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fighting for fantasy

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the will to fight, and those who believe in us [Sep. 26th, 2006|02:05 am]
fighting for fantasy


""fantasy?" the teacher asked, having catched the word I had tried to hide between mystical and fairy tales.
He looked over the table to me sitting there on the other side biting my tongue for having let the word slip. We had been talking about my past and that ridiculous task the teachers had given us, to find an initial memory of the past that has changed us until today. It had to be related to art so I had chosen the memory of me and my grandfather making up wolf stories and then me, a kid at the tender age of 5, illustrating them in shakey circles with sticks for leggs and triangles for ears. "So through those scetches of the ideas you had made up with your grandfather you had improved your art. But speaking wolves, they are not really what you could call a common subject" he had digged deeper. And then I had said it.
I stared at him, watching for an ever so tiny wink of reaction. Fear crawled at the back of my brain yelling "lie to him! tell him you never did it!"
But his face remained silent, supporting his head with his hand he waited patiently for what he knew was a story to be told about one of the bigger stages in my life.
What was there to loose? I knew he was not one of my regular teachers, he could not influence my grades. And with the basics said it was not as easy as to say " no I never sculpted before" , for the sake to save my C.
"yes" I began, cautiously, ready to change the subject at any time. " it was the beginning of a passion, until today"
he bent forward, folded his hands and giving me a surprised look he said: " how did you survive? here? at this school?"
I looked away. "I just never told. It is something I keep secret. Do in my freetime." I answered, realizing that he was the second teacher I had told so far, and even then he was not a main teacher, just like our other teachers assistant. I wanted no crossing ways, no running fires in the teachers rooms.
I eyed his face, he was curious, and there was a shimmer of symphaty in his eyes.
"I was burnt" I answered, silently. "I was heavyly burnt. for painting a unicorn. I was burnt for painting a subject that somehow displeased a teacher. And I've kept it an iron secret because I could not bear the words "fantasy is awful and I wont ever take a second look at it"."
he stared in silence, then, with a shimmer of disbelief he asked if that was true, if that could really be said by teachers.
"It has been everytime I revealed it. With one exception. I had grades lowerd for it. And I had people trying to mock me and by it just revealing that they even had no idea about that subject they abhored so much, they would even compare me with an artist that I was worlds appart." I laughed, falsely, bit my lip and looked out of the window.
He looked at me, scratched his head and sighed. "I've been telling them all the time. I have been fighting agains these narrowmined people here who fought agains every natural interest found in a student". He paused, I looked back at him, surprised.
"Our schools here try to extinguish an every personal characteristic and emotional freedom, an every own world at its root. Pushed away and caged up students are forced to work with the sterilized square surface, their arms pinned down and their head fixed in one direction How are people like thes euspposed to deal with children that come full of the most marvelous ideas and stories only a child has? and after all, what has it got to do with the subject? its the idea, the emotion, the learing and the quality behind it that counts, not wheter it is cubism or surreal related or whatever..." he paused , putting his palm over his face he continued: "But they just dont want to see it. I cant hardly believe you are here, sitting infront of me, shrugging off what is your greates passion and where your heart belongs..."
"it is my best way to keep it off me..." I whispered.
"But this is so sad..." he answered
"I will survive it."
he paused, long, looking at me, then he asked:
"But then why are you here? wanting to become a teacher? here at a school that turns its back on everything that does not fit its ideals..."
I straightened my back.
"I am here , I am here to teach what they did not want to see can be learned through fantasy. To render what is on your mind, to paint freely. I am here to stand up for those those like me, to help them and to never let my history be repeated again."
He smiled at me, somewhere I saw pride in his slightly wet eyes.
"You have to break through" he said.
"No.It does not matter wheter I win or lose or get my fantasy to be openly welcomed here, what matters is that I can be a good teacher."

There is still hope. There will be always hope. Just as long as you
dont give up what you know truly is in your heart.

And we are not alone