The devil is in the details, the dust devil, the devil on your shoulder. Devil, Devil, Devil. It’s the devil inside that’s got me. I keep my mouth shut so it doesn’t pop out. It sits inside, red with a long spiked tail. I never know when it might pop out.
“You’re ugly.” Ooops.
“Your drawing’s ugly.” Ooops.
“I hate you.” Ooops.
The devil’s there and I’ve been carrying it around since I was five. That’s when I first met the devil. I pointed to a girl’s ugly Thanksgiving turkey drawing. We’d all made those turkeys where you put your open hand on a sheet of paper and trace your fingers, creating that turkey shape. Ann Baker’s was ugly and I pointed to hers on the wall and somehow I touched it. I must have jumped up to touch it because they were pinned high above the green chalkboards.
The teacher swooped toward me, toward the falling turkey, and in that moment everyone knew I’d said, “Look, it’s ugly.”
I’m ashamed. I said Ann’s drawing was ugly. That isn’t me. The me who encourages everyone to draw, to sing, to write. That was the devil, a devil I hadn’t met until then. After that I didn’t say very much, I didn’t point, I didn’t gossip. I kept quiet just in case that red man inside had something to say.
“You are ugly, your art is ugly.” How awful. That’s not me, not the one I set out to be, even at five years old.
That kindergarten day I started to lie. Lying keeps the devil quiet, lying keeps him satisfied, like a dog who takes a bone from the neighborhood butcher and gnaws it noisily under a picnic table in the park, growling when children come by to look.
That’s my devil. I don’t know much about him because I’ve never given him a chance to dance around in front of me and embarrass me since Mrs. Graves looked at me in shame. Bad girl, you bad girl.
I don’t know if she knew why Ann’s turkey fell, that I’d said something and then the devil had thrown the picture down to reveal my evil, small side.
OK, devil. Devil, be gone, you’ve done your work, you did your work. I don’t need you lurking around anymore.
Maybe that’s why I hate the color red. Deviled eggs, diavolo, Mt. Diablo, diabolico, diva, divine, devotion. Devil be gone and turn into something quite different.
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I love the energy in this! Actually, it's what I've always loved about your free writing, you get totally caught up in the energy, in the restlessness of your own brain, and we can't help but get caught up with you. Oh yes, and once again, you've found a completely original and interesting voice. Really nice to be reading you again!
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