Mama reads about an art class offered Saturday mornings in Ramona Park by a world- famous painter. Mr. Gavinsky, 83, showed at the World’s Fair in Chicago in 1933. She encourages me to take the class because I keep a sketchbook and draw all the time. Drawing, I’ve discovered that all objects are animate. But it’s the pleasures of following the lines of the human body that I especially love. Mr. Gavinsky is crabby and his paintings are not interesting to me, muted landscapes of oranges and browns. To me the land is electric, fuchsia, indigo, silver. Still, I’m excited about learning something. But he ignores me, talks only to the middle-aged women who comprise the rest of the class. On the third Saturday he asks me if I don’t think I should drop the class. “A girl like you couldn’t possibly be interested in what I have to offer. Besides, you are distracting.” I leave quickly, walking towards town. Fighting the tears. Inside I’m screaming. How dare you think you know who I am! But anger is something a girl like me cannot show. As with so many feelings that give away the heart. The privacy. It’s all you have. ou are too beautiful for your age,” the president of the Board of Education says when I enter the essay-speech contest on democracy to win a trip to the United Nations in New York City. My grade on the essay on which our names are not printed is fifteen points higher than the fabulous retro clothing tons ot menswear collecfible costume jewelrg rhinestones old mexican silver vintage watches My Father's Place Restaurant & Lounge 523 S.E. Grand, Portland (503) 235-5494 10 Clinton St. Quarterly—Summer, 1988
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