Until 11th grade, I more or less took teachers for granted. In my eyes, they were all players in a vast network of intimidation and shame, bestowed by some distant institutional God the power to make hell in my private life when I lingered stubbornly at the shores of adulthood. Were they human? Probably not. More likely the offspring of a government assembly line in the catacombs of the Department of Education. As far as I was concerned, high school was a suicide mission designed to tear us apart until we resigned our creativity, our individuality, every fragment of our souls to a handful of pathetic, numbing stereotypes. Teachers were just cogs in the machine.

At some point, I fell on my face and realized that my feet were missing, lost in thick trails of blood and sinew along the highway between pre adolescent self righteousness and post high school self loathing. After eleven years of free schooling I was hopeless, bitter, and frustrated as much by my own cultural myopia as that which I roundly criticized in my peers. Art saved my life. Art teachers saved my life. Five or six among at least a hundred faculty members with at least as many opinions on the decadence of youth, the man and women who gracefully managed the art hall operated on a creative frequency that seethed with vibrancy and life. They invited me into their classrooms as a creative equal, quickly dissolving my skepticism of the snobbish 'art world' I knew from too many videos on Jasper Johns. For perhaps the first moment in my public education, I felt warmly embraced by a group that thrived on its desire for self actualization. The sterile objectivity I commonly associated with school not was not only de-emphasized in art class; it was antithetical to the notion of creativity.

I found suddenly that many students who struggled in academic classes were intense, powerful artists. Their vehicle for expression was thick, visceral, swollen with prophetic immediacy. They were a quiet community, but their silence belied the explosive beauty of their work. And the teachers loved it. They nurtured every interest, demanded student conviction, and (I thank them most for this) allowed us to struggle. If not for the gracious tolerance and perceptive advice of my art instructors, I would have given up ship and drowned after two weeks of painting. It was in their patient hands that I found my voice, both as a student and as a creative human being, and their determination as teachers improved my entire academic experience. Exploring the cultural contexts of artists I admired and participating in regular critiques with my peers facilitated a level of self and social awareness that quickly bled over into other classroom environments. I no longer felt obliged to take crap from ancient, tenured professors who wasted class after class preaching their personal values as historical fact. Likewise, I learned to acknowledge the cultural divides that generated conversational friction in discussions of literature or social issues topics. High school continued its incessant distribution of state-approved misinformation, but I had finally discovered a means of resistance.

Even more important then their prowess as creative instructors was the emotional availability of my art teachers. They humanized teaching for me, brought it down out of the machine and proved that standing behind a desk can't mask the dreams, desires, and defeats intrinsic to individual growth. When one of my dearest friends endured a period of hospitalization and deep depression, they helped me re-stabilize by offering their own experiences in similar situations as guidance. When some of my work caught administrative flak over its content, they negotiated with the principal and found a compromise that protected my rights to creative freedom. Throughout the two years during which I studied in their program, the art faculty displayed nothing but understanding. Their defensive commitment to student individuality generated a sense of self worth in the community that encouraged open communication and generated a desire for activism in and outside of school. Many of the kids I worked with (myself included) incorporated gallery displays and art-oriented discussions into a series of benefit events designed to raise public awareness on a variety of individual/social issues. I can't argue that art class was the only positive aspect of my public education, but the level of cooperation and collective determination displayed by both the students and their instructors was something I have yet to experience in another academic environment. I am unsure at this point in my life if I will pursue teaching as a profession, but the inspiration I gained working with my high school's art instructors thoroughly transformed my perceptions of education. I can only hope to carry some of their energy and passion into my own future, whatever it holds.

Bryan Depuy and Jason Levitt, American University