For as long as I can remember, I have lived with the subconscious notion that I am very different from others in thought and deed. In pre-school, aged five, I received confirmation of this. The incident is imprinted on the film of my memory, for it confirmed my individuality and introduced me to the hardships which are associated with retaining one’s individuality.
We were required to colour in a drawing of a farm scene. Numerous farm animals roamed our pages: included among them was a sheep. Without thinking of the consequences, I coloured my sheep purple. On presenting the picture to the teacher, I was publicly ridiculed. “Look everyone! Chris has a purple sheep!”
Scornful laughter flapped like the wings of a thousand moths at the flame of my face. I dug a mental hole in the ground, crawled in, and waited for my embarrassment to end; for the moths to lose interest in my individuality. But they didn’t.
While I sat at my desk, longing for home-time, a girl with emerald eyes and honey-blonde hair walked up to me. In her outstretched hand she held her picture which, without saying a word, she placed on my desk before walking away. Tilting my head sideways to look at it, I saw that she had coloured in her picture beautifully, painstakingly, and at the centre of the page, floating giddily towards my gaze, was a purple sheep.
There are butterflies of immense beauty flapping about amongst the moths. These butterflies too are individuals. I crawled out of my hole and smiled.
