Tag You’re It:

In the words of Byron, “A drop of ink, may make a million think....”

My high-school art teacher, Mrs. Boaz loves to recite this quote every morning.

I looked up for roll call.

“Bristol Rose!” She announced.

“Present”, I answered staring blankly, then away in the middle of daydreaming.

I furiously shook my posca pens; as ideas flooded my mind like a comic strip, bright, neon, bubble letters crammed across the side of train cars. The concept filled the spread of my little black notebook pages.

A single black Rose, paint drips, purposely created by the nozzle being to close to the surface.

Flashing lime green, pink, white; and outlined in a chunky black...

Barbwire scars my skin, as I scratch my pseudonym into the steel.

The fumes of aerosol sprays unevenly and drippy...

“Inky Rose”, and yes,

before you come at me, with-

where, did I get the inspiration from my favorite show growing up, My Little Pony Friendship is Magic!

Being the rebel I am. I waited until, my old man fell asleep.

Quickly,

I gathered up cans of his spray paint, to meet at the crews secretive location.

Living in the heart of Seattle, the crew calls, “Track side”

The sound of trains, clack along railway ties.

BNSF, has colorful vagrants.

The yard is teaming with nightlife. As I stand, with a single Jansport backpack strap hanging off my shoulder. Just hoping , an unexpected rain shower would not destroy my creative juices. All the time it took to find the wrist control, would give anyone carpal tunnel.

All the while, Mikey the hobo plucked away a tune into the night air on his bango.

I snapped a photo of our collaboration. Making sure the art was in my phones’ camera roll.

As every street artist knows, if you get the proof, and are not caught. You sure as hell got away with it...

Now to clarify, this was not the first time, I have graced the community with my artistic flare. There are scribbles here and there against the concrete hillside,and above highway underpasses.

Many in the tent communities love my work, always asking, “Inky R , what will you draw next, as they thumb through my black notebook by a Colman lantern.

These people really inspire me, to keep going, as they are without four timbered walls, but still mange to get up every morning, and go to work...

Unfortunately, as I was heading home, the guard came down, and my father’s Astro Van was totaled. All I could see was a bright light of the train. My phone was slung under the seat, The whistle echoed in my ear; as the conductor desperately tried to stop.

I had flashes of my childhood,

of the times, my dad would be spray painting his truck steps, and I would be mesmerized by the tiny air bubbles, as the metal dried.

“Why are you using black spray paint daddy?” Young Bristol asked.

“Well, sweetheart, black spray paint repellent for rust.” Mr. Rose answered.

Then before I blacked out,

I saw the summer I spray painted my neighbors wall. When my dad found out. His punishment was to have me repainting the whole wall in the middle of Arizona heat . If that wasn’t enough , he took all of my art supplies and locked them away in a cabinet.

Faintly, I hear children laughing, running around screaming,” Tag you’re it.”

My unconscious body was pull from the vehicle with the jaws of life. As I was speedily rushed to the ER strapped to a gurney.

I saw my dad staring down as fluorescent lights blinded me. My legs were numb and tingling. I was rushed into a MRI capsule, that reminded me of a speedster from Star Wars.

As I painstakingly waited on results, the doctors confirmed:

I had indeed been paralyzed from the waist down.

Angry tears streaking down my skin.

“We’re going to keep you in our recovery room, while awaiting for a skin graft donor.”

I couldn’t move, as I was confined to a back brace.

I began counting the tiles on the ceiling. My father would come during visiting hours and every week bring me a new black sketchbook. With several posca pens, and fine tip sharpies. Even Mrs. Boaz, sent him my black sketchbook from Art.

Despite my dad’s many efforts.I just couldn’t bring myself to pick up a pen. Without hating the world, and feeling depressed. As the charge nurse asks me, “Point at which smiley face, is your pain level.”

While she silently charts away and checking my catheter bag.

I swear, this staff has seen more of me than any guy ever has...

As weeks, went by, I began to regain dexterity in my hands, it was like my brain had never forgotten the rhythm of the street art alphabet.

Soon, stacks of black notebooks covered my food table. The shift change nurse always brings food. Even when I am not hungry.

Partially asleep, I could hear paper rustling, books close, and pen caps snapping shut.

She muffled her excitement as she viewed my open sketchbook page.

The next morning, as the nurse was doing her rounds, she causally brought up my my tower of sketchbooks. “Bristol have you filled all of them?”She asked curiously.

“Almost,” I said quietly.

“You know, theres a art expo for young and upcoming artists, here in town. I saw on a flyer. You seem very prolific, and should consider entering. I could see about an entry fee application on my break. Grand prize, is 20,000?”

“Holy crap! No way!” I nearly cried.

When my dad made his daily visit. I told him the news. He agreed with the nurse, “Sweetheart, you’re art is unique, enough to place. I will help you get a portfolio together tomorrow.”

This was the first time, in a long time, was hopeful. I scribbled my signature on the application the nurse left on my bedside. My dad, sent in the best of my artwork photocopy’s of course...

Upon, my day of discharge of care from the hospital. My telephone rang, “is this Bristol Rose?

Yes, we here at Southside art, would like to extended you, a invitation of attendance for the art expo this weekend.”

“Does the event have wheelchair access?” I responded nervously.

“Of course...” She reported happily.

“Perfect!” I ended the conversations I was so ready to sleep in my own bed.

That my peers, is how I unexpectedly came into a large sum of money. With the money, I was able to attend the art school of my choice. Also, I was able to help my dad with medical bills, and give back to the tent communities.

This Vandal has turned a new visionary leaf. I’m very grateful graff artist, who finally made her mark on this space needle!

I wouldn’t be where I am today, without the wonderful nurses who took care of me...