Smart

An autoethnographic story by Karla Scarff

Original art by Karla Scarff

The only good thing my father ever did for me was to tell me that I was smart.  I believed him the way a dog believes it is a good boy simply because it must trust to survive.  My mother knew me better, though, and she could see that past the puppy dog trickery and yearning for acceptance, there was an ingrained gullibility.  Ay, Karlita! she took to saying in a pained, sometimes amused tone.  Don’t let the world make a fool of you.  And yet we both did, her and I, when it came to my father.  After he abandoned us, I stopped believing in him except for that one thing: You are smart. 

I held on to this belief when the world went upside down and people stopped paying attention to me.  My grandmother might curse me for looking like him and call me dirty, and my teachers at school in America might ignore me or dismiss me as stupid simply because I did not speak English.  But I knew better.  I was smart, and I would set out to prove it to everyone.  Maybe that way they would notice me, see me… love me.  At first, this performative intelligence served me well.  I learned English quickly to prove everyone wrong, and when that didn’t make anyone love me or notice me more, I got excellent grades to get my mother’s attention.  When that didn’t work, I got one, two, three degrees.  I haven’t stopped, and it has never brought him back.  Intelligence can’t bring back those who were always leaving, and it certainly won’t resurrect someone from the dead. 

Whatever the case, I loved education so much that I became a teacher to be in the place that made me feel the most validated.  Unfortunately, the reality of teaching is that no one gives a rat’s ass how smart you are, and that the better you get at it, the less anyone cares.  For someone craving attention and accolades, this profession can be rather humbling.  This is even more true as an art teacher, where it seems that the only time anyone notices you is when you do something really wrong like wear too many colors and patterns at once. For the most part, we art teachers are left to our own devices because we are mostly just seen as weird.

This year, my classroom has garnered more attention than usual due to the coming of a prophesized child, one Sha’Nice who garnered notoriety since elementary school due to her verbal prowess at hurling first-rate insults.  At first, I was sure that my physical attributes would be the focus of Sha’Nice’s verbal assault, but she turned out to be a far more sophisticated than I had anticipated.  Instead, she zoned in on my greatest insecurity—the need to be seen as intelligent.  She waited three weeks to finally deliver her verbal assault: you dumb ass bitch!  And I was. I had allowed a child to get under my skin. My mother would have knowingly shaken her head in disapproval, Ay, Karlita, you should have known better.

The days following Sha’Nice’s temporary exit from class, I enjoyed a relative peace.  I was able to focus on other students for once.  There was Amari, the sweet girl who was transferred out of my class last year.  After that, her brace-ful smile had greeted me each morning at the gate, and I wished I could remember her name.  She really wanted to be back in my class, she had told me many times last year, her poofy hair bobbing up and down as she escorted me to my room.  Now during sixth period, it quickly became apparent that Amari could not draw a straight line nor follow simple directions.  Her 504 plan offered no further clues other than extended work time.  Oh, I found myself thinking, She’s one of those kids. 

Then there was Valeria in period four, whose face I was not particularly excited to see in my photography class.  Last year, I showed Valeria how to draw simple shapes, how to hold a paintbrush, and how to color inside the lines.  I had adapted every lesson for her because her abilities were far below those of her peers.

“Pretty!” Valeria would often chant, pleased with her artwork. Her child-like simplicity often disarmed my demanding artistic persona. 

“Yes,” I found myself agreeing, looking past clumsy linework and poor craftsmanship to something ineffable but real nonetheless, “Very pretty!”

One time, a boy sitting near her was not pleased to know that Valeria had received an A on a project that was clearly subpar compared to his. 

“Why is she getting an A?!” he demanded; his voice petulant with disbelief while Valeria placidly smiled next to him, admiring her latest creation.

I could see him staring at her childish painting with disdain, his eyes tracing the sloppy brush-strokes and jagged lines.  I saw what he saw, but I also knew that this was Valeria’s best work. 

“I grade each student individually,” I explained, my tone even, though I knew this wasn’t the whole story.

The boy scoffed, dragging a sopping paintbrush over his own work in sabotage.  When his grade dropped because of poor effort, he was further incensed.    

“It’s not fair!” he grumbled under his breath.  And though I partially agreed, I could not fully make him or even myself understand why Valeria had deserved that A.

And now here was Valeria in photography, a highly technical class consisting of camera settings, chemistry, and Photoshop.  I wanted to reach out to her counselor and whine: She doesn’t belong here. She’s not smart enough.  But something bothered me about this whole inner conversation.  Something that had been poking at my ribs since the day Sha’Nice had leveled me with her words: You dumb-ass bitch.

 If intelligence was the measure by which I assigned worth to myself, then what was the worth of people like Valeria and Amari?  What about Abraham, who could scarcely get a word out through his stuttering and yet came by each day during break to have a conversation with me just because?  What about Collin, who had the mental age of a six-year-old, who loved all superheroes and thought art was the best class on the planet? 

I was a hypocrite, and I knew it. 

If intelligence was the most important measure of what a person was worth, then these students were not worth my time, and yet all these children thought I was worth their time and their trust.  I would sigh whenever I walked away from Valeria or Amari because I knew that when I made my way back, their paintings would inevitably go wayward—a strange color here, a rogue brush-stroke there.  If I was particularly tired that day, I might stay away from them longer than usual, but I soon learned that this would just be trouble, so I learned to check in consistently.  And Valeria’s skill had grown. Valeria might never possess the skills of those classmates who judged her with derision, but she possessed something that even a snob like me recognized.  Valeria had heart.  Valeria looked determined each time I corrected her, and she cheerfully applied each piece of advice with her awkward hands, painting holes onto watercolor paper and drawing crooked noses.  Valeria tried and tried and tried and tried so much that I learned not judge her solely on her intelligence.  My father might have looked at her with contempt, but I learned not to.

And yet here she was this year, in photography, and I did not know what to do.  I thought back to those days in art class, of holding her hand and reaching beyond my intellect for something more important: kindness and patience.  These are things that books do not teach you and things that people like my father knew nothing about.  So I took a deep breath before putting Valeria’s camera on automatic while everyone else shot on manual mode, and I stayed near her while other students photographed independently.  “Valeria,” I say, “it doesn’t matter what camera you use. It’s the photographer that matters.”  I know that Valeria might not become the most technically-skilled photographer, but I also know what we are both capable of. 

The next day, Valeria returns with a series of poorly-lit photographs.  I scroll past her work dismissively, drawn to the technical fireworks that other students display.  Shoes, shiny cars, status symbols and people posing just so.  I return to Valeria’s work with resignation.  She has used a blanket to frame a few baby items carefully arranged in a row—a dingy rattle, a framed photograph of a baby, and a little shoe.  Oh, I think, remembering her baby niece, the one she could not wait to meet last year.  Look, Valeria is saying, Look at my world and the things I love. Aren’t they pretty?

Valeria, It’s not the camera that matters.  It’s the artist that matters, and you are a wonderful artist. 

I sit for a moment, staring at the spare composition in front of me.  The pink blanket and toys lovingly arranged for me to see.  I hear something beyond my parents’ voices, something that Valeria, Amari, Collin and Abraham have been telling me all along:  Mrs. Scarff, it’s not your intelligence that matters.  It’s your heart that matters, and we love you just the way you are.

There are important things that books can teach us, things that help us to survive.  Like speaking English and surviving in a new land.  There are things that your parents teach you, like staying humble when your head gets too big.  But there are things that our parents cannot teach us because they simply don’t know how.  In these cases, I turn to my better teachers.  I turn to my students.