When Dreams Die

Long, long ago, I wanted to be a comic book artist.

Seriously. I know I make my living in probably the most left-brained field you can think of but, back then, all I wanted to do was crank out monthlies for Marvel or DC. Sadly, we don't always get what we want. This is the story of how that dream died.

Being an artist of almost any kind entails low levels of prestige, financial suffering, and countless other bits of angst which must be tolerated in pursuit of one's craft. Indeed, talented people spend years honing their skills trying to reach their full potential. Many of them simply never make it, and burn out after various periods of thrashing about. Logically, I suppose it's best to fail at something immediately, rather than wasting years with only marginal talent. Perhaps in this regard I was lucky, because I failed almost before I even began.

My problem wasn't one of lacking ambition or tenacity. No, my issue was far worse, for you see I AM THE WORST GODDAMN ARTIST ON THE PLANET. Seriously. Rarely have I met another human being with less natural artistic skills. I was reading books, practicing, doing drills, and I was still dogshit compared to the kid at next desk drawing idle doodles during third period english.

Like some folks, I had a knack for realizing that my shit indeed had the potential to stink, and it was pretty clear that I was destined for other paths. However, one incident in particular ground this realization into my face with a finality. In fifth grade I was stuck in St. Francis of Assisi Catholic School, one of the worst schools in one of the worst districts in one of the worst states in one of the worst countries for childhood education. One of my teachers was an unpleasant lady named Mrs. Cribbs. Cribbs was pudgy-on-the-way-to-matronly and narrow minded in the God-is-great way North Carolina conservatives favor. Above all, she was insecure enough to be legitimately threatened when a free-thinking ten-year-old questioned the profit-making motives of the religious institution that cut her a check every two weeks.

Suffice to say, we did not get along too well.

With both Cribbs and I lacking the maturity to agree to disagree and move on, a passive-aggressive game of attack and retreat played out on a daily basis. One day, I had poured a great deal of effort into a drawing depicting my teacher as a bloated Godzilla on a rampage through downtown Jacksonville, North Carolina, all the while sporting an XXXL Sweatshirt with the logo "No Eat, No Gain." Being the idiot fifth-grader that I was, I lost the drawing somewhere in the classroom.

Guess who found it?

During a class break, Cribbs, carrying a piece of paper to the chalkboard, announced to the class that she'd like to draw a picture for us. She then began sketching a scene eerily familiar to the one I'd sketched, down the finest details. She finished by labeling the sweatshirt of the marauding woman with a flourish: No Eat, No Gain. She spun on her heel and addressed me: "Noah, the next time you draw a picture that makes fun of someone's weight, just think of their feelings first."

She began erasing the drawing and I realized that that was it; she had no idea that the drawing was of her. I'd escaped punishment, but not the sad realization that maybe, just maybe drawing people for a living wasn't in the cards for me.