Scribbles

 When I was three, I couldn’t write a word. It was all scribbling. One day my dad sat me down and said “No child of mine is gonna be called stupid, so by the time I leave this room, you’re gonna be able to write.” We worked for two hours, but when he left, fists tight and tongue loose, I still couldn’t write, just scribble.

It’s not that I was opposed to writing; in fact, I wanted to prove to him that I could. That want grew and morphed over time into a hideous need. When I was eight, he put me in a ‘special’ school. But I honestly didn’t need it. I understood it all, but when I wrote it all came out as simple scribbles.

“On the first day of ‘special’ school the teacher, Mrs. McFadden, pulled me aside and asked if I knew calligraphy. “You are smart,” She told me. “And we both know it. I don’t know why but there is just a miscommunication in your brain. You don’t know the language of print.” I was amazed. “Is there a different way to write?” I asked, hope clearly painted in my voice. “Yes, it’s called calligraphy and it’s a complicated, artistic form of scribble.” My eyebrow rose. “You know it’s a good thing you’re in a special school because you’re crazy.” I told her. She laughed heartily making her glasses fall even further down her nose and strands of her chaotic hair fall into her small eyes. She looked crazy.

“Why are you laughing?” “Because,” She gasped between laughs. “You’re halfway there yourself.” I waited for her to turn back to the almost-sanity she appeared to have before. “In order to learn calligraphy, you have to basically forget how to print. Calligraphy is like a different language because the flow, vibe, and letters are almost opposite of printing. That’s why people say it’s for the gifted, if you can master it you are a real genius. But, to already have a preference to it at eight years old is, well I would have to say that you are a born writer.”

The ridiculous nature of her speech made me want to break into crazy laughter just like her, but the serious look on her face brought on the unmistakable trepidation one feels in the presence of true crazy. I wanted to write, for reasons I couldn’t even remember anymore but having all that I wanted right in front of me, it frightened and repulsed me. “Fine.” I forced myself to say. “I’ll do it.” “Great!” She exclaimed frantically, busying herself with fetching papers.

Even though she was only twenty, Mrs. McFadden had curly white hair. Everyday, she would string it up into a bun so messy that several strands fell onto her face and neck. Like everything else about her, it perplexed me. “Why do you have white hair?” She snorted. “Well, I don’t know. It’s been like this for a while, the doctors say I have lots of things that are messed up but, frankly, I don’t see it.” Before I had time to respond, she began the first lesson.

“Alright, we’ll learn the letters M-Z then A-L so let’s get started with M since it’s first.” “I thought A was the first letter of the alphabet.” She laughed a shorter version of her ridiculous laugh, this time causing the strap of her shirt to fall slightly. It must have simply been uncomfortable because she had on a red t-shirt on underneath the green undershirt. To compliment that great match, she wore a blue skirt on top of her knee-high shorts that were on top of copper leggings. Instead of pushing up her thick black glasses, she pulls them further down her nose so she had to tilt her head up to look at me. “Why are you laughing now?” “Because,” She replies seriously now, “You’re so crazy.”

She was so weird to look at that my eyes shook, her clothes were so loud that my ears rang, but I was the crazy one? “Anyway, you’re right, the first letter of the alphabet is A but I never said we were starting with the first letter of the alphabet, now did I?” My mouth hung open in an empty response. She was right. “Ok, M it is.” “Great!” She slammed a lined piece of paper on both our desks then silently pulls out two purple feathers. “This is your new writing tool.” She beams as if any of this was completely normal. “Why am I writing with a feather?” “It’s actually a pen, or a quill to be exact.”

I decided to just go with it and watch as her hand moved across the page several times. I memorized the movement “I don’t know…” She shook her head so vigorously that almost half her bun fell out. “Yes, but I do so go ahead and try.” I copied the movements for M and let my eyes hit the floor, certain of failure; certain of scribble. “You did it!” I looked up and laughed as obnoxiously as her. “Really? But that was so easy! That was just… scribble!” She nods rapidly and I turn back to my paper, writing until the weight on my shoulders gradually slipped from me, through the pen and to the paper, so that by the time my page was filled with MMMs I was lighter than air.

Day by day Mrs. McFadden taught me more and more. We moved on to words, starting with “ostentatious” then “aardvark” then “Guam” then finally “cat”. By the end of it all I wrote just to free my stress, even though just two weeks before it was the cause. When I wrote I forgot the world and, in fact, up until now I had completely forgotten what my need to write was about. I had always thought that I was doing it for my father, who looked down on me. I had always thought I was simply trying to live up to his expectations.

But, in truth, I did it for me. The moment when Mrs. McFadden and I started laughing I realized that there was something out there for me. There was an obstacle, a disability, but it didn’t mean I couldn’t do anything or that I was undeserving if I did. I wanted someone to be able to pick up my work and understand, relate, and have on paper the words they couldn’t say. I could say that I realized all my dreams and became a famous writer, but I didn’t, I went on living a normal life, it just happens that my wardrobe got a bit more colorful and my glasses are worn a bit lower.