I don’t see with my eyes, I feel with my soul.  

All my life I’ve seen ugliness in pretty packages and found great beauty in things overlooked or rejected.  Infrequently was I daunted to speak what I sensed, what seemed apparent -- no matter the age, authority or mass of those blind to it.  This rebellion of truth, in my ignorance of a world filled with comfortable lies, often won me the title of “troublemaker”.  That reputation is part of what led me to identify with things wicked.  

This anecdote takes place when I was just a wee demon in the third grade, at a tiny grade school that no one ever heard of but remains standing to this day.  My friends were Sal, who was always trying to out draw me, Mike, a spirited little guy that rooted us on and Rachael, who wore braids and whose folks had a small farm in their back yard.  I can still see them in the back of my mind.  My teacher was named Ms. Westfall, a heavy-set woman with puffy hair who always wore plastic-rimmed glasses and patterned dresses.  She liked me for being different, God bless her.  This never happened again in public school.  

Ms. Westfall was also the first teacher to ever give me a good note to take home to my mother.  Isn’t it rotten to make children deliver a note criticizing themselves, certain to bring punishment from their own parents?  Ach, the stress that caused me!  Especially since I was, as explained above, so often in some sort of trouble.  Ms. Westfall also didn’t make me feel bad when my dyslexic habits tripped me up.  The word “dyslexia” wasn’t even known then, so it took special patience to believe I wasn’t making such foolish mistakes because I was stupid or doing it on purpose.  I always got it right eventually though thanks to my mother and she giving me extra attention.  

We had art class once a week.  Our teacher was a man with a dark beard who took his subject seriously and therefore was frequently not in a good mood, since he taught people who could barely use crayons.  Children do not understand that sort of complex emotion in adults, they simply suffer in confusion.  I can't remember his name, but my talents allowed me to be the only person who seemed to be able to put him in a good mood.  Yeah, you shoulda seen what I could do with aluminum foil and cellophane!  It sounds funny but I’m serious.  Anyway, one week we were given the assignment of drawing someone in our class with just regular pencil.  That person would draw us in turn.  Everyone knew I was the best artist and wanted me to draw their picture.  

Now, there was one girl in our class named Ellen. Something was wrong with her, but I never found out what because I didn't ask.  That didn’t matter to me.  She had a back brace and sometimes needed to be in a wheel chair.  She also wore very thick glasses, was frail and had an awkward way of speaking. No one wanted to draw her.  People barely wanted to talk to "Smellin' Ellen", but I did.  I sincerely liked her as a person.  I always liked people who were different and/or sincere.  I hated the way the other kids treated her.  I didn’t get it.  As if the girl could do anything about the conditions she suffered from, as if she’d ceased somehow to be human.  To me, people like Ellen were like hidden treasures.  

I decided to draw Ellen. I made her beautiful.  Oh, the artwork looked like her, but I put the beauty into the shading and texture and features. Still life was my specialty, my passion.  Most kids couldn't even make their eyes even, let alone draw a realistic nose.  Eventually, I helped the other kids out a little, but my focus was on the girl that I chose. In the end, it was such a great picture that it hung in the hallways of the school before I got to take it home. However, no longer do I possess the picture because I gave it to her.

I don't know where you are anymore Ellen, but I still think about you. Who was ugly?  Who was evil?