I think it was my first day at school. If not, it must have been the first week.
We had been asked to draw a picture. I drew a picture with my crayons, in blue, green and black. I did my best.
I looked at the boy sitting next to me, who also lived next door. Gary was drawing a nicely-ruled picture of houses. I could see it was very good, and so much better than mine. I had no idea he could draw like that. I looked from his picture to mine and back again. I had thought mine was ok, but I began to think maybe it wasn’t. My heart sunk.
Then the teacher announced that we had to line up and show her our pictures. I hadn’t known that would happen! My heart sank further still. I was behind Gary in the line. When he showed his picture, the teacher couldn’t praise him enough. It was the greatest thing since sliced bread. Then with a bowed head, I showed her my picture. She was dismissive. She called it ‘scribble’, and asked why I couldn’t draw better at my age. I knew it wasn’t as good as Gary’s, but I also knew I had tried. I was ashamed; I was officially Bad At Drawing; Gary and I never talked about it.
This is what my picture looked like: Continue reading