Lincoln’s Heads & Valentines
In the third grade, I went through the most harrowing month of my life.
It was February 11th. In honor of Lincoln’s Birthday the following day, Sister Mary Martin handed out mimeographed profiles of Lincoln’s head to everyone in the class. She instructed us to color these in.
I pulled out my box of Crayola crayons, and decided my Mr. Lincoln would be grass green.
I was an avid reader of biographies and autobiographies.
Ever since I had read about Abe’s childhood in a log cabin, the way he had read books by candlelight to educate himself, his success in politics, and his success in ending slavery, he had become my favorite President. I wanted to do his profile justice. And I went at it, keeping my strokes inside the outline of that beloved head.
The next day, when I walked into the classroom, my mouth went dry and cheeks blazed when I saw that 31 black Lincoln heads had been tacked up around the periphery of the room, each a carbon-copy of the next--as if a printing press had spat them out--with the exception of one green one flapping in the breeze from an open window.
Instead of rejoicing in the fact that I was different, and accepting my differences, I wanted to be like all the other kids.
And I would have no relief from being unique.
On the eve of Valentine’s Day, my mother and I worked long into the night cutting hearts out of red and pink construction paper, creating valentine’s cards for everyone in my class. “Happy Valentine’s Day,” I scrawled in my neophyte penmanship. I glued on lace and ribbons.
“Each one of these cards is a piece of art,” my mom said. By bedtime, we were proud of our efforts. Together, we had created 31 tokens of love.
The next day, my lacy tokens packed into a paper bag, I was excited about exchanging valentines with my classmates. When the time came, and I saw that everyone else had brought store-bought cards, I felt so embarrassed about mine that I threw them into a garbage can. Giving them out would have been admitting that our family was too poor to buy cards at the store like everyone else. And I wanted so badly to be like everyone else.
But don’t worry, I have grown out of that mindset. I’m a happy woman who met my Valentine 42 years ago on Valentine’s Day. Perhaps the universe noted my torment as a child and sent Cupid my way.
I encourage all sensitive, creative humans to keep on keeping on. Do what makes you happy. Paint, draw, crochet, sing. And have the Happiest of Valentines Days. Enjoy yourself. You deserve it.
Love it.