I started the morning by looking right into the eyes of a preserved animal specimen and thinking, Are you a mammal? Is that an ear or a foot? It’s quite difficult to see through that murky greenish grey substance you are swimming in. I could not have been in a stranger, or creepier, environment for my first time in a public school science lab, or rather, part of a storage closet straight from a Hogwarts potions class. My eyes drifted to examine the rest of the dull grey classroom, hoping to find something a little less disturbing than the companions situated on the shelves to my left. Almost as to interrupt my trance, a low, gravelly voice spoke from my right, directly across the room. “Good morning, class,” it croaked. I furrowed my brows and heard my heart pounding in rhythm with the thump of sandals nearing the front of the classroom. Once the sound stopped, my eyes flicked up. I saw a squat, tan woman with rectangle glasses framing a square face, which rested underneath a gravity-defying bed of white, black, and blonde hair. With a wide, hair-raising smile, she continued: “Welcome to your first day of middle school.”
Within moments after the end of that fateful first class, that teacher reached the top of the mental list of people I did not want to upset. Coming from a small Catholic school, public school, and its cycle of teachers, became a twisted adventure. Being plucked from the pond and diving headfirst into a large, alien public-school setting was not comforting, but my imaginative eleven-year-old self was convinced that she could battle the “Middle School” dragon that rested in her path.
The following year, seventh grade, was not any more forgiving. Facing the social studies teacher allowed me to thoroughly fear her “chilling stare.” Though I was a particularly good, confident, and efficient student, my fate was not too far off from the Titanic’s. I was meticulous in my every move. Her laser eyes could detect the slightest errors that made students sink into an entirely timid attitude in class. Her strictest rule was the ever-predictable “no cell phone on any circumstance” policy. At the absolute least opportune moment, as the teacher drifted into a winding speech of the “Redcoats and Patriots,” my pink cased iPhone, at full volume rang the tri-toned “da da ding” associated with an incoming text message. I have crashed into the iceberg, I thought. I kept silent as the teacher slowly searched my side of the room with her piercing blue eyes. Planted at the edge of the row, the suspense cracked at my strength. After noticing the shaking heads coming from the classmates next to me, I found my eyes locked with my teacher’s. The sight of her thin, ghostly face and light blonde hair cut into my glance and made me shudder with fear. As one that had not sailed this far into rough waters, I replied with a rushed “I’m sure it wasn’t mine.” The teacher paused and pursed her lips, returning to her speech not long after. I relaxed myself for a moment before the marimba tri-tone went off again, this time leaving no chances of safety. The teacher snapped her head back like an angry sea serpent to face me, not needing to say a word. “I’ll check, just in case,” I attempted to say calmly. I nodded shakily, pulled out my phone, and clicked the ringer off. The damage was done. I don’t believe I escaped her radar for the rest of that year.
Through these rattling instances, I couldn’t pass by the opportunity for inspiration. When I would return home mortified from the giants looming over my head, I took the nearest inky pen I could find and drew outrageous cartoons of my teachers. A practice I adopted at an early age, I depicted the characters that frightened me the most. In contrast to the real characters, I did not find the pictures at all intimidating. Comfort was found in looking at ridiculous caricatures and capturing any trademark sneer or “not-amused” look.
Despite the secrecy that involved satirical drawings, my artistic efforts that came about did not go unnoticed. As a result of the intimidating teachers I faced, I developed my own way of drawing people and characters. Intentionally child-like, the drawings were part of a game I frequently played at lunch. I drew a school character and the students around would guess who the person was. Academically, when I drew characters from Romeo and Juliet, a World War I “Abbey Road” parody, or even the fictitious math kingdoms “Algelandia” and “Geometropolis,” they were quickly pasted on the classroom wall. Those turned out to be the most rewarding experiences. I may not have won the approval of the most intimidating teacher figures I faced, but the fear I once harboured metamorphosed into a visual and emotional triumph against the swamp and the sea.
