Memoir

“If you’ve ever done anything at all, ever, that required some sort of physical or mental exertion, some would say that you have experienced work” is the first thought that comes to mind as I attempt to write my first memoir for my first college English course, and this is my first time thinking about the work I’ve done. I continue from that initial sentence, but twelve hundred words later, I’ve lost my point. So I take my first thought and restart from there.

I’m eighteen years old and I’ve never held a waged job, so I’ve never been hired in an official manner and I’ve never been fired on a credential matter, but I’m eighteen years old and I’ve devoted myself to a passion of mine. I’ve taken time—countless hours upon days of my life—and tears, tangled thoughts, endless troubles of mine and forced them through inexperienced, unenlightened hands until they were carpal-tunnel-esque, un-frightened hands.

“I’m eighteen years old and my life has been about (art) work,” I say to myself as I struggle with the words creating wars in my head. I’m eighteen years old and my life has been about (art) work and my art takes time, patience, effort, struggle, joy; I have worked.

“I have worked.” I think back through all the work that I’ve done and there’s a rush of memories and experiences that flood this thought train that keeps splitting between tracks. I’m five years old, in a kindergarten class full of gazing glue-eaters who try to take my supplies during snack time while I draw a horse for a friend who says I’m a good artist. I smile and maintain my composure as I internally bask in the glory of the compliment, but I don’t yet know that not everyone will love the things I create. I’m sixteen years old and it’s the beginning of my junior year of high school. I’m in Art III and my teacher coats me in her diet-coke-breath as she sighs bitter criticisms in my ear, but I ask for direction and it’s as if she’s gone deaf as she walks to her desktop with her arthritis acting up. I need feedback, suggestions; I’m asking for help. I’m seventeen and it’s the last month of summer before my senior year starts. Philadelphia is perfect at this time of year because the humidity is low but the sun proudly shines on a day-to-day basis, so each morning I’m ready and willing to start class. University of the Arts is the remedy for, the cure to, and the savior of my worries; I’m getting the help I’ve been asking for.

“I’m going to teach you how to see,” exclaims my advanced drawing teacher, and in the blink of an eye, all this work is worthwhile. I remember the times that my work was a job and when doing what I love turned to attempts at loving what I do. Now I’m learning how to see and though it’s easier than before, my mind continues to expand and it’s working for me. I’m eighteen and it’s May in Charlotte. I’m sitting up late, cutting mat board with my mom because I just graduated from high school and I’m framing prints of my art for an All Arts Market tomorrow. If I don’t start now, I’ll never make a living off of what I live for. This is a lot of work and I’m crying now because I’m scared that it’s pointless.

“There are so many artists out there and I think I’ll be one of them who’s considered to be great,” I whimper as tears stream down my face.

“You’re right, there are tons but why not take your place?” asks my supportive, strong-for-me mom. “You’ve got talent and drive and you’ve worked your whole life because this is a passion of yours and you’re ready to fly. It’s ok to be scared, ‘cause the world is a monster but I know you can take it. You’ve fought mountains before.” I’m eighteen years old and my mom tells me I’m good enough for what I’ve worked for. I’ve spent year after year taking thought upon thought to create pieces of life and I know it’s been hard, but I’ve loved every moment of this hard-to-get-into industry. I’m eighteen years old and last night, I spent hours getting ready to sell art and I hope that it works, but I’ve got two days so I’m not worried yet. I’ve sold nothing this first night but tomorrow holds hope. It’s the second night and I’ve made an impression on customers around. Thus I’m earning (the start of) a living and I think that it’s starting to work for me because I’ve earned my place and I’m still working on moving on up.

I’m eighteen years old, in my first year of college, and today I got scared of pursuing this kind of work. People trash-talk the arts, people look down on the artists but they have no idea the work it takes. I’ve spent eighteen years (give or take a few months) spending my time and my love trying to create for the world what it can’t make on its own; I’ve made pieces of art out of pleasure and pain, I’ve made downright disasters because I hated the game, I’ve made money for creations that someone loved, I’ve made aches in my fingers and hands and brain because I exert myself and I’ve gained a sort of wealth from the work I’ve done.

Notwithstanding the times I’ve been put down, pushed around by either know-nothing critics or all-knowing clowns, I have memories of times I believed in myself and they keep my heart lifted as I climb from the ground up. I can’t see the top of this ladder, so more work is on its way, but at least I know now, without a shadow of a doubt, that every day, I have worked.

I’m seven years old and I’m in first grade. Everyone in my art class is drawing a vase full of flowers, straight from his mind. We’re almost done and our teacher is collecting our work, but I’m nervous now because tomorrow he’ll hang up the pieces all down the hall and only three will be winners. I’m scared. I want to get first place. I’m seven years old and I’m walking down the hall with the rest of the kids in my art class. I look for my drawing, but it’s hard to find. I see a blue ribbon with #1 written on it in bold black marker. It’s mine. I’m going to be an artist one day.