The Van Gogh Art Academy
The beginning of the end for me began four months into my seventh grade year. I was attending John Adams Middle School, which was built next to a freeway and looked slightly like a prison. It was often mistaken for a prison by people that drove by, but, when I could, I would defend it and say, “It’s actually not as bad as it looks,” like if it were my child and I was saying, “He isn’t terrible at sports, he’s just uncoordinated.”
Either way, John Adams Middle School looked like a prison and for the most part it was a prison. At least for me, the boy who spent his free time reading of love affairs in the terra of Tolstoy, or of the vanity of youth in the world of Wilde, or scribbling poems and short stories in a composition notebook, it was a prison. I had come to terms with the tragic fact that children in middle school were not as well versed in the ways of the world as I was. They, instead, spent their time looking for ways to “hook up” with one another and try the latest dance craze. Even at that age I could see how crappy the youth of America was going to eventually be.
I was able to find refuge from all those hooligans I called my classmates in the four walls that came together to form my English class. It was the highlight of my day, and was without a doubt my strongest subject. There wasn’t a single assignment that I would not get an “OUTSTANDING!” or a “MARVELOUS JOB!” I guess you could say I began to feed off of this attention from my teacher, Mrs. Bower. I felt slightly less alone at school knowing that one person understood what I was doing and didn’t think I was some loser because my hero was Edgar Allen Poe.
One day, only two months into my seventh grade year, Mrs. Bower assigned us a poetry project.
“What I want you to do, class, is to write two poems about Christmas,” said Mrs. Bower. “They don’t have to be anything fancy, just have fun with it!”
Now, Mrs. Bower’s definition of what fancy was and what I believed to be fancy were two completely different beasts. I learned this the hard way. Little did I know that my mastery of an otherwise dead art form was going to change the rest of my life.
I was sitting in my pre-algebra class two weeks after my poems had been turned when the vice principal of our school walked in and stopped the class.
“James Castle,” Mr. White called. “Please come with me to the Principal’s office.”
To say that I was afraid would be an understatement. I had never been in trouble in my entire life. I never did anything wrong, nor did I even think about doing anything wrong! It just wasn’t in my nature to do wrong! So as I walked the cold, linoleum-paved hallway to my most certain doom, I wanted to, in simple terms, shit myself.
When I walked into Principal Meyer’s office, she was not alone. Sitting in the two available chairs were my mother and my father. Standing next to Principal Meyer was Mrs. Bower, with quite possibly the widest smile I’ve ever seen on a woman to this very day.
I looked over the faces of each person in the room. None of them seemed to be seething with anger towards me (Mrs. Bower was the exact opposite), but what could I have possibly done to have been called into the Principal’s office.
“James, do you know why you’re in here?” asked Principal Meyer.
“Uh, did I do something wrong? I can’t think of anything,” I said, panic filling my voice. “I swear I didn’t do anything! Whoever told you I did something framed me! It’s a conspiracy, man!” I was nervous.
The others in the room began to laugh hysterically. Judging by their laughter, I ruled out the possibility of being in trouble. A huge weight was lifted off of my shoulders. But the question still remained; why was I in the Principal’s office?
“No, James! You’re not in trouble whatsoever! Quite the opposite actually,” exclaimed Mrs. Bower. She reached into her large purse and pulled out my poems. “James, what you wrote here is amazing! Truly. I cannot believe that a mere seventh grader wrote this!”
“Honey,” said my mother. “Is it true that you wrote these poems?”
“Uh, yeah? Why?” I was still lost. I didn’t see what was so great about them personally.
“Son, these are fantastic! We didn’t know you could write so beautifully,” said my father. “Why haven’t you shown us anything before?”
Truth be told, I wasn’t sure why I had never shown my parents any of my writings. For me at least, it had always been something that I loved to do, but I never thought about it any further than that. I wrote the same way a person draws or plays music. It just felt right.
“James, the reason we called you here today is because we believe that you can do great things with this talent of yours. And frankly, as much as it pains me to say this, you will not be able to show your skill at this school.” I wasn’t sure what Principal Meyer was trying to tell me at first. Did she want me to leave? Was I no longer welcome at John Adams?
“Therefore,” began Principal Meyer. “We believe that your talents would be better shown at the Van Gogh Art Academy. It is far more suited for a child with your gifts. But the decision is up to you.”
And just like that, I was off; all because I had taken a sudden liking to Shakespeare’s sonnets and wrote a couple of my own for Mrs. Bower. Sure I had to show my parents the rest of my stories and poems that I wrote so they could be sure it wasn’t just a one time deal, but I didn’t care. There was no way I was going to stay another minute in that poor prison if I didn’t have to. Goodbye John Adams Middle School. Hello Van Gogh Art Academy.
Van Gogh Art Academy was not nearly as close to my house as John Adams was. The Academy, as I came to call it, was one hour away from my house; the exact midpoint between my house and Uncle Ed’s Christmas Tree Farm (that alone should have made a light bulb go off in my head). As soon as I we pulled up to the front steps of the Academy, I fell in love.
It was everything I pictured a school with such a prestigious name like the Van Gogh Art Academy would be. From the Victorian style stone work of the building to the large expanse of green fields that led to the mountains in the distance. I couldn’t have felt more at home in a school than I did when I arrived at the Academy.
My parents (mostly my mother) made a bigger deal out of it than they probably should have. As I made my way up the cobble steps to the entryway, my mother began to cry into my father’s shoulder. My father stood there waving, smiling at me like he’d never smiled at me before. Looking back on that one moment, I think they both knew that after that day, things would never be the same for me. I was going to do big things at the Academy and my life would be forever changed.
My first order of business was to find the main office so that I could get my class schedule. Doing so, however, proved to be slightly more difficult than I imagined. The halls of the Academy weren’t anything like what the outside made it out to be. There were boys playing guitar on staircases, girls sketching people as they walked by, others writing in corners and talking to one another, carrying Shakespeare, Cummings, Wilde, Dickinson, Frost, and all of the greats. There was so much creativity going on under one roof that I could hardly contain my excitement.
That was when it happened.
The glaze in my eyes must have been a beacon, calling her out to me, screaming “Hey! I’m lost!” She walked up to me, her bouncy, brown hair lying softly against her shoulders. At first glance, I didn’t recognize her. But when she spoke, I knew exactly who it was. You never forget the voice of the person who saved you from being crushed by Christmas tree.
“Hi,” she said. “You look lost. Do you need any help?”
“Yes! Yes I do!”
“Great,” she smiled at me. “My name’s Mollie, Mollie Parker. I think I can help you.”
She had spoken those same words to me two years ago and I told her to leave me alone. This time I had a feeling things would be much different.
Either way, John Adams Middle School looked like a prison and for the most part it was a prison. At least for me, the boy who spent his free time reading of love affairs in the terra of Tolstoy, or of the vanity of youth in the world of Wilde, or scribbling poems and short stories in a composition notebook, it was a prison. I had come to terms with the tragic fact that children in middle school were not as well versed in the ways of the world as I was. They, instead, spent their time looking for ways to “hook up” with one another and try the latest dance craze. Even at that age I could see how crappy the youth of America was going to eventually be.
I was able to find refuge from all those hooligans I called my classmates in the four walls that came together to form my English class. It was the highlight of my day, and was without a doubt my strongest subject. There wasn’t a single assignment that I would not get an “OUTSTANDING!” or a “MARVELOUS JOB!” I guess you could say I began to feed off of this attention from my teacher, Mrs. Bower. I felt slightly less alone at school knowing that one person understood what I was doing and didn’t think I was some loser because my hero was Edgar Allen Poe.
One day, only two months into my seventh grade year, Mrs. Bower assigned us a poetry project.
“What I want you to do, class, is to write two poems about Christmas,” said Mrs. Bower. “They don’t have to be anything fancy, just have fun with it!”
Now, Mrs. Bower’s definition of what fancy was and what I believed to be fancy were two completely different beasts. I learned this the hard way. Little did I know that my mastery of an otherwise dead art form was going to change the rest of my life.
I was sitting in my pre-algebra class two weeks after my poems had been turned when the vice principal of our school walked in and stopped the class.
“James Castle,” Mr. White called. “Please come with me to the Principal’s office.”
To say that I was afraid would be an understatement. I had never been in trouble in my entire life. I never did anything wrong, nor did I even think about doing anything wrong! It just wasn’t in my nature to do wrong! So as I walked the cold, linoleum-paved hallway to my most certain doom, I wanted to, in simple terms, shit myself.
When I walked into Principal Meyer’s office, she was not alone. Sitting in the two available chairs were my mother and my father. Standing next to Principal Meyer was Mrs. Bower, with quite possibly the widest smile I’ve ever seen on a woman to this very day.
I looked over the faces of each person in the room. None of them seemed to be seething with anger towards me (Mrs. Bower was the exact opposite), but what could I have possibly done to have been called into the Principal’s office.
“James, do you know why you’re in here?” asked Principal Meyer.
“Uh, did I do something wrong? I can’t think of anything,” I said, panic filling my voice. “I swear I didn’t do anything! Whoever told you I did something framed me! It’s a conspiracy, man!” I was nervous.
The others in the room began to laugh hysterically. Judging by their laughter, I ruled out the possibility of being in trouble. A huge weight was lifted off of my shoulders. But the question still remained; why was I in the Principal’s office?
“No, James! You’re not in trouble whatsoever! Quite the opposite actually,” exclaimed Mrs. Bower. She reached into her large purse and pulled out my poems. “James, what you wrote here is amazing! Truly. I cannot believe that a mere seventh grader wrote this!”
“Honey,” said my mother. “Is it true that you wrote these poems?”
“Uh, yeah? Why?” I was still lost. I didn’t see what was so great about them personally.
“Son, these are fantastic! We didn’t know you could write so beautifully,” said my father. “Why haven’t you shown us anything before?”
Truth be told, I wasn’t sure why I had never shown my parents any of my writings. For me at least, it had always been something that I loved to do, but I never thought about it any further than that. I wrote the same way a person draws or plays music. It just felt right.
“James, the reason we called you here today is because we believe that you can do great things with this talent of yours. And frankly, as much as it pains me to say this, you will not be able to show your skill at this school.” I wasn’t sure what Principal Meyer was trying to tell me at first. Did she want me to leave? Was I no longer welcome at John Adams?
“Therefore,” began Principal Meyer. “We believe that your talents would be better shown at the Van Gogh Art Academy. It is far more suited for a child with your gifts. But the decision is up to you.”
And just like that, I was off; all because I had taken a sudden liking to Shakespeare’s sonnets and wrote a couple of my own for Mrs. Bower. Sure I had to show my parents the rest of my stories and poems that I wrote so they could be sure it wasn’t just a one time deal, but I didn’t care. There was no way I was going to stay another minute in that poor prison if I didn’t have to. Goodbye John Adams Middle School. Hello Van Gogh Art Academy.
Van Gogh Art Academy was not nearly as close to my house as John Adams was. The Academy, as I came to call it, was one hour away from my house; the exact midpoint between my house and Uncle Ed’s Christmas Tree Farm (that alone should have made a light bulb go off in my head). As soon as I we pulled up to the front steps of the Academy, I fell in love.
It was everything I pictured a school with such a prestigious name like the Van Gogh Art Academy would be. From the Victorian style stone work of the building to the large expanse of green fields that led to the mountains in the distance. I couldn’t have felt more at home in a school than I did when I arrived at the Academy.
My parents (mostly my mother) made a bigger deal out of it than they probably should have. As I made my way up the cobble steps to the entryway, my mother began to cry into my father’s shoulder. My father stood there waving, smiling at me like he’d never smiled at me before. Looking back on that one moment, I think they both knew that after that day, things would never be the same for me. I was going to do big things at the Academy and my life would be forever changed.
My first order of business was to find the main office so that I could get my class schedule. Doing so, however, proved to be slightly more difficult than I imagined. The halls of the Academy weren’t anything like what the outside made it out to be. There were boys playing guitar on staircases, girls sketching people as they walked by, others writing in corners and talking to one another, carrying Shakespeare, Cummings, Wilde, Dickinson, Frost, and all of the greats. There was so much creativity going on under one roof that I could hardly contain my excitement.
That was when it happened.
The glaze in my eyes must have been a beacon, calling her out to me, screaming “Hey! I’m lost!” She walked up to me, her bouncy, brown hair lying softly against her shoulders. At first glance, I didn’t recognize her. But when she spoke, I knew exactly who it was. You never forget the voice of the person who saved you from being crushed by Christmas tree.
“Hi,” she said. “You look lost. Do you need any help?”
“Yes! Yes I do!”
“Great,” she smiled at me. “My name’s Mollie, Mollie Parker. I think I can help you.”
She had spoken those same words to me two years ago and I told her to leave me alone. This time I had a feeling things would be much different.
No comments:
Post a Comment