Page after page, I wrote.
Swirl after scribble, I drew.
Day after day, my essays became littered with nonsensical doodles. Messy margins quickly overshadowed my whimsical tales and sensational stories; my sentences became lost in a sea of ink and lead.
My teachers added to the mayhem—they crisscrossed my art with a red pen and invaded my paper with berating remarks; however, one teacher never did. I will call her Mrs. Okay.
Mrs. Okay would notice the scrawls of cats and kittens off to the side, and she would decorate them with smiles. She loved my doodles and called them insightful. When I hesitated to accept her praise, Mrs. Okay assured me I was perfectly normal; she convinced me everyone drew in their margins.
Mrs. Okay was understanding, too. On days when I couldn’t handle writing an essay, she would hand me a piece of paper and allow me to draw instead. Mrs. Okay encouraged what others told me was unacceptable, and for that, she became my role model.
Mrs. Okay encouraged what others told me was unacceptable, and for that, she became my role model.
Mrs. Okay once caught me doodling over an essay itself. My words withered under the pencil I grasped tightly in my hand. Questioning why I was destroying something that was likely perfectly fine, she grabbed the page, simultaneously destructive and destroyed, and took a look.
After inspecting the damaged paper, she looked at me kindly. Her footsteps echoed through the room as she walked and pulled out a lesson plan, dusty and unused: my next assignment.
That day, my benevolent teacher introduced me to blackout poetry: an art form where pre-written work is smothered with doodles and lines, leaving only meaningful words.
I learned to love blackout poetry.
The more acceptable version of my predetermined antics became a daily activity; I would massacre aged books, ripping pages from spines without a second thought. No one minded. I was just making poems.
Blackout poetry fed my destructive nature, but it wasn’t the same as scribbling. Eventually, I returned to my destined path.
I began to sketch within the margins once again, unintimidated by the glares of those who didn’t understand. I sat with my pencil in hand, unwavering, because I remembered Mrs. Okay would have loved the ornamentation.
As I grew, my doodles never dissipated. They were tattoos on my stories—permanent and decorative. Occasionally, they were complimented, and I would smile in recollection of my kind teacher.
Mrs. Okay sits upon many shoulders, whispering sugared truths to soured spirits, yet very few truly listen. Unfortunately, her words are often overtaken by those who advocate for a baneful life.
I can only hope that one day, it is the belligerent words that are evaded instead.
It is important to recognize the mindset that Mrs. Okay represents. It is important to accept all of oneself, not just what is acceptable.
With every mindless scribble scattered across a page, I remember that Mrs. Okay would have treated those doodles like a masterpiece. She never believed in the standard; she always encouraged the mess.
