How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Love Crafting
I can confidently say that I don’t remember much from middle school, but one thing I do remember is 8th grade crafts class.
I remember walking in on that first day and choosing a desk between two friends, who were twins. But not the kind of twins who dressed alike, but the kind who chose to sit a row away from each other, giving me equal access to chitchat with both.
Everyone smelled like new clothes and hair gel, which would only be replicated on picture day. And all the mid-pubescent voices talked about their summers, their schedules, and each other. Until the teacher walked in.
I immediately pegged Mr. Crow as a short man, probably around 5’5” or so. He had an incredibly round head, a buzz cut, a red face, and a nose that upturned just slightly, giving all a view of his nostrils. He wore a navy blue windshirt that I would later learn was an everyday outfit, making me wonder about the contents of his closet back at home.
I sat up straight and gave him my full attention, making sure that he knew I was serious about learning the art of crafts. As he launched into the syllabus, I allowed myself a lingering glance around the room. I knew most of these students, but they didn’t know just how special and different I was:
I was a straight A student.
I hadn’t received less than an A in any class since 2nd grade when they switched from handing out gold stars and “Good Job!” stickers to the real-world’s metrics: letter grades.
It hadn’t always been easy, but I found school to be my favorite pastime. And the rush I felt when I received my first straight A report card was a high I chased every semester afterward with equal gusto. My 3rd grade self was just as insufferable as my 8th grade self. I can admit that.
As Mr. Crow took attendance, I quickly noticed he already had a relationship with the boys in the class who played football. He was obviously their coach, which explained the windshirt and buzz cut. I didn’t sweat it though, I knew I could catch up when he saw my sheer determination and crafting brilliance on full display.
Looking back, it was clear that Mr. Crow didn’t care one bit about crafts or determination. He simply taught this class to fuel his real passion in life: coaching middle school sports. I was naïve, but can you really blame me?
Project #1: Dioramas
I pulled out a pencil and paper as he gave us our first assignment: an introductory diorama. The objective was to transform an ordinary shoe box into a spectacular scene of self-expression. We’d all get to know one another by presenting our shoe boxes – sorry, our dioramas – in front of the class and explaining why we crafted the scene we chose.
The challenge was set. I was more than up to the task.
The day of our presentations came, and I cradled my precious box with the tender love, attention, and anxiety of a new mother. I had chosen to create a forest theme in my diorama. I made paper trees and leaves that filled the space. I made a little version of me, playing under the canopy with a butterfly net in hand and my long-legged dog, Radar, by my side. I painted the green hills and blue sky that made up my backyard in the Teton National Forest and even found some green felt in my mom’s craft cabinet that made a perfect strip of idealistic grass for my excitable feet. I was intensely proud of my work as I greeted my friends and slid into my seat.
I got my grade a few days later. We walked into the room to find the song “Mr. Mom” by Lonestar blaring from Mr. Crow’s speakers. Not only that, but he was singing along at the top of his untrained voice. As we filed in, he turned down the volume and explained that his wife was traveling and that he was taking care of his three children alone. We 13-year-olds didn’t know how to react to this sudden peek behind the curtain of the life and challenges of a 40-something.
When he got no reaction, Mr. Crow sighed and started handing out his grading sheets on our dioramas. I looked quickly at mine: an A, of course. I smiled inwardly but kept my face perfectly impassive as everyone else took in the news with equal amounts of outward emotion. We were already on to our next project, so there simply wasn’t time for gloating.
Project #2: Popsicle Sticks
Mr. Crow showed us a house made of popsicle sticks and explained that we were to recreate our dream homes using only that material and glue. He said he was going to grade much harsher than the last project, especially on precision and creativity.
He then spent the rest of class explaining in great detail how he shaves his head: which kind of electric razor he uses, the specific attachments, and just how often to ensure a consistent buzz.
Knowing I had this in the bag, I immediately hightailed it to the craft store, (meaning I waited until my mom could take me during our weekly trip to the nearest big city). I bought everything I needed and got to work. I envisioned a mid-century stunner of a house and thought popsicle sticks would make the perfect cladding for something Frank Lloyd Wright-ish.
After hours of gluing, trial, error, and some sweat on my brow, I had something I could be proud of. Was it perfect? No. But I think my attention to detail would overcome the slight lopsidedness of the house and the dried glue sticking out from some of the window casings.
A few days later, I tenderly set the house down on my desk as some of my classmates ooo’d their impressions of my work. I made it a point to compliment my friends’ popsicle houses as well. They were actually very good and I loved seeing what everyone came up with. I loved my design most of all, but I figured that was the point of crafting to begin with. I felt confident.
Which was why a few days later when we got our grades back, I was stunned to find a sharp B on top of my grading rubric. Mr. Crow had pointed out in barely legible script that the house was not structurally sound: it had a lean to it and one good gust of wind would knock it right over. I had to admit it was true. My quest for an A had hit a speed bump, but it wasn’t over.
Project #3: Leather Belts
As Mr. Crow set out the rubric for our next project, I knew I had this one in the bag. We were each given a simple leather belt, a blank canvas to work with. During class over the next few weeks, we would sketch a design and then use metal stamps to beat it into the wet leather.
Here’s the thing: I grew up around cowboys. My grandpa was straight out of an old John Wayne western (I’ll send you a picture if you don’t believe me). Have you ever seen how cowboys dress when they’re going out on the town? It’s extremely flamboyant and a leather belt always completes the ensemble. Oh yes, I know all about stamped leather belts.
I got to work right away penciling a design in my notebook. I made sure to add things I thought Mr. Crow would like: a football, some baseball bats, and even an American flag. All of this was woven in between my favorite random shapes that I found in the boxes of old metal stamps that were given to us. At the end of the project, I excitedly imagined Mr. Crow gazing at all his favorite things, stamped on a belt. I wondered if he’d ask if he could keep it. Would I let him? Maybe I would.
But on the day we presented our belts to Mr. Crow, he was in a mood. Apparently, the boys’ basketball team had lost their game against North Fremont and he was taking it out on the world at-large. After we said the Pledge of Allegiance, he sat slumped down in his chair, hands clasped in front of his face, which was even more red than usual. He asked us if we understood what we had just recited. Nobody said anything. He sighed and then made us stand and say the Pledge over again. This time, he loudly instructed us to pause before and after, “Under God,” and say it with feeling. We did as we were told. I was a completely devout Christian at the time and even I was weirded out by the forcefulness of his lesson.
That’s why I didn’t say anything at all when I got my grade back. Another B with a note: “Too busy!” I was embarrassed by my feeble attempt at flattery. I felt like I had sold out my creativity and got absolutely nothing in return. I’m sure I got rid of the belt as soon as I could and it never got to keep someone’s trousers up off the floor as God intended.
At this point, I felt really alarmed that my longstanding straight-A student personality was in serious jeopardy, but I psyched myself up for the final project of the semester.
Project #4: Pinewood Derby Cars
Any self-respecting Mormon knows all about pinewood derby cars. It’s a ritual for young boy scouts that’s only rivaled by sleeping in the woods or learning complicated knots to get a merit badge and then immediately forgetting all about them.
So, when Mr. Crow assigned us our final project, I was cautiously confident. I wouldn’t say I was enthusiastic, because the last two grades hung heavy on my mind, but I knew what I was doing. Even so, I scoured that rubric for every savory detail. I wasn’t going to let this silly elective course ruin my pre-high school GPA and therefore, my chances at getting into a good college.
I set to work, first designing a car that would be aerodynamic, but stylish, functional, but sleek. I landed on the perfect form and cut it out of the block of wood we were given. I started sanding it down. Like Michelangelo with David, I knew the shape I was going for, I just had to sand away everything that wasn’t it.
Next came painting, and then adding details like fake lights, a spoiler, and, of course, wheels. Those came standard issue and I wondered if the craft store would have tiny spinner rims… but that felt like a long shot.
The day before our final, Mr. Crow announced that our grades would be determined by racing our cards against each other. Each car would race twice against a randomly chosen competitor. If you won both races, you got an A, if you won a single race, you got a B, and if you won neither race, you’d get a C on your final.
I was petrified. I hadn’t anticipated such a harsh grading system for a middle school crafts class. We were only children, after all. But the day of our final came and we all lined up in alphabetical order behind two identical racetracks set up in the 6th grade hallway.
When it was my turn against my classmate, Jake, I was trembling. We pushed off our cars and it became immediately apparent that something was wrong. My car dragged behind Jake’s, not by a little, but by a lot. I lost the race. I was headed for a B at best.
When I went to grab my car, Mr. Crow peered down at me from his clipboard where he was tracking the results. “You sanded the nose of your car wrong,” he said, “It’s dragging on the ground.” And he was right. Now that I looked at it from this angle, the front of the car angled down too low and was dragging on the track.
I nodded and turned to get back in line for my second race. But as I walked down the hall, I had an idea. I casually started running the bottom front of my wooden car along the painted cinderblock of the hallway. Nobody said anything; I doubt they even noticed. I used just enough force to peel off some of the soft balsam wood that was ruining my life.
I waited in line until it was again my turn. This time I was going up against my friend, one of the twins. She was smiling and laughing, even though she had lost her first race too. How was that even possible? I wondered how she could be so carefree when she was looking down the barrel of the lowest passing grade.
We lined up our cars and sent them down the track. This time, my car whooshed to the finish line, beating my friend’s car decisively. I was relieved as I turned to her and saw a smile across her face too. She congratulated me and raced off to get her car.
When I got my final report card, I didn’t look at it until I was safely home. I wasn’t sure what emotions would come out when I saw what it said, and I didn’t want to cause a scene that might earn one of those mean nicknames only kids and Donald Trump can come up with. Dissipating the tension, I opened it up to find the single B next to all the A’s.
I waited for the tears. But they didn’t come.
Instead, I looked around my room at my diorama, my Frank Lloyd Wright house, and even at my sleek wooden car, and I just smiled. I realized that I was proud of all those creations because I made them for myself first. I expected a good grade on each of them because I was incredibly proud of what I had created. They matched my tastes and my preferences, not Mr. Crow’s. And that’s why I didn’t mind the B as much as I thought I would.
That was when I realized I love crafting. And that the love I felt wasn’t about anybody else’s opinion, just my own.