Paper Angels

“And you, my dear, … are Most Polite.”

“Ugh,” really?

I received my first award in the second grade. I resented the title, returning to my chair, while Most Improved smiled at Best Penmanship and Works Well with Others laughed at Best at Sharing. Ugh! The most pleases and thank yous spoken in any given day? Please! I needed to hatch an escape plan, tunnel my way out, find any diversion from becoming a future member of the Decency Police.

Our teacher presented these titles the first month of our private school year. Like eight small circus dogs doing fancy tricks, we submitted – because she provided each of us with the recognition and the attention we so desperately craved. At first, she became our part-time stand-in mother and then, little by little, our full-time attitude-adjusting cheerleader. Her teaching style offered praise while we traversed the all-encompassing climb towards improvement.

Art was my favorite class subject. One afternoon, our teacher offered us scissors and colored construction paper marked with large letter-A cutouts. My shapely letter A looked tidy compared to others. I excelled at manual dexterity because I helped my Gram cut weekly coupons. From that moment forward, I became Best with Scissors. My skillset improved as A’s turned into snowflakes – each different and unique. She penned students’ names on each of these delicate art pieces. Pride being sinful, I gushed on the inside as she added my snowflake collection to our homeroom décor.

Truth revealing, I was one year older than my classmates. I repeated the second grade because I had several absences at my former public school. During class time, I ran my mouth too much, resulting in detention. I made BFFs with this boy named John. That’s how much detention time I had, enough to score a best friendship, go figure. The second time around, I was able to excel in many areas with ease.

My art career began at age eight.

In the beginning, A’s begat snowflakes.

With time, snowflakes mushroomed into angels.

Over the years, Christmas tree angels became valentine hearts.

Much later, valentine hearts graduated to paper dolls.

I evolved, as did my skills.

And finally, my confidence.

I tossed Most Polite, where it belonged, in the trash. But, from time to time, ribbons decorated my Best with Scissors’ work, and with practice, I began to be recognized more in art classes. So, take that, Most Polite. Ha!

By the fifth grade, I won third place for a painting at an open house parents’ night. My first attempt at mixing colors, layering paints, adding pastels, then more colors produced some atrocious results. The truth is, I hated it. A shiny ribbon greeted me the following day. Weird, what I saw as experimental scribble, others saw as stand-alone art.

My line drawing was published in our school’s cookbook by sixth grade. My aunt purchased my first piece of work at a school fair. By seventh grade, I replicated Franz Marc’s German Expressionist work The Dream and found that my skill set improved. By then, I understood. Practice and tenacity produce results.

Creativity, I believe, is a unique problem-solving skill. It pushes, pulls, and shapes a life that needs to grow. We as humans require growth throughout our lifetime, and with growth comes happiness.

Creativity + Growth = Happiness …

Creativity helps us process difficult times in our lives, like after a job loss. It helps us celebrate happy times, like during our family holidays. In the end, it warms our hearts and the hearts of others.

Inspiration can come from anything: merging two unlikely objects to create something new; switching out an ingredient in a recipe to be inventive; updating our online brand to attract new customers. The titles we pin on ourselves – Most Likely to Succeed – make us content. Our friends are our lifeboats – shining a light on our talents, and with encouragement, nudging us in the right direction. Our family sits on the sidelines, joyfully watching us succeed. In the end, we dig the pathways to our future happiness.

Over the years, creativity was my silent weapon. My career flourished, bosses noticed, coworkers appreciated, friends adored, and love interests received. So when I’ve got the red hots for someone, I will not flower them with words or overtures. No pricey restaurants or short get-away trips here, well, not at first. Instead, I make them a handmade gift. Find a creative way to kick the door open to their heart. Create something unique and unexpected – like an artfully collaged tin with twelve different handmade cookies or a miniature painted portrait designed to surprise them. I’m a firm believer; as the saying goes, people will not remember what you said or did, but they will remember how you made them feel.

Zach sat near me in high school English class. He was a dark horse that arrived late in the game. This soft-spoken, mild-mannered introvert fussed with his side-swept bangs, often nervous. Yet, although his unusual walking style with feet turned outwards, he moved with a sense of purpose and direction – taking long, solid strides. He hung with the cool kids, but those pretentious cliques eventually merged into one large crowd. In the end, our child-like attitudes dissolved, taking with it a lifetime of immaturity.

Half-listening to the teacher’s ramblings, I passed him a note. The next day I received a type-written letter – a gift from his typing class. Our back-and-forth correspondence lasted months. Notes became conversations, then flirting, onto smiles, and ultimately feelings. One day, I made him a set of paper dolls with alternating blue boys and pink girls. Yes, it was a juvenile move, but sometimes small measures yield substantial results.

Line cast, bait taken, hook swallowed, fish caught.

I’m not sure who had it worse, but we both had a mad case of the feels. All I can say is my gift warranted a big smile while Zach stood alone away from teasing friends. I hope that he took the paper chain, kept it with his belongings stashed away in a box. Held those feelings tight. No matter however fleeting our emotional tryst lasted.

Our senior year drew to a close. Zach asked a girl he was dating to prom while I took another guy. Our togetherness soon became otherness, and we graduated weeks later. I can’t speak for him, but this short-lived connection, as I see it now …. Well, it was a sweet moment punctuating a long life.

Boys in high school made way to men in college then onto one significant relationship. After college came more relationships. With relationships came adulting. Soon afterward, adulting became a drag. Still is.

Creativity followed me into my design career when I traded my scissors for a computer. I created brochures, books, and ads for eight-plus hours. Despite the success, I missed working with my hands. Crafts were my refuge, my Mother Theresa guiding me towards more fulfilling things in life.

My relationships became the sole beneficiary of my creative pursuits: artfully crafted emails, hand-written letters, bespoke presents, many surprises, on and on. I can only hope my partners’ hearts enjoyed the joy I offered and received the love I gave.

Months turn to years, and as it does, life gets in the way. Through word of mouth, I learned that Zach took his life. His news shook me for quite a while. Sometimes I’m unsure how to deal with these emotional bombs sounding off in my safe little world. I cannot initially process all of the pain.

First, I am in shock.

Then, I have a severe case of the If Onlys.

If only I knew.

If only I could have done something.

If only I were closer to him.

If only I looked him up.

Reached out.

Connected.

Saw.

Felt.

Heard his sadness.

If only I could

Take these scissors

Snip away his pain.

Cut out his depression.

Cast away his angst.

Blast his darkness into outer space.

Carry him through it all.

Be there for him.

Let him know

I cared.

That he

Was loved.

A good friend

Always.

It’s hard to take these barbed feelings and produce something positive. People come into our lives for various reasons – we are constantly teaching and learning from one another. I hope Zach knew that people cared. Did he consider these good intentions when he felt down and out? I wish what little friendship I offered him was a glimmer of hope. Many questions remain unanswered. I see him so many years later … as an angel cast in street clothes. I ask myself. How can I contribute to his legacy every day? I hope to continue finding the happiness that he is now missing.

So Dear Friend – I send you good energy, hugs, and prayers … wherever you are.

For now, I’m committed to creativity. I will cut out the difficulty in life. Snip away the pain and suffering. Paste in the happiness — glue down the love. Sprinkle glitter in the areas that need light. Paint the sunsets. Pastel the flowers. Watercolor the beauty. Pencil in the shade. Outline the hope that lies everywhere. Yes, look closer – it’s e.v.e.r.y.w.h.e.r.e.

I will take my scissors, and paper, and ideas. Keep trying and improving at every opportunity. Wherever the road takes me, be it paint, or pastels or rainbows, or moon drops, I will keep creating. Wherever I am, whoever I become, grow and reach and stretch and evolve. I do this for myself and my supporters because I know they are always there – angels smiling in the wings, showing me the road to happiness.

*© 2021 Samia Afra – “Paper Angels”

** Disclaimer: Names, details, and storyline has been changed to protect the privacy of others.

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