In fourth grade, art class was supposed to be simple. We were told to draw a Christmas tree, and most kids copied the one on the board—perfect triangles stacked neatly, topped with a star. I did something different.
Growing up surrounded by art supplies, I noticed details. I drew thin needles, uneven branches, a slight lean—the way real trees actually grow. I handed it in feeling proud, expecting curiosity or at least a question.
Instead, my teacher frowned. She held my drawing next to another student’s and said mine was “wrong.” Then she uncapped a red pen and began correcting it—straightening branches, flattening texture, reshaping it into something familiar and safe.
“Look how the other children drew it,” she said, as if creativity followed rules.
The room felt smaller after that. I wasn’t angry—just confused. I stared at the identical trees on the wall and wondered why mine wasn’t allowed to exist as it was. The red ink felt less like guidance and more like permission being taken away.
I asked quietly, “But don’t real trees look different from each other?”
The room went silent. She paused, then moved on without answering.
Years later, I still remember that drawing—not because it was perfect, but because it showed how I saw the world. Sometimes being told you’re wrong is how you learn who you are. And sometimes, one question is enough to remind people there’s more than one right way to see.
