I go to college, I got a college where I am out of my league. It is an art school, a career school really but the course I chose it an art course. Game Arts and Media. Sounds easy right? That's because the rest of you most likely tinkered with things that the course covers, such as art, sound, animation.
My excuse is that I have to study constantly every day just to get a passing grade. I cannot draw. It's not a matter of will not as much as it is that I lack the skill. I want to point the finger at my family. I used to draw until I turned eight years old. My family never nurtured me to draw, they always pushed me to sports or to do something physical.
When I took up writing, they suddenly started supporting me. Giving me praise, heck; even my teachers started to cheer me own int their way. Whenever I had to draw during those classes however, I just couldn't. At the age of eight I threw away my crayons, threw away my color pencils. I immersed myself in a world of black and white. A world where words are power and images were just dust and sand that seemed through my fingers.
It started when I was five. This is as far as I can recall back into the past. I drew a picture of a dog, my grandmother's dog. The first words I heard from my father is "Only a fag draws." and the same from my teacher. I was going to Cross and Crown Preschool, a place where religion is and was everything. Whenever we drew, it had to be something like Jesus. If we did not then we were given a color in the line picture of Jesus. I was never allowed to read, every book I brought was considered evil and taken away. Only to be handed back at the end of the day because they did not want my parent's to know.
The picture I drew of the dog, was shown to my father. They told him how the dog is a sign of the devil because I drew a black dog with red eyes. My grandmother's dog had a black coat and an eye condition that made it's eyes appear irritated, hence the red eyes. My father did nothing except tell that I should never draw again.
I continued to draw but only things like trees. When it came around to first grade, I started to draw stick figures and animals. I drew another dog my grandmother has, called Cookie. My first grade teacher, Herrara or something, saw me drawing and took the picture out from under my arm. He laughed and mocked me with the class about the dog's name. "Do you put her in the oven, take her out, and then eat her?" He taunted. It was not just once, he did that everyday. Once, we had a test, a spelling test. I am certain that I was not the only kid that had issues with spelling but he pointed me out again. "Grill is something you stick up your nose." He said because I misspelled girl. i started to fail his class, red slips everyday. I only passed his class because my grandmother started to confront him, her being a teacher there and questioning his teaching choices, or so I was told.
I never learned that truth. The dog drawing was not the only remark he made. Every time I drew, spoke, or read he pointed me out. "People do not look like that." "Stop stuttering!" "What are you reading this for? It's a child's book!"
When second year came, I happened to have a teacher that tried to help me but at the same time she was worse. Instead of trying to help me during class, she constantly had my parents called in. Insisting that I needed to be held back a year because I was clearly slow. I never did get held back. My father finally started to take his job as a father seriously and would stay up from truck driving when he got home helped me. My mother was the better helper, when I was over at her house she taught me how to use objects or find the answer myself. My father simply gave me the answers when he was frustrated.
By third year everything changed. I met a teacher so old that she taught my mother. She was part of a special program for gifted children. She spotted my issues right away and fixed them. She had me do the homework in class as she taught the assignments. It was not so much that I was slow, or stupid, as much as it is that I require more than just sight or sound to learn. She told me that if I was not good at art, then I should take up the literary path. Still, she helped with my ability to draw far more than the rest. She would hover over my shoulder and point out things that needed to be corrected. Instead of putting me in front of the class and making me a joke, she showed me how I could self scrutinize. Something I obsess about. Every word, every syllable, even things as simple as how a sentence sounds. She kick started my will to write and to create stories that I locked away in vaults. Granted I tend to get carried away when I type and make an error but that is a small price to pay when I can write far better.
I never needed to draw again until my eight year I believe. I only knew of one side of paper. I did not know that you could simply flip a paper over and still have the holes on the left side. The first science teacher I had made a mockery of me in front of the class but this time I attacked her. I shouted at her, annoyed. She called security, they had to drag me out. I was expecting to be removed from that class. I was not. However, the school had us do a strange rotation of classes. My class had a strange bald headed man called Mr. Thorn. Like a thorn he was sharp, not sharp as in smart either. He attacked me just as much as the rest. The first assignment of his class was to draw a flower from figure 16.6, without tracing the books. Everyone else knew how to do this, or rather they were able to draw better than me. He had me redo the same assignment five times before believing that I could not draw. Like my first year teacher, he mocked me. "What is that? I said draw a flower not lines!" he told me.
Relief was short lived. Suddenly, in my ninth year, when I was in high school my father wanted me to draw. His girlfriend at the time, my future stepmother, talked him into it. I do not know what she said, or what she did but suddenly only "sports were for fags" or at least ones like tennis or anything that did not require some form of bloody physical contact. The only gift he gave me of use during that time was a punching bag. Everyday, rain or shine, when I was not writing; I was punching the damn thing. A form of physical release. It only had one negative effect however, whenever I was assaulted in school I did not stop. I did not wail on a person as much as I ignored the pain they were giving me and turning it into power.
Even been bit by something like another person? Ever have your brain bypass the pain or the pain suddenly lessens to the point that you no longer feel that part? Like it's blank and the next thing you know is that the pain translates into pure raw power that you use with a care? Me neither because I doubt that is what I am explaining. I just know that as they struck me, I started to grabs their arms and bend them in unnatural positions to the point where security had to pull me off them because they were screaming so loud in pain. Never any blood sadly, I never got to kill one of them but they all hated me. Female, male; Black, Hispanic, Asian, Caucasian. Maybe that's where my hate stems from. I just learned the hard way to not trust people and prefer to stay in the corner away from everyone.
What does all this have to do with my art? It started with art and it ended with art. What caused those fights in high school was art. Art is the form of drawing, reading, movies; everything categorized as art. Whenever I drew, someone would mock me and tear it apart. Whenever I was reading, someone would knock the book out of my hand and laugh while going "Ching chong chink!". My absolute 'favorite' was when I was talking and they would get in my face, "What! What! What! You going to do something!? Come on chinese fuck! I can take you! Ching Chong Chink! You think you're Bruce Lee!? I will kick your ass!", spraying spittle on my face or grabbing the item out of my hands. Waving it about, so many books were nearly torn and they were not mine. When they were torn because I did nothing, I lied to the librarian. I told her that I dropped it or I lent to a 'friend'. I actually had no friends, or at least not anyone that would fight with me. They all got out of the way. "Not my problem." was their typical attitude, the first ones I talked with.
I convinced myself that my art is hideous. I do not deserve to draw not matter how much I might think about trying to draw, my memory relapses to those moments before. Either the art comes out unfinished, or it is burned. In case of digital, deleted. I grew so fond of burning stuff after that. Taking everything I kept up until I started College, I tossed them into a bin outside and lit them on fire. The warmth felt so good and all those memories melted away. The worst were gone as I no longer stared at them. It was so amazing. When the memories of my childhood began to re-emerge in the back of my head after I left my father, I sold all my toys. Or rather got rid of them any way I could. Tossing them in the trash, giving them to those bargain bins or what have you. I broke and burned anything paper or cardboard. If I broke a plastic toy, I made certain that it was irreparable. Course this only happened to those that reminded me of my father. A limited edition silver buzz lighter scuffed, a series of dinosaur toys possibly from Jurassic Park, anything and everything. Whenever I think about them only the bad memories occur. I feel empty but happy. I want to erase all of those memories, to start fresh. I no longer want to see those smiling faces mocking me.
People that should be dead for a reason. Those that have died and do not deserve it, I feel nothing towards them. I had a grandfather and great grandmother that died. One from a heart attack while driving. The other from dementia or some mental disease that runs in my family. I know I will get it. I just do. I hope I die before that. Her husband, my great grandfather, is either next or has passed. I have no clue, it's past.
The way life moves on around me is strange. I try to stick with a stronger crowd in college, being a parasite. Trying to learn what I can from them in an attempt to boost my abilities. To learn what it is that I am missing and with no surprise, I am learning this way. At least when I can. There are times when I am alone, unable to be a parasite and have to rely on jumping head first into a wall. Like diving in a three foot pool and smacking my head hard against the bottom. Only I never die, I never lose consciousness. Instead, I band like a bird into a window and continue to fly on because the force is enough to hurt but not kill.
I am just waiting for the eddy to come and sweep me out so far into sea that I drown. No, drowning would mean that I jumped head first into technology I have no experience with. Instead, I want to be bleeding in the water so the sharks tear me to pieces and I die horribly. I deserve no less. The price for my sins should be to live forever and watch everything happen around me but actually, I would count that as a blessing. To be able to live forever would mean that I can learn and obtain all the knowledge this planet has to offer. Something I wish to do. It's more torture to live as if immortal and now know it. Wondering why I have not died yet as I wander around aimlessly.