1987. One of the best years of my life. Of course, | was only five, but my
accomplishments had succeeded far beyond any expectation. | had
learned to tie my shoes while my brother, two years my elder, struggled
miserably. (To this day, he still makes a giant loop in each hand and awk-
wardly knots them together.) Though, graduation from Velcro accounted
for only a fraction of my virginal elation, for, that September, | was to
embark upon the momentous educational milestone that was kinder-
garten.

My elementary school inauguration was fabulous. Life was balanced with
story time, creative play, and lunch with Natasha, the girl that ate cold hot-
dog wieners. | figured | was a normal child satisfied with complacency,
until the day my hidden artistic genius was discovered (and oh, believe
me, was it there!). What started out as a typical pre-Christmas Santa
painting exercise catapulted my humble masterpiece to esteemed recog-

nition, as soon as Ms. Ambercrombie observed that MY version of the
Jolly Old Elf had been appropriated in profile, with his nose sticking out to
the right! Apparently, no one my age had ever done that before, and with
privilege, | smelled the hot, sweet breath of distinction.

Years later, the idea of "child genius" filtered its way into my narrow view
of society as proud MENSA advocates smugly exhibited their offspring on
such inspiring talk shows as Oprah. | particularly recall one episode
where an 11-year old prodigy was fawned over by the audience for cre-
ating work with an uncanny resemblance to that of Picasso. | mean, this
kid was selling her paintings to movie stars! MOVIE STARS!!! All | could
wonder was why the fuck that wasn't ME up on stage explaining how, "my
uncle and | had seen a field full of sunflowers that we couldn't walk
through," and how it internally tortured me to the point where | had to
commemorate the deep, internal suffering in a vividly colourful painting.