Eye of the Beholder
The smell of bacon sizzling in the cast iron skillet hastened my efforts to get downstairs. I always wanted the burnt, crispy pieces. As I was tying my shoes, I remembered:
It’s today.
My elementary school had an annual flower show. I’d been indifferent about it for weeks, not only because I doubted my artistic abilities, but also because I put everything off til the last minute. Suddenly I wanted to participate, probably because I didn’t want to be the only one who didn’t. In a few short hours all the students at Casis Elementary would be filing past large cafeteria tables, placed end to end in the wide hallways, surveying their peers’ artistic interpretations of spring. It was a school tradition. Some entries would be elaborate, displaying perfect, fragrant blossoms in ornately woven containers. Most of those would probably belong to the rich kids, or to the ones who had mothers eager to assist them—both practically and financially. Others would be understated, comprised of wildflowers, a rusty horseshoe or a bow fashioned from dried raffia. They had thematic categories you could enter, and each one had a first, second and third place winner.
As I stepped into the kitchen my mom was cracking the eggs. Knowing I’d have to come up with something in the next five minutes, I grabbed a broken shell, rinsed it out and walked out the back door onto our patio. After a quick survey, I picked a few sprigs of Lantana and placed them in the eggshell, completely oblivious to the spring symbolism. I figured it was better than nothing.
That afternoon, after hours of anticipation, we, the citizens of Miss Osborne’s fourth grade class spilled into the corridor, single file. Everyone was looking for their own entry. Even though I knew mine was last-minute, my heart fell a little when I saw that it didn’t even garner an honorable mention.
What did I expect? I created it on a whim.
Fast forward 12 months.
Once again, I awakened the morning of the show with the realization that I’d dragged my creative feet and had nothing to submit. Even though I was a fifth grader, I was still scarce on ideas and had precious few resources. We didn’t spend money on things like that, and let’s just say my mom wasn’t invested in them. But I think that year our participation was mandatory — for some sort of art grade, perhaps? I had to submit something unless I wanted a zero. Hoping I could get away with it, I created the exact same entry as the year before—though this time I had to waste an egg to get my “vase.” I halfheartedly dropped it by the cafeteria on my way to class, hoping that no one remembered that I did the same lame thing last year.
When the time came to parade around the tables, I was mostly looking at all the other entries, because I was under no illusion that mine would be in the running. As I waited for the line to move forward I glanced ahead. And being a head taller than everyone else, I spotted my tiny cracked egg, nestled between a cowboy boot full of cattails and large wreath made out of twigs and berries. I was relieved it was dwarfed by the one next to it.
As the line inched forward I spotted what looked like my entry form, because I had hastily scribbled it with a dull pencil. I also saw a blue ribbon, which I assumed belonged to the boot. I was shocked, however, when a few steps later I saw that it was pinned to mine.
I won first place.
I was ecstatic, but also very confused.
How did this happen?
The concept was the same. The materials were the same.
The only variable?
The judge.
A different person was in command of the narrative.