Thursday, October 13, 2011

Did you have the big box of crayons when you were a kid?

I've really been slacking on the upkeep of this blog lately....and today is no different. Well, actually, that's not true. It IS different because I am creating a new post....but I have to admit, I'm merely recycling an old blog I wrote back when blogs were made out of paper and were called 'columns'.

I originally wrote this column in March 1998. I was a sophomore at Purdue University and I had a gig writing for the school newspaper.

I wrote a weekly column, but this one was a last minute gem. It was a result of equal parts procrastination, panic and utter desperation. I was the editor of the opinions page, and if a writer didn't turn in his work, I had to fill the hole. Without much further ado, here is what filled that hole...

Original Title:

Crayons color Orth's Memories

(Disclaimer: Information provided in this essay may or may not be exaggerated for entertainment purposes only.)

Do you stay in the lines?

Last week, a close friend of ours celebrated its 40 birthday.

First announced on the "Captain Kangaroo" show in 1958, the 64-crayon Crayola box with the built-in sharpener continues to be an icon in the elementary art community....and for those no longer of age to be considered part of this younger society, it is something that still frames many childhood memories.

Some may look back at the big daddy of crayon boxes with nostalgia and others may not feel so warm and fuzzy about it.

Picture it. Indiana. 1984....

In what seemed to be an idyllic first grade classroom, there was a darker subtext which was mostly ignored by adults that witnessed it. It was an unspoken hierarchy governing each and every student...the Crayon System.

That's right. As young as six years old, children are able to spot designer brands and more impressive belongings...even in what seem to be the most inconsequential accessories....crayons.

The Crayon System was a good, old fashioned social schema based on material posessions alone.

It was quite simple really.

Those with the 64-crayon box were the elite.

Those without it were shunned from elementary school society.

No matter how much I begged, my mother just would not break down and buy me that beautiful box with its many, many colors and exotic sharpener built in.

In her mind, she was being economical and rational. She thought, why does any child need that many colors!? ...And a sharpener? Puh shaw! Just rub your crayon back and forth at a 30 degree angle to the paper until a point emerges or a hand cramp forces you to take a break...it's character building!"

My mother had no way of knowing that the extra crayons in that big box not only represented a better color selection....they represented a better way of life.

FORTY more crayons could open a lot of doors for a first grader like me...

I remember pulling out my tiny box of crayons on the first day. My eyes darted around the room as I took stock of what the others kids had.

The 64 kids would hoard their exotic array of colors while us peasants tried to make the best of our paltry selection. As we were trying to decide whether to use orange or yellow for Barbie's face, they would relish in the authenticity of their flesh tone colors....but the inequality did not end with the peach color alone. Oh no, there were others.

They had all the good colors that didn't even exist in the 24-box world...colors like burnt sienna and carnation pink and cornflower and magenta. They did not just have "red", they had brick red and violet red and original red. At Christmas time, they had gold and silver...the presents they drew under their "forest green" pine trees looked tantalizingly real...and fancy.

How I longed to create such colorful images!

On most days, I was content to make up for my lack of choices in innovative ways. If I needed grey to color an elephant the appropriate color, I learned to use black with gentle pressure...giving the illusion of grey. When I wanted to make a tree seem more lifelike, I blended shades to represent the cornucopia of color on a fall day.

Most of the 64 kids admired my ingenuity and gave up trying to make me jealous but every group has that one jerkface that finds a new way to show off.

Bobby Smardle was my arch nemesis. He not only had the 64 box. He had multiple 64 boxes at his disposal for when his favorite colors got too run down for his liking. He was the kid who had everything.

If we were talking about Alexander Graham Bell, he'd have to raise his hand to point out that his house had TEN phones and he would be sure everyone knew that he even had one of his very own in his bedroom.

When we read "James and the Giant Peach", he had to tell everyone about the peach tree his grandma had in her yard.

He even claimed to have a drinking fountain in his own house one time! (...but I'm pretty sure he lying about that one.)

This kid had an annoying anecdote for pretty much every topic our teacher introduced.

Ok, I know this sounds cruel, but sometimes, on days when Bobby Smardle was feeling particularly mean, he would run down his crayons ON PURPOSE just so he could sharpen them right in front of us! He didn't stop there, either. He would often rally the other 64 kids to do the same, turning into a mass sharpening us 24 box kids had to suffer through. (I know what you're thinking...and I agree. They were mean little fuckers..)

Oh, we would try to shake it off, pretending not to notice; pretending not to care when our pencil sharpeners got clogged with crayon wax...but inside? DEEP down? We HURT.

A lot of kids cracked under the pressure. They would lose it and try to steal a wayward crayon when one of the 64 box kids weren't looking.

Others tried to sneak a sharpening in here and there.

It affected me, too. I became a crayon hoarder.

Because I had such a limited supply, I tended to be somewhat overprotective of my crayons.

Every crayon had its own special place in the box. In order to borrow a crayon from me, people had to first prove that they were worthy. It was of the utmost importance to weed out the irresponsible crayon borrowers...those who ate them; those who broke them; and those who tore the beloved Crayola wrapper off. (In case you are not aware: Once the wrapper was gone, the crayons were essentially garbage.

Crayon memories...there is a neverending supply of them in this rambling old mind of mine, but I've got to stop at some point.

Yes, the crayon hierarchy was, indeed, an influential piece of my history pie...but I'm proud to say I overcame this early experience of segregation and discrimination.

I may not have had the most colorful pictures to hang on the wall back then, but I certainly have a wealth of shades in my memories.

Maybe that's why my mother chose not to get me so many colors.

Perhaps, she knew that the colors I had inside of me could outshine anything that Crayola could think up...yes, now that I see it in print, that must be the reason...

Not that any of this matters anymore. I'm an adult now. Crayons are crayons! I'm over it.

Now, if you'll excuse me, I have a lot of crayon sharpening to do before lunch.

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