in a mass of lime green, one single caladium has found a way.

i don’t know if it requires bravery in the plant world, if it requires standing tall, if it requires a thick skin impervious to statements against individuality or, worse, statements of prejudice. i don’t know how it got there. but somehow, this single caladium stem has grown out of the middle of the middle of an exploding sweet potato vine. and is flourishing. one rogue caladium in bubbles and bubbles of vine.

trying to thrive – as a one and only – surrounded by everything else that is different cannot be easy.

i was a northern transplant into a deep south environment. it was my first public school teaching job and my building was located down a long covered sidewalk, off into the literal swamp. with other varieties too creepy to try and remember, banana spiders – with leg spans up to five inches or so – had taken up housing in my little shed; the only thing to truly eradicate them – one by one – was a large shop-vac. i was thoroughly horrified.

in the way that the universe helps us adapt, there was a second-year teacher who quickly became my best friend. she was also a northerner, but was a sun goddess whose gentle and compassionate demeanor grounded me and helped me keep my feet.

i was out of my league. the rabbit and possum frying in the teacher’s lounge was foreign, the exposed outdoor passageways to portable classrooms were odd, the principal’s distinctly unique habit of jotting bizarrely-worded handwritten notes on torn scraps of paper and shoving them in teachers’ mailboxes seemed unprofessional. i was a caladium in a mass of sweet potato vine.

i got every childhood disease that year: chicken pox, german measles, various strange spring viruses. i ran the noisy air conditioner nearly every day in my tiny humidor shed. i learned to not ask innocent questions like “which grocery store sells possum?”. i learned to carry my lunch or eat vending-machine packages of lance crackers with cheese or peanut butter. i learned about a culture totally unlike what i was familiar with. i survived, a caladium in the midst.

and i loved the kids who came into my music shed, full of joy and, simultaneously, full of stories of need, stories of abuse, stories that could be hopeless.

later on – down the road a few years – i worked in that same town, taking a job as the victim/witness coordinator/counselor for the state attorney’s office. i was still a caladium.

in my role at the DA’s office, i was privy to the worst stories; my job involved the victims of heinous acts and violent crimes and/or the surviving family members of victims of violent crimes, horrific stories. the job was dark and light, both. empowering others who have been victimized – giving them voice – listening and hearing – is a profound responsibility. i was quickly fond of the clients we served, my heart broke for the circumstances of their cases. but i felt part of a team and we were all dedicated to serving.

yet, i was still a caladium. though thriving professionally, i still didn’t feel in my skin. it took years before i retrieved a sense of what that skin was.

we moved north.

and, in the short version of the very long story, i was – eventually – able to feel a sense of my skin.

as a recording and performing artist in the music industry, i finally reclaimed that which had been lost.

and then i realized it.

in the way of every artist – every artist in a burgeoning world of sweet potato vine – every artist who takes a chance, who follows an imperative, who is vulnerable, who is putting skin and heart on the table – for all to see, who dances in silence and in cacophony – in the rogue way of every artist – i was still a caladium.

*****

read DAVID’s thoughts this WEDNESDAY

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