CRAYOLA VS. ROSE ART

Crayola vs. Rose Art

I remember the first day of the second grade at Mary B. Austin Elementary School. It was in a very good part of town. All the homes were the epitome of middle-class America. Every home had a dog, a picket fence, and a swing set. The streets of my neighborhood had a completely different aesthetic filled with trash, crack heads, and poverty. I only attended this school because my mama’s friend worked as a nanny in the same part of town. She used her employer’s address for her kid’s to have a better education. I knew I wasn’t supposed to be at the nice school because my mama’s friend instructed me to walk two blocks and go around the corner to get in her car after school every day. Although it was illegal for me to attend that school, I was grateful. I was given opportunities I know I wouldn’t have gotten had I attended the other schools in my neighborhood. Everyone on their first day of school was so excited with their fresh hairstyles and freshly ironed uniforms. The air was filled with the smell of newly purchase school supplies. I walked in and saw a sea of white children and I had never been around so many white kids in my life. I sat behind a white girl in class and her hair would cascade onto my desk. I didn’t mind because she let me play in her hair. The softness of her hair ran through my fingers like water. I wanted hair like hers. I wanted long soft flowing hair. But my barrettes never went passed my ears. During the first week of school, I pulled out my school supplies like all the other students and began working on the coloring worksheet on my desk. The girl in front of me had Crayola crayons. The two kids beside me and the boy behind me all had Crayola crayons. They colored with confidence. Their blues were deep and their reds were vibrant. I pulled out my Rose Art crayons and found that they didn’t color like the other students. They weren’t as pretty and vibrant on the page. I wanted Crayola crayons like everyone else. I wanted hair like everyone else. I wanted to be inclusive instead of strikingly different. I went home and asked my mama for a pack of Crayola crayons because they colored better than Rose Art.

“You not gettin’ no more damn crayons! I just bought you crayons!” She yelled

“But mama those crayons don’t color as good. You can’t see it on the paper. I’m the only one who has Rose Art.”

“I said you not getting no more crayons. You betta color with what I got you. That’s all I could afford.”

I knew Rose Art wasn’t as good as Crayola and I knew what I got was what I could get. I knew we didn’t live in that neighborhood. I knew our apartment was nothing like those homes by my school. I knew my hair would never be like the girl in class. I knew I was different. I knew I was poor. I realized that I was black and I associated that with less than. I knew we couldn’t get the Crayola crayons. And somehow I created the inner narrative that I wasn’t good enough for Crayola. I was just a Rose Art. For the rest of the year, I hid my crayons. I told the teacher I didn’t have any so I could borrow my classmates Crayola’s. I internalized the false belief that I was different and not as good as others.

It wasn’t just the crayons that communicated to me that being black, living in Prichard, being from Toulminville, being a girl, and being poor made me below others but the television shows, the news, and the community did as well. I knew then that being a Black female in America was a disadvantage.

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I HAVE SOMETHING TO SAY

JAPONICA BROWN