Tales From The Cubby

I didn't plan to be a writer.

I was just a lonely kid in a cubby.

I was 5. But being 4 was burned in my mind. Dad cheated again. There was yelling. Again. Tears, again. I hid in the cubby, the small storage place between the first and second floor of our split level house.

It was late. I should have been in bed, but I could never sleep. My mind raced, even at that age. I lay awake, my face in the pillow, waiting for the shouting, my stomach in knots.

I knew bad stuff was happening. I didn't understand it.

Then, that night, more shouting. I was in the cubby. It was my space. Just about 3 feet tall and 3 feet wide but going back almost the entire length of the house, it was my safe space.

Clothes flew out the window. Bad words filled the air. And when I woke up my father was gone.

My heart ached for him. I was a boy. I idolized my daddy. Surely he'd be back.

He wasn't.

But I got some books.

I took them to the cubby.

I went to school.

And in kindergarten, my teacher Ms. Jones asked us all to draw pictures for the school newsletter. One special one, the best one would be chosen.

I didn't draw. I wrote. At the time, words were all I knew.

I wrote about winter.

I wrote about what I saw outside the schoolhouse window:

I like snow

I see it blow

It is white

and a pretty site.

I didn't know at the time that I spelled site wrong. Homonyms weren't exactly on my 5 year old radar.

I have no idea what prompted me to write it. I didn't really like winter, but it fell out of my head.

Nothing happened for a few days and then, my teacher announced that my poem would be in the newsletter.

I was chosen!

I was good enough!

I sill remember my tiny heart swelling with pride as I looked over the other 30 of my peers. Their little scratchings wouldn't cut it. I was the winner! I was picked!

Nobody ever picked me! Not my father. Not my sister. Not my mother. I let the headiness of being #1, chosen, wash over me.

I ran home with the mimeographed newsletter, in all its purple print glory. I knew I'd make mommy happy again. She'd been so sad.

The sun was warm that December day, melting the snow. I tilted my face toward it, feeling something I'd never felt before, worthiness.

I got home, and my sister was there. She had no time. Five years my senior, I was an inpediment and annoying. She had her own life. I wasn't a part of it.

Mom came home later, from her government job. Just before 5. i ran to her excitedly with the newsletter.

She waved me away and my heart sank.

It wasn't her fault. She had to make dinner and then go to her second job at the Diplomat, a local 24-hour eatery. It was there she looked for potential new husbands.

She was beautiful. Wavy dark hair, a slim build. Lots of men noticed her. I just wanted her to notice me.

I put the newsletter on the fridge, under a roster magnet.

I heard nothing. Ever.

I went back to my cubby, my safe space.

I wrote. I taught myself to draw from tracing Spiderman comics.

I kept to myself in my little storage sanctuary with my lamp and a blanket.

At 5, I was misunderstood. I was unappreciated and unloved. Worse, I was unnoticed.

But, decades later, I'm a successful artist. I've sold paintings all over the globe.

I'm a writer. I've written on and off throughout my life. I've written 4 books about my life and work.

Don't discount sad little boys from broken homes. You just don't know what they're capable of.