When Art Heals

Photo by   Nathan Fertig   on   Unsplash I was twelve years old when I left my childhood home for the first time. I was starting an adventure at a new boarding school, in the mountains of North Carolina. My "home" would be amongst friends and faculty there for the next three years. While I missed my childhood home, I knew that one day, I'd return to it.  I left home, once more, when I was fifteen. This time, to a boarding school tucked away into a mountainside in Pennsylvania. Again, I missed my childhood home, but I knew it was a place I'd always return to. When the holidays came, I went home. When summertime came, I went home. That little house in the center of the cul de sac was a staple in my life. No matter how cluttered it got, or how unkempt the yard was going to be, that little place is where I grew up.  The brown brick home, surrounded by tall trees, and a rolling green grass yard, was the place where I took my first steps, said my first words, and made...

Photo by   Kristina Tripkovic   on   Unsplash TRIGGER WARNING: Bullying, mild racism, and brief mention of sexual assault.  ***** I remember not fitting "in" with the "cool kids" from a very young age. I can't remember as far back as preschool, but I'm pretty sure no one really cared what I looked like or how I acted, then. Young children are the best teachers in that way - for they aren't concerned with looks nor are they set out to become the "most popular kid of all." They are far more concerned if you have the wrong sandbox toy and who to share (or not share) their chocolate chip cookie with. But elementary school was a completely different story.  I was adopted from South America when I was a baby, into a well-to-do white family. This meant that I lived in a nice neighborhood, with plenty of other children, and grew up in a very white-dominated community. Which, for the most part, was fine. But started to pose an issue when I arrived on t...