You were 11, carefully explaining the differences between the male and female cardinal you lovingly drew in pastels. I kept it on my bulletin board for months was my 5th grade artist of the month. You were moving up and on to middle school, but I’d never seen such a kindred spirit in a kid. I knew another weird wolf kid when I saw them.
I blinked again. You were 13, clutching your sketchbook and spilling out the growing pains of middle school and all the highs and lows and changing friendships as the afternoon sun faded across my desk. I bristled about your bullies and we carefully looked over your furry art for critique. Toxic friendships and your first relationship. When (Redacted) forcibly outed you and I swore I’d throw hands with that woman if I ever met her. I thanked my lucky stars you had a wonderful mother. I still do. I did meet (Redacted), but could not throw hands at a public work event.
I blinked again. You were getting ready for high school. I gave you my cell number and begged you to call if you ever needed me, if you didn’t feel safe. Your art was ever evolving. So were you. I knew Bridget would take care of you and help you grow the further you got from my hall. But you came back still.
Blink, you were learning to drive, and suddenly I’d changed jobs into the field you and I both adored: digital art. I got to be your teacher again and watch you excel over and over. You had worlds of stories cracking open within you. You found D&D. Long car rides and words spilled out about your changing fursona, your novel, friends that took advantage of you. A blue slurpee was an apology for the horror of my first year teaching Adobe Certification.
I blinked and suddenly you were a senior considering art education. I watched you teach your own students in my middle school class and nearly broke with pride. You called them Your Kids, and they loved you. But you saw what education was doing to your Mom and I, and wisely considered another path.
Blink. Kicking ass left and right with portfolios and scholarships. Blink. Across the stage. Blink. A summer of Lunches at Plaza Jalisco. Adventures to fish stores and helping me name some of my creatures. Blink. Switching majors. Sending me snapshots of the fantastic work you were creating in your studio courses. There wasn’t a single art medium you didn’t excel in. Words of your new friends, your tribe, your becoming. Each glimpse a joy and a victory you earned. Blink. Clawing your way through anxiety and depression and a world on fire. Still, you rose and became. Slowly into an adult I could call both my protege and friend.
Blink. Today I watched you cross the stage again. I am so explosively proud of the person you have become and all you have achieved. It gets even better from here and I have no doubt you are well on your way to carving out a beautiful life for yourself full of weird creatures, good food, and cool art. You are so driven and wonderfully weird, compassionate and hilarious. You deserve the world.
I chose not to have children; but somehow I got to be part of the joy of watching you grow up. If nothing else in my teaching career matters, I know at least I mattered in your life.
And that makes every bad day, every grumble, all the tears, worth it.
