Shark Week 1991

I was an eight year old girl living in Alexandria Kentucky, a short hop over a bridge to Cincinnati, Ohio. A popular local news station was promoting the opening days of Shark Week in tandem with the opening of the tri-state areas first IMAX theatre. When the art contest was announced, my sister, three years my senior, my mother’s favorite daughter was upset because she was too old to enter. Mom encouraged me to submit an entry. Of course I would, I love creating new things. I wanted to draw a pretty shark with flowers in her hair.

“Sharks don’t have hair,” mom said.

Utilizing the scrap computer paper in dads office, I got to work. Mom decided I was to draw a role reversal scene where the shark would be standing on the edge of a dock with a fishing line. At the end of the line the shark would catch a diver who should resemble the reporter hosting the contest. So I did. The scene was more complicated than the bohemian shark I wanted to depict. I asked mom to show me what she envisioned, but she refused as that would be “cheating.” I sketched the scene over and over.

When I finally felt it was done, she had me trace it on a clean sheet of computer paper and watched me as I colored in the lines with my colored pencils, correcting me when if I colored too fast, too sloppy, or used the wrong shade of blue.

Do as you’re told. Don’t step out of line.

We watched the news every night that week as a family, each night a new piece would be chosen. I remember picturing how the scene I diligently crafted would look on our TV set, how my name would sound if someone were to announce it from the shiny studio, would someone create a graphic with my name and city printed in bold letters? Each night was excruciating. Mom seemed as anxious as I was, becoming irate when the art work chosen that night wasn’t mine. She’d criticize the kid who made it, then guess why mine hadn’t been. Maybe it was TOO good, mine was unique, cheeky, and considerably more complicated than the others. Surely that made it special, made me special, and her by association.

Maybe they could see it was forced, maybe it wasn’t as good as mom thought, night after night of other kids works being shown on TV felt like torture. You’re not good enough I told myself, besides it wasn’t really my vision, it was hers.

The grand prize was 4 tickets to the opening production of Shark Week at the IMAX theatre in downtown Cincinnati. In 1991, this was a big deal. My mom’s critiques became more intense as the contest ticked on, she tore apart each winning artist without pause to consider the person behind the crayon was merely a small child expressing themselves. Not mine, I was expressing someone else, someone older but considerably less mature than I realized prior.

I started feeling sorry for the winners, if that’s what winning sounded like, I was content to lose. On the last day of the contest I excused myself to the bathroom, hoping I could hide from the shame and embarrassment my mother would feel. There was a teaser about the last entry mom screamed from behind the hollow door, that this one was extra special. She didn’t bother to knock and walked in. I was sitting on the ledge of the bathroom, “what are you doing?” She demanded. “Nothing.” I had no other choice, I was caught.

My sister taunted me as I walked from the bathroom to the living room with the solemn, like a death row prisoner. My sister was excited, she loved to watch me fail. I never quite understood why she hated me so much. The famous reported cleared his throat, “This one we saved for last because, let’s be honest, look at this!” There it was, my masterpiece commissioned and micromanaged by my mother who seemed to stop breathing in anticipation.

“Just look at this, the artist is only eight years old, the detail!” The camera zoomed in close, I could see a spot I’d colored outside the lines. This didn’t feel the way I’d imagined, in fact I felt sick, then relieved. I wondered if other moms were criticizing my artwork the way my mother had. Inventing elaborate reasons why their daughters work wasn’t being fawned over with such delight. Hearing their distant hateful voices I began tearing up, wanting them to stop, to stop judging me. I glanced at mom, worried she was judging me too, angry my piece made her wait, but she wasn’t looking at me. Her eyes were transfixed to the corner of the TV that displayed my misspelled name with the words, First Prize Entry. I couldn’t tell what she was feeling, it certainly wasn’t the nausea I was. Maybe she was proud of me for once? However, pride wasn’t the emotion she was exuding, it was weird, like pure validation. I felt guilty, this reporter was gushing over an image I created from someone else’s imagination. I felt used. And like a fraud.

My dad was glowing, he hugged me, kissed me hard on the head, “way to go baby girl!” When he and my sister left the room mom looked me directly in the eye, squinting slightly as a hunter would do while zeroing in on her prey and said in a low self satisfied tone, “I told you so.” Not congratulations, not good job, just “I told you so,” and she grinned at me knowingly. This wasn’t a win for me, it was validation of her rightness. My idea might have been mine, but her idea was a first place winner. I now understood why she was so critical of the children behind the selected, but not first place worthy entries, she was worried that my original idea could have been superior to hers. She was an adult, I was a child, and she feared I might have been right about something. It chilled me to the bone how pleased she sat in her self righteousness over a coloring contest for children.

A few weeks later, with ribbons in my hair and a brand new dress specifically purchased for the occasion we arrived at the IMAX theatre later than my mother intended. My father seemed to regret waking up that morning, I couldn’t agree more. I was nervous. Jaws traumatized me when I saw it at five, just three short years prior to the event my mother orchestrated to prove that she was a worthy mother.

Since my piece won first prize, I was going to be interviewed on television. My sister seethed with palpable jealousy. She missed no opportunity to express this to me. “Don’t forget, if mom hadn’t told you what to do, you never would have won.” I didn’t come up with the idea on my own. She wasn’t wrong. I felt like a fraud. A cheater. Unworthy of the blue polka dotted dress with the buttons down the back.

When the time came to go live I smiled, and chatted animatedly about why I designed the art, leaving moms influence out. I was coached by her in the car while my sister stared me down mouthing the words “I know” behind moms back. When I asked her to stop I was chastised for not ignoring the bullying, after all she WANTS me to get upset. I never understood that logic, why would the recipient of bullying be in charge of making it stop by ignoring?

The bully wants a reaction, they don’t stop wanting it when they don’t get it, they bullying harder when ignored. They don’t stop when they win. They just don’t stop ever.

I wanted to disappear. The reporter asked for me to sign the back of the picture, I later found out it was framed and displayed in his office for years. When I held it in my hands that last time I saw it clearly. It truly was remarkable for an artist my age. He was sure I’d become a famous artist someday, he told my dad candidly after the interview, with that talent I was going places. A stranger believed in my abilities so adamantly he held onto a sheet of computer paper colored in with student-grade colored pencils, admittedly those are sophisticated tools for an 8 year old in 1991, but it certainly was not something you’d see in a museum.

After my first press conference was over we took our seats. As the first prize winner we were in a place of honor, unfortunately that meant I was visible to the crowd IMAX arena.

Then the movie started.

Sharks circled overhead, it was worse than my worst Jaws nightmare with picture quality that evoked a collective gasp from the audience. I hid my face, “what are doing?” She snapped, everyone can see you, mom was humiliated. How could a person draw a shark then shy away from enjoying such a grand show of appreciation for my masterpiece of artistic genius? I told her it was too realistic and I didn’t want to have nightmares.

She forced a grimacing smile through clenched teeth, rolled her eyes to the side indicating her lack of concern for my night terrors and told me not to be a baby. So I watched. Petrified. It was an under water, documentary-style compilation of divers in fully immersed cages. The divers enticing the aquatic predators with raw meat and their human bodies all while they filmed these terrifying confrontations with large video cameras encased in bright color plastic shells.

After awhile I realized that the Discovery channel wouldn’t show a participant getting eaten, the movie was rated PG after all. So I watched. I watched because I had to. I watched because this was a reward, there must be some lesson I could learn. I threw myself into the screen in my mind, believing I too was in the ocean. Limitless water, no time, no space, just wet. For eternity. No up, no down, just hunger, for the thrill of survival.

At first I could relate to the sharks more than the divers. I knew what it felt like to believe you were about to accomplish something desirable. I desired the approval of my mother, the sharks desired meat. They circled the caged men inching closer. They were foolish, tricked by the illusion that they could sink their sharp teeth into that which they hunted.

The men were caged, protected by bars of metal. When the layers of teeth connected to the beams you could see blood release from the sharks gums. The sharks were being bullied. They wanted a reaction. The sharks should just ignore it, I thought, they should swim away. They didn’t, their bloody gums and broken teeth attracted more sharks, and more sharks until the caged man was surrounded on all sides, above and below.

The bullied became the bully, becoming more sinister as the assault went on. I wondered how the man in the cage felt. He probably didn’t intend on bullying the sharks. He was there as a sacrifice to the collective education and amusement of mankind. I could see myself as the caged diver, trapped underwater in a cage surrounded by attention he manifested intentionally, without anticipating this dire consequence. My heart raced with his, his life was in the hands of those above him, linked only by one metal chain, up into a boat. He had to trust those on the opposite side of the chain wouldn’t fail him.

Once committed to the challenge he couldn’t change his mind, he, like me, he had to open his eyes and watch the scene unfold until it was over.