A Beautiful Moment...

I remember a moment in Middle School when I was in 8th grade and I was walking down the hall near the art classes. I don’t remember why I was there, but I had Mrs. Smith for art that year. My 6th grade year I had Mrs. Buchanan and out of the two Mrs. Smith was always preferred amongst students. Mrs. Buchanan was a very strange woman. She was very tall and had a large structured face, a chin that reminded me of Jay Leno with the build of Julia Child. She had shoulder length hair that was black but had become overrun with gray hairs fighting their way to claim their rightful place. Like they had been waiting for so many years to finally revolt and conquer her head. She had short bangs that were usually crumpled at the top, small eyes, and large lips. She talked very loudly and abruptly, and once you were in her class it was apparent that if you were not a true artist you were not favored. I worked very hard in Mrs. Buchanan’s class. I sat and listened while she taught us how to draw faces, while we built felt puppets, and when she gave my assignment a C because my self-portrait was not my best. However, I never connected with her. Before class I waited in the hall and peered into the other classroom right across from hers longing to be in there instead of the tan boring room I was about to go into.

Mrs. Smith’s room was alive with color. She was a short African American woman with a round face, a huge smile, and personality that was full of life. I remember looking into her classroom and wishing I could be singing and listening to her laugh. Well two years later I was in her class. It was great too. Everything I had hoped for and more. She sang to people on their birthday. She would have the birthday student sit on a stool and she would try to out do her last larger than life production of “Happy Birthday to ya!” My birthday was over the summer so I never got to sit on the stool.

Mrs. Smith was kind. You didn’t need to be an artist to be in her class because once you stepped foot in her door you automatically became one. She respected every student, and let their own abilities shine through their work. It did not matter whether your drawings were just like the model, it was yours and unique, and beautiful. She made me feel special. However, Mrs. Smith was not the teacher between my two art classes that made me feel the most worthy. This surprisingly came from Mrs. Buchanan.

Jr. High was not a time in my life when I felt beautiful. The people at my middle school had already begun to have sexual relations with each other by the time I was in 8th grade, and I had only had my first open-mouthed kiss with a boy the year before. I was not popular or unpopular, I was just me. I was not skinny, I was in the middle. I had friends, but I didn’t stand out from what I could tell. My after school activities consisted of walking to my brother’s elementary school to hang out with all of the kids there. I played handball with them, I talked with his teachers, and I helped out. Then my brother and I would walk home and we would hang out and watch TV. We usually went outside and rode our bikes or roller bladed.

I was a big bike rider I had two friends, Marlon and Michelle that I would always go out with to bike ride. I remember having so much fun with them. I was not like my other friends who were drinking on the weekend, going to parties, or engaging in underage sexual activity. I was me, I was sheltered, and I was sure as hell not going to get in trouble with my mom. If she ever found out that I did anything like that it would have been bad to say the least. So I really credit my mom’s strictness to me turning out normal and actually going to college. I however, am digressing.

Well it was 8th grade, and I was walking down the hall going somewhere. Graduation was about to happen, and I was moving away from all of my friends. Both sad because I was leaving everything I knew, and excited to have a fresh start. I had known these people since kindergarten, and they knew all of my embarrassing moments.

Feeling pretty to me was not something that came naturally. As I walked down the hall Mrs. Buchanan stepped out of her classroom. She had this kind of lost look as if she were going somewhere but didn’t particularly care about the situation, and I, remembering her class, looked down at the floor. Then I suddenly wanted her to remember me. I didn’t think she would have, and so I just looked up maybe hoping to get a small smile. Well as she passed me she slowed down and looked at me gingerly, her eyes became not small, but kind and full of warmth. She smiled down and while shaking her head she said in a weak voice “So beautiful” and then kept walking down the hall.

I was shocked I tried to smile at her, and looked at her back as she walked past me, but I think the moment just made me unaware of what to do. I thought she had hated me. I thought she didn’t remember me at all, and yet she had just given me the greatest moment of Middle School. I would have never considered myself to be beautiful then. My mother said I was all the time. She called me beautiful every day calling me her “beautiful brown berry”. I would have never thought anyone would consider me to be beautiful apart from my family. I never thought that people even noticed me.

However, I can say that Mrs. Buchanan was the first person that ever made me feel beautiful. So thank you Mrs. Buchanan. Thank you for that gift, and it’s only now that I realize how much I needed it at the time, and how much I cherish it now.