My First Grade Self: Confessions of a Graceful Artist
Monday, March 15th, 2010
There I was, in the middle of work, suddenly feeling an inch tall and just like I was in first grade again. You know, that time I when I tried on my little brother’s clip-on bowtie, forgot all about it and went to school anyways. Everyone was staring at me strangely all day, and I wasn’t quite sure why. At lunch, I looked down and about burst into tears when I saw the red bowtie taunting me. Or like that time in second grade I was passing out papers. All eyes were on me. I was just OH so helpful, clearly the best student in the class. After all, no one else had volunteered to help. And suddenly, out from under my skirt, my little pink slip slid down my knees and dropped at my ankles. I wanted to sink into the floor. Or that time in third grade I had a pool party and my crush actually showed up (poor guy). He dove headfirst into our four foot pool and got reamed out like I’ve never seen before. I wanted to die. Ahhh, but these are the things one leaves behind when we move onto adulthood. No more ghosts from the past to haunt. We move on, overcome our weaknesses, and live successful lives.
Except for the occasional moments when the first grade version of ourselves slips back into the picture. Ohhhh, like, tonight. I’ve been bartending on weekends to get to know Chicago and to supplement my winter income. I am such a natural. Ha. 
OK, a natural disaster, maybe. I keep meaning to change my middle name to Grace. It’s not in my genes, so I may as well make it part of my name if I’m to have any hope at all. My day started out great. Church and lunch with friends, and a relaxing afternoon sipping tea and reading at Starbucks. I went into work upbeat in spite of it being a slow night. And then I tried to open that dang bottle of Moscato. Nevermind my favorite wine key that has been with me through thick and thin the last four year got confiscated at the airport. Or that the cork felt like it had expanded entirely too much to be extricated. I had this. But that dang new wine key. It kept faltering. I braced it against my hip, pulled hard, and BAM! The bottle broke and a trail of blood was streaming from my finger. No worries. 20 minutes later, index finger wrapped in gauze and red duct tape and I was good to go. Sure, I looked a little bit like E.T. but that wasn’t going to stop me. Relatively smooth night, and I was rockin’ and rollin’ despite my injury. Until I shattered a pint glass all over the bar floor. I mumbled something about it not being my day, as the busser (whom I adore) came to my rescue. It’s ok; I flashed a smile to my patrons and continued as if nothing had happened at all. But then someone had to ring in those cappuccinos. Oh those wretched cappuccinos. I’m a bartender, not a barista. Creating perfectly frothed milk? Not my specialty. I can down a cup at Intelligentsia or Starbucks, no problem, but accomplishing such a task? Not so much. But here was my moment to shine. I was gonna show those coffees who was boss. Doin’ great, doin’ great, milk frothing, yeahhh it was frothing…..dialing down the pressure….and, uh-oh, it’s getting higher, now frantically turning the nozzle, crap it’s gonna overflow, and BAM!!! Frothy milk explosion. All over the counter and my cute black top. Awesome. I couldn’t even glance behind me at the onlookers. I felt my the heat creep into my face as I hurriedly began cleaning up my mess and presenting the cappuccinos to the server who ordered them. Suddenly I was in first grade again. I could feel the icy stares and there was nothing I could do but bear it. It was like they were all laughing at me, but were too dignified to express it out loud. In my humiliation, I began lamenting the less than glamorous work it sometimes takes on the path I have chosen to fulfill my dream.
Until I was on the train ride home. A homeless woman asked for change. I offered her my leftover Panang curry. Not willing to accept just anything, she grilled me for what exactly I was giving. “How ridiculous,” I thought. “If you’re really hungry, who cares what it is.” (I admit I was short on compassion in the moment.) But call it pride or call it an unwillingness to settle for less- something in her inquiry resonated with me. I didn’t know her story or what made her ask just what type of food she was about to accept. Just as my customers didn’t know my story, and what vision lies ahead of me in my passionate pursuit of my artistry. She stood there in humility, yet unwilling to budge in her preference of what she was looking for. Just as I had stood there, unraveled, and yet willing myself to overcome the awkwardness and finish the night in excellence. Maybe there is some foolishness wrapped up in both of our positions, but I was moved and humbled on my way home tonight. And strangely encouraged. The truth is we all have the daily war to wage on whatever trials we may face. My borrowed Po Bronson book has seen quite a bit of the El lately. He comments, “The right question is not ‘What is the Crap Factor?’ The right question is ‘How can I find something that moves my heart, so that the inevitable crap storm is bearable?’ ” Overcoming lack of coordination behind a bar in order to freely pursue my dream of capturing the human spirit through photography? It hardly seems worth mentioning in light of what the woman I encountered tonight must be facing. And so worth bearing when I get a glimpse of where I am going.
What is the crap factor in what you deal with on a regular basis? What moves your heart so deeply that any challenge is worth overcoming for the sake of fulfilling what is imprinted in your soul? Let’s remain steadfast to pursuing it. Even when our first grade self tries to sneak up on us.
