A mural for the students, by the students

Time alarm clock went off: 7:02 am (no zero period today!), Time wrenched myself from a perfect, serene sleep: 7:08 (very, very satisfactory), Time spent frantically telling myself I’d fail finals: 2 minutes, Time spent fussing over my impossibly frizzy, big hair: 6 minutes (perhaps my priorities need to be straightened out?), Time spent telling myself to stop worrying about how I looked: 3 minutes
This morning as I step out of the car, I open my eyes and see canvas: white, rough, spreading on and on and on. The day is blanketed with a cold drizzle; it drips from my hair to my forehead to the tip of my nose. This canvas I see is made up of the walls of my school. They long for the splat of paint, the breath between empty and creation. In a town so filled with arts and cheese and wine, in a haven for those who express themselves through their hands, their paint brushes, their pencils, their instruments, it is odd that the exterior of our only high school lacks pictures and scenes — lacks art. Yes, there is a mural in one hallway — a hallway where the lights always seem to be out — that was painted a long time ago, back when things were looser, when people had ideas and made them happen, when people took risks. There is the signature metal dragon that, rumor has it, breathes fire, perched in front of the office. Other than that, our school is a clean slate. It itches for color, contrast, life.
The subject of a possible mural is brought to the attention of the administrators. Apparently, there is a finished design that someone was ready to paint, but, alas, there was, still is not enough money to pay the painter, to pay for the paint. Surprise, surprise. Brains get thinking, minds get reeling and someone suggests that the students rally together, join hands, collect supplies, set aside time, create a masterpiece. This is quickly suggested to the administrators. People hold their breath, wait. Those blank walls grow restless, fidget, call to be dressed up, made over. Ah, but our governing adults have no faith. They are afraid that we who are mere students, we who will sacrifice our time, we who have fresh, introspective talent, we who want to make something and show it off, will mess up. I’ve always been taught that mistakes can’t be made in art. I’ve learned that anything whose ingredients are passion, sweat, love, laughter, work, challenge can’t be less than amazing. I believe these things. I believe that talent is not based on age, on gender, on race. I believe that an imperfect mural painted by students, by people who for seven hours a day, five days a week, live, breathe school, is more precious than a perfect mural painted by an outsider, a stranger. I believe too that with persistence, with attention and persuasion, our walls will soon sigh with relief, at last clothed after so many years of surviving in the nude.