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I was in a line at the store today behind a woman buying school
supplies for her kid, and I was suddenly reminded of the first time in
my (then) young life I came to realize that parents were not to be
counted on 100% of the time, either to be infallible or sympathetic.
It
happened when I started kindergarten. This was at the very butt end of
the Psychedelic Sixties, carried over into the early 70s. In keeping
with the times, Crayola had released a little carton of eight
"fluorescent" crayons (for the record, and to aid your imagination,
these were: Chartreuse, Ultra Blue, Ultra Orange, Ultra Red, Hot
Magenta, Ultra Green, Ultra Pink, and Ultra Yellow). They were in a
package that was easily mistaken for the traditional pack of eight
average, boring, WASP crayons... the ones on the list of required
supplies I brought home from school that first week. My mother picked
up the fluorescent variety.
Making new friends, on my own for
the first time, trying to fit in, and there I was, the only kid in 25
with the wrong crayons (that, and plaid pants, which my mother assures
me were in style at the time). And this was when having the right
equipment mattered: there were no flights of fancy. Colours were
regimented! "Colour the sun yellow." No problem; I had a yellow crayon
whose brilliance would bore though the back of your skull if you
beheld it too long. I had an orange crayon that looked like it could be
used to coat pills; a blue one that could have been used to paint the
line they want half-dead people to be able to follow in hospital
corridors. But "colour the wood brown" presented me with an
insurmountable problem: there was no such thing as day-glo brown. I had
no analog, no matter how psychedelic, and little drug experience
(beyond pilfered morning-after beer) to fall back on for alternative
suggestions. Such obstacles would set me to tears until the teacher
would let me off the hook and allow me to do the next best thing:
colour the wood radioactive blood "Ultra" red. Other kids had
landscapes of glorious blandness and breathtaking conventionality that
I could only dream of. Mine looked like Puff, the Magic Dragon
frolicked in the autumn mist a little too much and blew lunch all over
Honahlee. You should have seen the angels I had to colour for our
Christmas decorations. There was no mistaking mine. It was a vision,
alright. One that would send you to Lourdes.
So parents weren't infallible. Okay. But what about sympathetic?
Our
school actually ordered in supplies. You would take the class's order
to the office, where you could buy pencils, erasers, pens (though we
weren't allowed to use ink yet), notebooks (the paper kind; the
computerized sort were as yet still Twilight Zonesque visions of the
future), and crayons. Yes, the officially-approved, politically
correct, does-not-cause-retinal-cancer-in-laboratory-rats, guaranteed
not to make baby Jesus cry (not to mention me) set of eight traditional
colours. As memory serves me... and it's been a while... they were
15¢... which, tangentially, never made sense to me before fractions.
Why were seven crayons worth 2¢ each, but one was worth only 1¢? And which one? I decided it was black, because some know-it-all in class with an older sibling insisted that black wasn't really a colour,
it was "no colour"... another great philosophical conundrum. So
conforming to the demands of my society, such as they were when I was
five, merely required the donation of a nickel and a dime from my
parents. Could I get the 15¢? Could I, hell. I had perfectly good
crayons, I was told, and I was to use them. Perfectly good? For what?
Triggering seizures in epileptics? I cried, I begged repeatedly over
the months as one yech-nicolor humiliation piled on top of another...
but no use. I forget now just how it happened, but I eventually did
wind up with a set of the right crayons before the end of the year, and
I remember how relieved I felt to have colouring projects that looked
just like everyone else's. (By the way, are you getting the impression
that, well over a quarter of a century later, I still vaguely resent my
parents for this? Yeah, me too.) I have the vague impression, though,
that I got them by agency of an older friend who took pity on me,
because I seem to recall hiding them, and anything I coloured with
them, from my folks. So if they ever had cause to consider me a devious
little shit growing up, clearly, they had only themselves to blame. |
Written by Phil (7169 comments posted) 8th September 2008 | Nice bit of nostalgia.
There were elements of 'stand up' to this - but for the most part, narrative. Not sure which you were aiming at.
Enjoyed the read anyway.
Phil |
Written by rickxvi (24 comments posted) 9th September 2008 | Nice to see it wasn't just my folks who did it, affirming and well put. The style was more agreeable to me, it felt mostly narrative and I didn't stumble for the most part.
Although the first five or so lines of the third paragraph seems a little crowded, like they were rushed a little to catch up on other things, not too bad, but I did have to turn back to make sure I caught it all. However the rest was well balanced.
WOO!! CONFORMITY BABY!
 |
Written by chrismorton (66 comments posted) 16th September 2008 | Whoa, my head’s spinning from this strange and sometimes confusing train of thought style that possibly could be coated with a fluorescent orange crayon and then hung under a spinning disco ball.
Maybe that’s a good thing.
And I am left suddenly with these strong images in my mind of… well it’s still processing… but that’s the sign of a good story.
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Written by raymondo (2 comments posted) 19th September 2008 | | Interesting, a very much "narrative" style I'm sorry I cannot make the leap between the failings of parents and the purchasing of crayons. Stronger subject matter would perhaps illustrate the points better. Its NOT something I have thought of so can't explain how I would write it. I suppose I belong to the old school of writers and prefer a more visual humour which is why for me the lines relating to the ill health of Puff the magic dragon are brilliant. |
Written by Mikeyboy (57 comments posted) 2nd December 2008 | Sorry Raymondo, but I disagree about needing a stronger subject matter.
Surely it makes all his thoughts that much stronger, by virtue of the fact that it was such a minor event? Even to this day, and I'm 48, I occasionally whine about not having a cricket bat, a football or stumps. It was a huge thing at the time! And, in my mind at least, indicative of much more.
Oddly enough, I always feel a bit childish whenever I start whining!!
Liked it. |
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