and I’ll always be sick. I never get to feel well again and the only change is likely to go from bad, to worse, to dead. There are some out there that deserve what I have; they deserve it for living reckless lives, but not me. I did it all by the book. Played it smart and played it safe. Turns out it would make no difference at all in the end. That’s why I’m trying, I am trying to prepare you all for what’s out there. It’s not about what’s fair, it’s…”
“Mrs. Lewolski…”
A girl in the classroom called out with raised hand, only to be ignored.
“I don’t want you all off in La La Land thinking harsh reality is somehow giving you a pass. Now just look…”
“Mrs. Lewolski…”
The girl persisted.
“Look at me. I’m a perfect example of what a cruel joke this life can be.”
“Mrs. Lewolski…”
“Yes! What is it Samantha? What do you need?”
Mrs. Lewolski was now panting and her pupils were pinholes. Samantha spoke in a soft, reassuring tone, emitting the fragrance of innocence into the air.
“One time, my brother was so sick he pooped the bed. My mommy still gives him kisses, though. You can just take some medicine.”
There was a tense, weighted pause. Mrs. Lewolski walked back to her desk and sat down. She fell into a cold thousand-yard stare and sat motionless for a long while. Her response was almost a whisper,
“My mommy still gives me kisses, too, Samantha.”
I looked up at the letters on the black board for a second, and then went back to drawing dinosaurs.
Swearwords: None.
Description: Sometimes you end up pitying the monsters you once feared.
_____________________________________________________________________
“Go on, take your time. You all have plenty of that, don’t you? Not a care in the world in a single one of you. It’s all hugs and kisses and next birthday’s wishes. Take your seats!”
That was a pretty standard greeting from my second grade Art teacher, Mrs. Lewolski. She was short, with a sandy blonde bowl cut and thin rimmed glasses that her crazy gray eyes peered out from. She was a monster, famous for going into fits of blind rage for what, to a child, seemed like no reason at all. These fits included, but weren’t limited to, screaming her voice raw, tearing up artwork, stabbing her desk with scissors, and snapping yard sticks over her knee. She loved to tell us about the rude awakening we were all in for later on in life,
“Oh, you don’t think it’s fair? Let me tell you about fair. Disappointment, and shortcomings, and getting the raw deal, that’s life! You’d better get used to it now to dull the shock later on.”
She often told us that she wouldn’t let her own child watch Sesame Street, because,
“Life isn’t about Big Bird, and the Cookie Monster, and nursery rhymes, and you better believe the world isn’t a make believe street full of puppets and do-gooders!”
As second graders, all that was registering was, ‘angry adult…not sure why’. It happened so frequently that it became par for the course whenever she would fly off the handle.
One such episode took place in the middle of class during a “free draw” period; girls drawing butterflies, and castles, and self-portraits, and the boys drawing cars, and men with guns, and airplanes. As was often the case, we worked on in fearful silence while she stalked the room interspersing her macabre lectures on imminent doom with helpful art tips, reminding us all that the sky can’t be pink, and that cars aren’t made from pickles. We’d nod and erase and change paints and she’d carry on ranting about the inescapable sorrow that we’re all destined for. I was a child, but I knew anger, and I knew sadness, but I didn’t know what Mrs. Lewolski was emoting. Her face was frozen into a contorted mass of expression; she was in constant reaction, reliving over and over again the first moment of her now inextinguishable anguish.
This day was different, though; her tirade was coherent. She seemed to be telling a story,
“…And it took 19 hours of surgery to put me back together. Six months later I found out that I left the hospital with a bit more than I’d arrived with.”
She went to the black board, and wrote in big capital letters,
“H…I…V. That stands for Human Immunodeficiency Virus. Do you know what that means?”
We didn’t.
“That means I’m sick. I’m sick and I’ll always be sick. I never get to feel well again and the only change is likely to go from bad, to worse, to dead. There are some out there that deserve what I have; they deserve it for living reckless lives, but not me. I did it all by the book. Played it smart and played it safe. Turns out it would make no difference at all in the end. That’s why I’m trying, I am trying to prepare you all for what’s out there. It’s not about what’s fair, it’s…”
“Mrs. Lewolski…”
A girl in the classroom called out with raised hand, only to be ignored.
“I don’t want you all off in La La Land thinking harsh reality is somehow giving you a pass. Now just look…”
“Mrs. Lewolski…”
The girl persisted.
“Look at me. I’m a perfect example of what a cruel joke this life can be.”
“Mrs. Lewolski…”
“Yes! What is it Samantha? What do you need?”
Mrs. Lewolski was now panting and her pupils were pinholes. Samantha spoke in a soft, reassuring tone, emitting the fragrance of innocence into the air.
“One time, my brother was so sick he pooped the bed. My mommy still gives him kisses, though. You can just take some medicine.”
There was a tense, weighted pause. Mrs. Lewolski walked back to her desk and sat down. She fell into a cold thousand-yard stare and sat motionless for a long while. Her response was almost a whisper,
“My mommy still gives me kisses, too, Samantha.”
I looked up at the letters on the black board for a second, and then went back to drawing dinosaurs.
About the Author
Cincinnati-born
Marc Spahn is of Scottish heritage.
Currently living in Taiwan and working as an English teacher, he is at
heart a musician and writer. You can
hear his music here on SoundCloud: https://soundcloud.com/winkingowl