Blog — EPYON5

When I started third grade, it felt like I was on top of the world. At least as best as one could feel when you’re 8 years old. Third grade was different, it felt different, it seemed different than the previous grades before. Kindergarten doesn't count in the grand scheme of one's elementary school career. First grade is just barely dipping your toes into the water as you begin to transition beyond an age of nap time, cookies, and miniature cartons of milk. Second is when you finally begin to realize that you’re on a journey of some kind, not sure where, but headed towards something with a vague sense of purpose and structure. You start learning the basics of mathematics, spelling, history, and you wonder, what is this all for again? Why am I learning this? Third grade, however, is where you really start to feel and understand what elementary school is, and ultimately your place in the pantheon of childhood. It’s where you figure out who your friends are, what group you belong to, which kids will eventually become jocks, who will become cheerleaders, who the cool kids are, who is rich, who is poor, and of course, who will be the nerds and degenerate outcasts. I am not, nor was I ever a jock, and having been drawing and painting monsters, aliens, robots, and superheroes since before I could remember, I knew my place quite well, and that it lay somewhere within the latter group. Already knowing this in the year of 1982/83, (Jesus fuck, that was a long time ago), it didn’t faze me in any way shape, or form. I was aware of where I fit in and in many ways, what was expected of a little boy who could easily recite lines from Star Wars at any given moment. Taking into consideration that Star Wars had not yet been released on VHS, and this was many years before the instant gratification of streaming services, that’s quite a feat of memorization for a film that could only be seen in a movie theater at that time. Overall, I was happy. I was content. You see, the nice thing about knowing all of this, even at 8 years old, is that you’re not setting yourself up for any kind of disappointment. You simply are, where, and who you ought to be.

Of course, later on, it gets complicated. By the time you’re in the full swing of middle and high school, hormones kick in, fights occur, bullies, assholes, breakups between steadies, and sometimes, there are attempted lateral and vertical movements on the part of a student from one social group to another. Those attempted movements are not often successful and usually end in complete disaster and embarrassment. There was this one kid in middle school that I knew, Hell we all knew him as he was considered the nerd of all nerds. He had wire-rimmed glasses, pale skin, button-up shirts with short sleeves, slacks, and the most perfect bowl cut I’ve ever seen, and to add to the cherry on top of stereotypes… he had a pocket protector containing various types of pens, pencils, and a calculator. He was hands down, the smartest kid in all of middle school. Of course, being that meant he was also the ridicule and target of cruel jokes and taunts at the hands of jocks and bullies. Jump ahead to high school and out of the fucking blue, this kid shows up one-day wearing Z-Cavarrici acid-washed jeans cuffed at the ankles, printed t-shirts with rolled sleeves, a new set of fashionable glasses, and a mullet… spiked hair on top, a little bit long in the back. In addition to changing his appearance, he attempted one of the boldest vertical movements I’ve ever seen in my entire life.

One day former Mr. Bowl cut just started standing next to and inserting himself into a group of jocks, the very jocks who used to torment him prior to his sudden and abrupt change of fashion and demeanor. At first, the insertion looked to be very volatile. They yelled at him, repeatedly telling him to ‘get the fuck out of here”, threw things at him, pushed him out of the way, and sometimes, just generally kind of ignored his existence as if he weren’t even there. But the thing is, he was there. He was always there, amidst the football players, basketball players, track and field stars, wrestlers, and even the associated girlfriends of such groups. Like a stray dog that doesn’t leave no matter how many times you throw a stick at it, this kid never left the group and never gave up. Eventually, he became a fixture of those particular categories of testosterone, no longer associating with the very nerds and outcasts he was a part of for so very long. Now I don’t really know if he was truly accepted as one of their own. That will remain one of the greatest all-time mysteries of Kankakee Valley High. Perhaps the jocks just tolerated him due to his tenacity to never leave, maybe he wore them down and they ran out of stupid fucking insults. In a rare and surprising way though, he achieved that vertical movement into another completely different social group altogether. However, in third grade, you didn't have to worry about any of that god awful shit.

Wheatfield Elementary was located in the town of Wheatfield Indiana. Not much can be said of the town itself, the name is pretty self-explanatory. I mean, how much can you elaborate on a town with a total population of 840 as of 2017? Imagine the desolation in 1982. Each grade had a couple of teachers who would take on a class for the entire year, meaning, whatever teacher you were assigned for that year, you were stuck with for all subjects. That particular teacher was in charge of bestowing upon you the knowledge for every single subject required by the state: math, history, science, grammar, and so on. Your only break from the classroom was recess, gym, lunch, and art class. I have to admit, for being an elementary school in the middle of fucking nowhere, having an art class was a small luxury. I was assigned to be in a class taught by an older woman by the name of Mrs. Gardener. She had been at that school for fucking ever. I had been warned by others who had her before that she was a bit of a stickler, a crotchety old lady with a ginger beehive hairdo, a gap in her front teeth, and very large antique ornate glasses that not only rested on her face but were held permanently in place by an eyeglass strap that wrapped around the back of her neck. She appeared to be, by all intents and purposes, humorless, serious, straight to the point, and most likely a smoker (or former smoker based on the worn and wrinkled skin around her mouth). Oddly enough, once I had a desk picked out and the lessons began, I kinda liked her.

Third grade spanned the years of 1982 to 1983 and, dare I say it, started out as a fucking amazing time. As a kid who was interested in science fiction, comics, monsters, and toys related to the aforementioned subjects, this was an era of brand new excess. Some of the finest toys to ever exist in the history of all modern toys were either just being pulled from their factory molds or were still relatively new and fresh on the shelves, trapped in their little blister packs just waiting to be ripped open by eager little hands. Star Wars was going strong as the Empire Strikes Back had just come out a couple of years prior and the excitement for the upcoming third installment, “the Revenge of the Jedi” was ramping up. Yes, I said “Revenge” and not “Return”. At this particular point in time, George Lucas was still figuring his shit out and the inevitable and unforgiving changes had not yet begun. The “Masters of the Universe” toy line, a revamped collection of figures originally meant to be a Conan the Barbarian toy line, had just come out and presented something entirely new to kids across America and the world, a collection of muscle-bound barbarians, sorcerers, and monsters which had immense crossover appeal as they not only contained your standard fair of sword and shield, but also additional elements of sci-fi and futuristic technology. I mean for fuck sakes, He-Man, the epitome of a sword and ax-wielding barbarian had a mechanical vehicle that was essentially a one-man jet plane that allowed him to fly through the skies! (It was called a Wind Raider) Talk about juxtaposition!

As a country, we were still in the midst of the Cold war with Russia. Most definitely a strange time to be a kid when your local ABC television station has a made for TV movie called “The Day After”, which went straight to the point in showcasing the horrors of slowly dying from radiation fallout. This was not a time of Duck and Cover. This was an all-new era of propaganda that merely stated, “Russia will drop the bomb, and you will die.” So having said that, the relatively new 3.75-inch action figure line called G.I. JOE was immediately popular and I had my fair share of soldiers who would routinely engage with any bad guy who dared threaten the sanctity of the great United States of Reaganomics. My personal favorite of the G.I. JOE toy line was a figure by the name of Rock N’ Roll. He had standard green army-style fatigues, yet sported one of the nicest and well-groomed blonde beards that any male child could ever hope to achieve in adulthood. Top that off with a cross bandolier belt of machine-gun bullets that he wore across his chest with pride, and you have a picture-perfect representation of early 80’s America wrapped up in one little patriotic figure of molded and poseable plastic complete with kung-fu grip. It should be noted that I also had an accompanying G.I. JOE vehicle for which Rock N' Roll could triumphantly ride into imaginary battle, a green motorcycle that had a giant fucking Gatling gun mounted on the side. Fucking christ, how impractical could one be with a machine gun motorcycle? Looking back, it desperately screams nothing but small cock syndrome. However, now that I think about it, the combination of a bandolier wearing, blond beard Rock N’ Roll riding the machine gun motorcycle into battle is now the hands-down quintessential picture-perfect plastic representation of early 80’s America. Go big or go home. So, I can’t stress this enough, if you were a kid with a penchant for action figures that spanned the gamut from soldiers, to robots, to superheroes, to monsters… THIS was the time to be alive.

As the school year progressed, everything was fine, normal, and mundane in Mrs. Gardeners' class. However, one day out of the blue she announced a classroom contest. All of the students would each be allowed to draw one picture, whatever they wanted, with no limitations or stipulations. Once all the drawings were done and turned into Mrs. Gardener’s desk, the students were then allowed to vote for whatever drawing was their favorite, sans your own of course. The votes would then be tallied by not only Mrs. Gardener but a couple of the other elementary school teachers as well. They would count the votes together and whoever's drawing received the highest vote count would…. drumroll please….. Have their drawing painted as a large permanent mural on the classroom wall by the resident art teacher of Wheatfield Elementary! Holy fuck this was a dream come true. The possibility of creating something that could forever be a part of the school was beyond the comprehension of any 8-year-old boy. As I viewed it, this was my chance to not only draw something that I found personally interesting but to push myself into creating the best possible piece of artwork to date! This was my opportunity to make something that everybody could look at for years to come, and leave a lasting mark that people could come to respect and identify with.

You see, I’ve always drawn, painted, and created, but I would usually keep such things to myself. Only my family and a few close friends really knew the extent of my artistic abilities and the depth of my imagination. Prior to third grade, my experiences in showcasing my skills were met with bleak and utter fucking disappointment. Once in second grade, on a sheet of standard lined paper, I did a small drawing of the mythical Kraken as depicted in the 1981 film Clash of the Titans. I decided, however, to go a step further in my small creation, to take it beyond the flat representation upon paper and bring it into a world of the third dimension. I drew the Kraken from the front so you could not see the tail behind him. Using scissors I then cut out the Kraken body, which consisted of his head, four arms, chest, waist, and two flipper feet. On a separate piece of paper, I drew the long tail from the top view and cut it out as well. I folded the tail down its spine, then inserted the base of the tail into the lower back of the Kraken body using small foldable tabs so that the tail would stick straight out from behind the body. In doing so, the completed paper Kraken could stand upright of its own accord, very much akin to a tripod. I was absolutely beside myself with satisfaction at what I had created, and having done so in the middle of class without my teacher even knowing no less. The bell for recess rang and as the students got up out of their desks to go outside for that sweet 15-minute break of freedom, I continued to sit at my desk proudly displaying my Kraken for all of the students to see as they filed past. I sat there, with two arms out on either side of the Kraken as though I were a game show host proudly displaying some shit juice blender. I had an open-mouthed smile on my face and my eyebrows were arched with pride. The students, however, couldn’t give a shit less. They walked past, saw no redeeming value in my little mythical beast, and some even laughed at my paper creation. After they had all walked out, I sat there for a moment and stared at the Kraken. Stared into my rendition of a Ray Harryhausen classic. Eventually, I sighed, grabbed it, slowly crushed it in my hands, tossed into the garbage can, and walked outside to sit on the swings and just stare at the gravel below my feet.

The mural contest as I viewed it, was my chance of redemption, a means of receiving some sort of validation that could make up for the artistic disappointments of the past. You see, in the span of a year, my classmates began to slowly appreciate and take notice regarding the value of my skills and would often ask me to draw little things on folders and notebooks. So I had to think hard about what I was going to draw. I had to win over the votes of my fellow classmates with something spectacular, something that truly represented my ideals, values, and beliefs. Thankfully, I had a lot of fucking toys to look to for inspiration.

On the day that we were to draw our submission for the contest, I was calm, cool and collected. My confidence was at an all-time high. I was not nervous. A weekend of vigorous playing with not one collection, not two, but all of my action figures in crossover battles yielded ideas that were in my mind, potential gestures of life and all of its intricacies. I sat at my school desk with a sharpened no. 02 pencil in hand. One sheet of pristine ivory white paper measuring exactly 8.5 x 11 inches lay before me. I sat there, looking into the white void of pressed pulp much the same way a sculptor gazes upon a block of marble, waiting for the image to slowly reveal itself, waiting for the subject to be set free. Then, just like that, as if a spark had been ignited, a vision lay before me. I could see it, I could taste it. Although I had not drawn it yet, the image was staring back at me. Now all I had to do, like a sculptor who chips away at stone, setting free the subject that lies within, was to drag freshly sharpened graphite across paper and create the lines, shape, and composition that would fulfill and complete my vision.

I began by turning the paper to its side, landscape style as opposed to the majority portrait position that the other students had resigned to. What in the name of all that is artistically bold could be more epic in scope and scale than landscape style? I drew a jagged horizontal line across the top third with the intention of the bottom 2 thirds being land, and the remainder being dark volatile sky. On paper, storm clouds were churning, dramatically brewing, and lighting was striking hard. Wings were being created and rendered in what was to be stretched leather. High tempered steel was being thrown into the mix of cut stone and dangerous moats. Ligaments, tendons, and determination were rendered with the left-handed push and pull of one graphite pencil. Ultimately, strength, honor, and perseverance were born that day upon one sheet of standard lined paper. After about an hour of intense creativity and fruitful artistic labor, my drawing was done.

Mrs. Gardener collected all of the artwork and then laid them upon a table to be viewed by the entire class. We all gathered around to examine the offerings of imagination and it was our duty to each cast one vote for our personal favorite, to be written on a piece of paper and thrown into a hat. What I saw was a hodgepodge of stick figures, blobs, flowers, the occasional deformed cat or dog (I couldn't make out the details as to which), some classic cartoon characters; Popeye, Mickey Mouse, and even one rendition of the Smurf Village. However, when eyes crossed over my drawing, audible excitement on behalf of my classmates could be heard in the collective form of oohs, ahhs, and gasps. Not just from the boys mind you, but from the girls as well. It was as if they had never seen anything of this magnitude. You may ask yourself, what exactly did they see? What could be the cause of such an emotional reaction from a group of third graders? What lay before them you see, was the depiction of a battle to the death between winged evil Gargoyles and human barbarians. Swords, axes, and shields clashed between the armies of man and Hellbeast while bodies of the fatally wounded bled out upon the battlefield. Surrounded by the remains of severed limbs and decapitated heads, the barbarians were fighting with absolute determination and sweat, flexing every muscle, every bicep, every ab in an attempt to thwart Gargoyles of not only land but air as well! What was the purpose of such a drawing? What might be at stake you ask? The same thing that’s always at stake of course! Home! Land! Country! Freedom! Within the drawing to the left was an ancient castle, weather by time, wind, and rain, occupied and built by man, at threat of being taken and overrun by a horde of devils whose sole desire was the complete and utter extermination of humanity. It was clear that the students had never seen such a display of brute, visceral power, embodied in the forms of bipedal warriors and winged beasts. It became apparent that my drawing was not only garnering the attention of the class, but their votes well.

Once the votes were cast into the hat, Mrs. Gardener called in two other teachers and together they began to tally the votes. The three of them were smiling, laughing and generally excited at the prospect of the future mural. It was in a way, a class effort, something we all not only participated in but would benefit from for the rest of the school year and beyond. This mural was going to be permanent. I was so excited and giddy with anticipation that I watched the three counting faces with intense scrutiny. What I noticed was that the laughter on the part of the three teachers began to trickle and slowly fade. They eventually stopped smiling and with raised eyebrows, began to show what looked like concern as they were counting. Not only that, but they kept looking at me. Something was happening. Something was wrong. I began to scowl with an intense inquiry, a scowl that would eventually become a permanent mark on my forehead. Something I still do to this very day. What the fuck was going on?

Once they counted all of the votes, the three teachers then huddled together and began whispering to each other, still with the occasional glance towards my direction. Then, I noticed a small shift in their line of sight occurred. They started looking and pointing towards the direction of a female student by the name of Cate Woodgrove. As I mentioned, third grade was when we began to figure out where we belong in regards to the cliques and groups that were beginning to form. Although I had quite a crush on Cate at the time, she never spoke to me. I did not exist within the parameters of those whom she referred to as friends. During the Christmas/New Years winter break of 1982/83, I received one of the most technologically advanced timepieces ever produced in the history of watchmaking, the Nelsonic Pac-Man game watch. Selling for $25 to $35 at the time, this digital watch was a sought after timepiece that had a working liquid crystal display of a Pac-Man game board that one could play using small buttons that were located on the faceplate of the watch. Half a million of these sold that year and I was lucky enough to receive one as a christmas gift. Upon returning to school after the winter break, my watch garnered a bit of attention as I was the only student to sport such a timepiece. Cate approached me and asked if she could see the watch. This was the first time she had ever spoken to me. She then proceeded to ask if she could borrow my watch over the weekend, something I was not too keen on, but hesitantly agreed to as a result of my elementary school crush. She returned the watch the following week. It was broken and unable to display neither the time nor the Pac-Man game that made it desirable. Without looking into my eyes, she said these words in one continual run-on sentence, “Your watch is broke I don’t know what happened I didn’t do it.” She never spoke to me again after that. That Nelsonic Pac-Man watch was my one big Christmas gift that year. She didn’t even apologize the fucking cunt.

Mrs. Gardener and the other two teachers then turned to face and address the class. Together, they all smiled and Gardener proclaimed, “Attention everyone, we’ve counted the votes and we have a winner! Boys, girls, the winner of the classroom mural as chosen by you… ” She glanced at me for a brief second with what looked to be either pity or guilt, and then immediately turned her eyes to Cate. “...is the Smurf Village as drawn by Cate Woodgrove!” The three teachers triumphantly clapped in sync with a staunch smile of approval. The students clapped. Cate looked confused. As for me? I didn’t clap. I didn’t do shit. I slowly exhaled and was simply pissed and numb at the same time. I crossed my arms, stared into the smooth surface of my desk which still had smudges of graphite and small flecks of rubber eraser, and began to realize that what had just occurred was all one big joke, a setup, a scam, a life lesson that most don't learn until they're an adult. You see, I’m fairly confident that I actually won that contest. I believe that most of my fellow classmates voted for my drawing, but upon viewing the carnage that I had depicted, the teachers decided otherwise. They took it upon themselves to change the rules as they saw fit. They decided to completely disregard 3rd grade democracy and the will of the people. They fucking lied to me. They lied to the class in pretending that the sanctity and the happiness of the Smurf village was better suited for a permanent home upon the walls of our classroom than the majesty and glory of my Barbarians. At 8 years old, I learned a very hard truth, an adult lesson of unfairness, deceit and disappointment that would carry over into various aspects of my adult life, and for the rest of third grade, I had to look at that fucking Smurf Village every god damn day.