Eye of the Beholder
The smell of bacon sizzling in the cast iron skillet hastens my efforts to get downstairs. I want the burnt, crispy pieces. As I’m tying my shoes, I remember.
It’s today.
My school has an annual flower show. I’ve been indifferent about it for weeks, but suddenly I want to participate. No, I want to win. In a few short hours all the students at Casis Elementary will file past large cafeteria tables, placed end to end in the wide hallways, surveying their peers’ artistic interpretations of spring. It’s a school tradition. Some entries will be elaborate, displaying perfect, fragrant blossoms in ornately woven containers. These will belong to the rich kids, whose mothers “assisted” them, both practically and financially. Others will be understated, comprised of wildflowers, a rusty horseshoe or a bow fashioned from dried raffia. For each grade there will be a first, second and third place winner.
My mom is cracking the eggs just as I walk into the kitchen. Knowing I ‘ll have to come up with something in the next five minutes, I grab a broken shell, rinse it out and walk out the door—completely unaware of its inherent symbolism. After a quick survey, I pick a few sprigs off of flowering bushes and place them in the eggshell.
It’s better than nothing, I think.
That afternoon, after hours of anticipation, we, the citizens of Miss Osborne’s fourth grade class spill into the corridor, single file. Everyone is looking for their own entry. Even though I know mine was last-minute, my heart falls a little when I see that it didn’t even garner an honorable mention.
What did I expect? I created it on a whim.
Fast forward 12 months.
Once again, I awaken the morning of the show with the realization that I’ve dragged my creative feet and have nothing to submit. Even though I’m now a fifth grader, I’m still scarce on ideas and have precious few resources. However, this year my teacher has made our participation mandatory. I must submit something unless I want a zero. In an act of profound laziness, I create the exact same entry as the year before—though this time I have to waste an egg to get my “vase.” I halfheartedly drop it by the cafeteria on my way to class, hoping that no one remembers that I did the same thing last year.
When the time comes to parade around the tables, I’m paying close attention to all the other entries because I am under no illusion that mine is in the running. I’m just hoping that I didn’t get busted for doing the same thing two years in a row. As I wait for the line to move I glance ahead and spot my tiny cracked egg, nestled between a cowboy boot full of cattails and large wreath made out of twigs and berries. I am relieved that it isn’t sticking out.
As the line inches forward I spot what looks like my entry form, hastily scribbled with a dull pencil. I also see a blue ribbon, which I assume belongs to the boot. I am shocked, however, when a few steps later I see that it’s pinned to mine.
I won first place.
I am ecstatic, and also very confused.
How did this happen?
The concept is the same. The materials are the same.
The only variable?
The judge.
A different person was in command of the narrative.