I should preface by saying that I am not a graffiti artist. I don’t know anything about spray paint or even how to make a straight line with a ruler. I don’t really know people who actively spray paint. Despite these truths, I will say that I am rather like a graffiti artist. I fancy myself a writer and to know the struggles of a young writer is, essentially, like knowing what it is like to be a graffiti artist.
I didn’t always want to be a writer; I wanted to be a lawyer because I thought that lawyers were the luckiest people in the world because they got paid to argue. I’m sure just the same, a graffiti artist didn’t start out with the desire to make art out of walls and spray paint. Who knows? Maybe they wanted to be a doctor or a vet, or a dentist, or maybe, no one ever told them they could be whatever they wanted to be.
To be honest, I had not given graffiti artists any thought for a few years. That is, until I had seen a tag that struck me; “sick of it all.” I saw it on an old train cart. It was small, but reminded me of the Mona Lisa; somehow important. Or at least, it was important to me. When I saw it, I remember literally sitting back in my seat and thinking you and me both, bud. I can’t decide if my reaction had to do with it being the end of the day and I was tired and I was heading home on the train or if this person somehow hit upon something deep within me. Maybe a little bit of both.
Sick made me think of my humbler beginnings, back around the time that I still wanted to be a lawyer and I spent most of my days on a “Huffy,” mountain bike. I rode around the neighborhood with my older sister, Elise, and our friends, also sisters, Sara and Emily. Looking back, we never really worried about things beyond our control. I would venture to say our issues where non-existent, that is until Sara and Emily’s father died from cancer. The trouble started when Sara started acting up. But before that, everything was as simple as hopping on your bike and racing around the neighborhood.
I never worried about losing my home. Not even when dad’s company was getting rid of a lot of employees as it had been purchased by a larger company, did I worry about a different life. And even so, I knew that no matter what, my parents would figure something out. In this environment, my imagination and my childhood was always protected by the love of my parents. Well, what about Sick? Did he or she grow up in a nurturing environment? Did he worry about losing his home?
Sick of it all made me wonder if my typical assumptions about a graffiti artist’s life was correct. I imagined a little boy who grew up in a tumultuous household where expression was not allowed. Now I imagine the little boy as an African American, because statistics are a lesson in stereotyping and racially profiling people. I imagine him listening to a fight in the room next door. I imagine that little boy would have to drown it out with hip hop music. I imagine that this little boy was never encouraged to read or to write. Or maybe he is like my pseudo-intellectual idealistic ex-boyfriend that I had a few years ago. Actually, the last time I thought of graffiti was probably in one of our long debates. Why can’t this young fledgling be like him though? I imagine this little boy sitting in silence reading and rereading Calvin and Hobbes and doodling on the corner of his homework. Why can’t Sick be like that?
The reality is that I’m not actually similar to Sick at all. Because for one, I’ve never met this person so I can’t actually know for sure. But also because he and I try to communicate our thoughts to people in completely different ways. Ever since I started reading avidly, I have wanted to use words to transport someone beyond their own reality. Sick tries to do the same thing visually. The closest I can get to visual story telling is if I were to write a screen play. But the finished product that you would see on the screen is quite different from what I personally would write. Scripts are movies, but then, they also are not films. Not yet, at least.
I could argue that the way that graffiti artists are punished by the police is similar to the way that some writers are treated, getting paid significantly less than say, publishing companies or actors. But perhaps that is a stretch. I will say that the disdain that a graffiti artist would feel is probably very similar to what a writer such as myself, feels. I’ve been going to school for a very long time and I can say that I have seen many advisors in that time. And I have seen their faces fall and their focus shift when I told them what I wanted to do. I wish I could say that I have been met with support for my future endeavors but that has not been the case at all. So what if I don’t want to be a doctor!? So what if I don’t want to be a computer engineer?! So what if Sick wants to change the blank brick wall in front of him into something colorful and vibrant?
I don’t think it is realistic to tell someone that one thing is right or that one thing is wrong. I don’t think a writing career is any worse than being a graffiti artist. It’s just different. That’s all. This conclusion reminds me of my yoga students. A lot of times I will have a new student come and join my class. I can always tell when they like the class, but perhaps struggled with the practice, because they will approach me after class. More often than not, the students are female and, perhaps insecure about their body. Women feel, for some reason, that they need to apologize for their bodies. I’m not really flexible. I’m trying to lose weight. Maybe if I lost some weight I could do that pose. I don’t have a yoga body. That was the biggest shock to me, becoming a teacher. These girls are programmed to think that the correct yogi is a thin, flexible, beautiful girl. It’s as if they believe that these perfect girls are closer to bliss or nirvana or true happiness because they have the correct physique. Someone has been lying to them. I assure the girls that if they have lungs and a pumping heart and a brain that animates their limbs and skeleton, well, then they have got a yoga body.
Just the same, I would prefer that people not harass my friend the graffiti artist. If he was compelled enough to write “sick of it all” on a train, I think people should wonder about what this person risked a monetary fine to put on a train. Rather than punishing this person, I think someone should ask him of what is he sick of? What is it like to walk in your shoes? Just the same, before people assume that I will be one of those “noncontributing,” Americans who will work several jobs to support themselves so that they can write, these offenders should ask important questions. Ask me if I care about being poor. Ask Sick if he would like to trade the sensation of creating art for working as a stuffed shirt. Ask us, I dare you.