Ode to a Savage

To Mrs. Savage,

You were everything I thought a great teacher wasn't. You mocked my paintings and singled me out in class, almost like a bully. When I asked you how you were able to capture the perfect ellipses on your sterling silver bowls, coffee cups, and vases, you told me all I had to do was look. Nothing more. And you'd walk away.

Our first project was to paint a coffee cup. I painted the ugliest looking coffee cup, because I was so angry that you refused to show me how or what it meant to really "look" at something. Years later, a decade or more after I graduated, I would finally understand what it meant to really see something by looking at the negative space around the object, instead of focusing on the object itself. How hard would it have been for you to suggest looking at things from a different perspective?

You required that we mixed our own colors. We were allowed the 5 basics: cadmium red, primary yellow, pthalo , Black and titanium White. I asked you how you got the colors of your paintings so spot-on. You told me to punch a hole through a piece of cardboard, peer through it, and observe the color I was looking at. You didn't tell me that by adding yellow to purple or green to red would help darken or lighten the color values (rather than adding white or black). You just told me to look and figure it out. I was an art student attending college to LEARN how to be an artist, not because I already knew the tricks of the trade. Eventually, long after graduating, I learned them without the paralyzing fear of your judgement, because I never truly gave up wanting to paint.

The last semester of my senior year I had top grades in all of my other classes, except yours. You told me that you wouldn't give me the grade I deserved in your figure drawing class because my overall performance over the PAST four years at school wasn't up to your standards. You didn't think I made my education a top priority. If you raised my grade by less than one point, I would have graduated with honors. Instead, I was devastated when I graduated just 0.2 points under the requirement to graduate with honors. I worked so hard to get so far, but you prevented me from reaching my dream.

In my last semester, I took 15 units to graduate on schedule. You forced me to take an anthropology course in linguistics, designed for students majoring in that field. I was a fine arts major. You made me take a class which the admissions office advised that I take pass/fail, but I opted to take it for a grade anyway. I knew it was a risky choice, yet I ended up writing a senior thesis paper, for an "elective" course, that I previously knew nothing about. I got a accolades from the professor for receiving the highest grade in the course. I also fell in love with a subject I would have likely not sought out on my own, if it wasn't for you hoping I'd fail.

You were surprised at how well I did in that class, but not impressed or pleased enough to raise my grade in your figure drawing class by ONE point so I could graduate Cum Laude. You weren't satisfied by my collective academic performance over the past 4 years. You were my college advisor. You told me that I never took my education seriously, despite having better than average grades in every class, aside from yours and one statistics course. I rarely got grades below an A-. It still wasn't good enough for you, because I was absent from class more often than you thought a good student should be.

You assumed I was just another rich kid at school out partying with my peers, because I looked the part on the outside. Maybe you didn't know that I had to work full time to support myself through school, had few friends, and didn't really have a life of the average college kid. Maybe you didn't want to recognize that the days I missed class were usually the days I was sitting in the halls of a court house waiting to be called as a witness and a victim of a serial ,child rapist, which ended up being convicted with the help of my testimony, after three long years.

Occasionally, I had to choose between coming to class or working an extra shift to cover my bills. Even the signed and dated notes from the judge to excuse my absences due to court dates meant nothing to you. Your disregard for my personal situation just pushed me to fight harder. I was more determined to succeed than half the students who were unlucky enough to have you as their advisor, but you never saw it in me. You just rolled your eyes any time I asked you for an extension on a project. I turned it what I had time to work on. If you would have given me an extra week the few times I asked, my work would have been so much better.

Your doubt in my artistic abilities scared me away from the canvas for almost fifteen years. After yet another tragic life event, I decided to try painting again to guide me through a difficult time. I ended up meeting a well known artist in my community who soon became my good friend. After months, I finally let him see the paintings I was working on, thinking I would be mortified.

Instead he pointed out my use of colors and the emotion he could see in each brush stroke. He saw that I painted my emotions with the way I moved the brush across the canvas and my use of bold colors as complex and faceted like shimmering jewels.

He asked me why I hadn't considered showing my art in public. I eventually did, and I sold my first piece for twelve hundred dollars in my first show. I've since been commissioned to do many more paintings. I eventually became a confident painter when I started to embrace using paint the way I liked to, instead of thinking the only right way to paint well was like you.

I find it ironic that you taught at a christian college, claiming to be a devout christian woman, yet had absolutely zero compassion for my situation. Isn't compassion a cornerstone in this religion you claim to practice? I learned form your example what my true priorities in life would always be. I never wanted to be a a jaded, bitter, heartless woman like you who stole the joy of learning and confidence of her students, only to replace those things with shame of not knowing things and self doubt . I swore to myself my senior year that my highest priority in life wouldn't be my college education or how to paint a coffee cup, but how to learn to ALWAYS show people kindness and have empathy and compassion for others. Life lessons one doesn't usually learn in a brick and mortar building, whether or not it bears the cross of Christ, but the most valuable life lesson anyone could ever learn.

I used to tell people you were the worst teacher I ever had, Mrs, Savage. I thought it was so kitsch that you actually lived up to your last name. I don't know why you hated me so much, but I'm so glad you did. Just as I taught myself how to perceive the physical world by looking at the negative space around the objects I wanted to render in my art work. You taught me how to to perceive the aspects of the world one can't see by your disenchanting performance as an educator.

In the last few days of women's history month, I wanted to honor you with this article, Sue Savage. I wouldn't be the person I am today without attempting to overcome the road blocks you consistently pushed into my path. I wouldn't be the writer I am, the artist I am or the moral human being I am if you would have been a good at your chosen profession. So thank you, from the bottom of my heart, for being a savage teacher that allowed me to learn some of life's more important lessons which have molded me into the person I am today. It's funny how life works out like that. The worst teacher I ever had taught me what I needed to learn the most.