The only time I can ever remember getting in trouble was in grammar school in sixth grade. At that time I thought school was the place to express myself. At home, my mother was either grieving for my father or too exhausted from working to support me and herself. I was to be tough in a little girl's body, with no explanations for my own grief or feelings.
My father was a cheerful man who was excited to see me when he came home. His cheer before passing cemented my need to look continually for fun or make it. He offered me a need to make cheer for myself. School was to become my playground.
Neither school nor my mother could control my creative energy. Artistic expression was not fostered then, while excellence in reading and writing and math were what was expected. I refused to be tempered, talking incessantly or staring out the window watching rain leave trails on the dirt left on the windows. This was all so much more interesting to me than listening to the teacher. Whatever I did wrong, the teacher would tell me to stand up and face the blackboard until I learned not to disturb the class. Each day I would walk into class and she would ask, “Well will you not talk today?” I would say I didn’t know.
Each day my creative, resilient spirit would be ignited. I would go home and scan a giant pictorial dictionary for answers. I found drawings of hands forming shapes with letters below them. Sign language would become my new form of communicating and engaging with my classmates as I faced the blackboard, my hands making signs. The teacher could not see what I was doing with my hands behind my back making the shapes of letters. In my self taught sign language. I now only remember the letter Q.
By 7th grade, I began to shut down and did not get into more trouble that was visible in school.
