I remember myself as a child. Honestly, I don’t remember being any different. Except the world was a lot bigger, and the bathtub seemed as big as a swimming pool. I always watched people skip across the school ground and listened to the sound of shoes squeaking against the black top.

I was so good at watching people. It was a daily activity which was enjoyable to say the least. My mind was always in the clouds, and it didn’t matter to me if I was alone. Nobody would want to play anyway.I tried, really. But people were always closed minded. They judged me for the way my eyes were shaped, my foreign background, and how I didn’t speak or understand their mother tongue. 

I was bullied  physically, verbally and experienced racism. People did give me a hard time,  buut in the end, none of it mattered. The sky was still blue, the clouds painted pictures, and my dreams were still there. 

Besides, I did have one friend. His name was Señor Jiménez. He was a student teacher and he majored in art. At the time he was attending college. Jiménez was always there, parked under the big tree in the playground. He drew beautiful pictures and we created together.

I played the harmonica for him plenty of times (thinking I was good) and he sat against the bark behind him and closed his eyes. Our minds wandered and we kept on dreaming with the random notes flying in the air. 

Fourth grade rolled around and it was his last year staying at school. So was mine. 

I was finally moving. We were sitting under the same tree and I remembered telling him 

“You’re so lucky you’re older! I wish I were already older…that way people might take me seriously.” 

Then he looked at me and gave a light chuckle. He said 
“Aye, m’hija…be glad you’re still young. Enjoy the time you have. Never wish things like that because time now is precious…sometimes I wish I were a kid again. It was so much easier.” 

At the time I didn’t understand his words, but now I do. I still remember him laughing, apologizing for talking nonsense. But he said “You’ll understand when you’re older.” Then the last thing he told me was to keep on drawing and striving for the better things in life. 

I took my notebook full of drawings and scribbles and wrote: 

“Once upon a time, an artist was born and the name was ____ (on the paper, it was actually blank, with an underscore and everything), Magical hands would paint magical pieces on a blank canvas everyday, creating another world for their mind to escape. The artist carried so much potential, their ambitions became their confidence, and they had so much to prove to the world”

Sometimes, when we grow up we lose sight of what we’re good at. We become so hard on ourselves we forget all of our hard work. I think that we have to go back to our child-like mentalities to be able to appreciate our little successes.