I was in Kindergarten. 3 ft. 4. We were asked to paint a self-portrait. So I did. I started with the face. But once I made one circle for the face it wasn't good enough, so I made another and another, till my whole page was full of circles. Still I felt proud of my master piece. Then the student teacher came around. I heard her telling other kids, "Good job!" and "That looks so good!" until she came to me. I was sitting on the farthest long table by the door. I remember my smile dropping as she slowly started laughing. She saw my art work and laughed. I was horrified. I was ashamed.
Too often imagination is wounded by those who fail to see it. Imagination has always been my biggest forte. I could think up a million things in a day. I was one of those kids who lived in their own little world, who saw "pretend friends" and played with them for hours and hours. Sparkly Rainbow was my best friend. She rode bikes with me, played dolls with me, she did everything, with me. She was someone I could always rely on. But because of something in the grown-up mind, Sparkly Rainbow had to leave, because Imaginary Friends do not exist. To Adults, she was no one. She was a sign that a child might be anti-social. She was a sign that I talked to myself too much. Seeing Sparkly Rainbow was simply, a bad sign. To the adults. And as soon as she was gone, the adults took a sigh of relief, because they had finally won, had finally wounded her enough to make Sparkly Rainbow cower into the corner. Now I could go to school and focus on reading books, making REAL friends, and do math. Not play with someone that was in my mind. So I could actually start doing something REAL.
To me... It was the Death of myself. Because to me, Sparkly Rainbow was REAL. She was my beautiful companion. She was unique. She was fun. She was unafraid. She was the one to call mean people the names I was too scared to say. She was my friend. She was my imagination. The day I said "goodbye" to her, I remember crying. I told her I was "Too Old". After that I swore she was gone, but I secretly knew she was always there. With me. I just needed to acknowledge her again.
I remember, when I brought my painting home to my Uncle, he told me it was the most Awesome picture he had ever seen. He told me it was the best out of the whole class. My Uncle picked my imagination back up. Told it, it was good enough, mended the wounds that were made, just so the world could beat it again.
My imagination was never killed. It was stabbed, wounded, and told to go away. So it retaliated and hid, deep in the back of my mind, but it never left, it can come back, and it does once in a while, just to say hello. I just have to acknowledge it's there.
