"These three colors are the--" she indicated to the red, yellow and blue paint.
"Primary colors!" we all chimed.
"Very good. And when they're mixed together, what kind of colors do they make?"
"Secondary!" we responded.
"Excellent, yes, when mixed together primary colors make secondary colors. Blue and yellow mixed together make?" I raised my hand and she pointed to me.
"Primary colors!" we all chimed.
"Very good. And when they're mixed together, what kind of colors do they make?"
"Secondary!" we responded.
"Excellent, yes, when mixed together primary colors make secondary colors. Blue and yellow mixed together make?" I raised my hand and she pointed to me.
"Blue and yellow make green!" I exclaimed enthusiastically.
"Correct," she smiled.
The teacher continued questioning each of us, until she was satisfied we understood the lesson. Soon it was on to the most anticipated part of the project, getting to cover our hands in paint and splattering them against the white paper. We moved our desk to the side of the classroom and the teacher rolled one of the banners out across the floor, creating an inviting white road of artistic possibility.
I got out of my wheelchair and knelt with my classmates along the banner as the teacher set down three circular aluminum pie pans in front of every other student.
"There aren't enough pans for everyone to have their own, so you will work together in groups of three and share. Decide now what color hand prints you want first. Everyone gets to make three hand prints. Only place your hands along the top and bottom of the banner," she instructed.
I worked with the girl and boy to the left of me and they chose red and blue. I mixed blue and yellow together to make green. Satisfied I had the shade of green I wanted, I stuck my right hand into the pan and began to mix it around, covering it with paint.
"You don't need to cover your whole hand," the teacher said. "Just get enough paint on the bottom of your palm."
But I continued to cover my hand in paint, imagining I was dipping it into a rainbow.
"No don't slap the paper," she chided a boy who was slapping his paint covered palm on the banner. Drops of blue splattered his clothes; his laughter suggested he was deliberately making a mess.
When we'd finished filling up the first banner, the teacher had everyone line up to use the sink in the back of the classroom. I got in my wheelchair, not realizing that one of the pans of paint sat behind me. I rolled backwards, tipping it over and rolled through the paint. The rest spilled onto the floor. I turned my wheelchair around to see the mess I'd made and knocked over another pan. Now my wheels and hands were covered in green, red and blue paint. The wheels left a trail as I pushed myself over the banner, toward the back of the room.
"Teacher, I accidentally made a mess!" I panicked.
"I'll be there in a moment," she replied.
I knew that dry paint was much more difficult to clean up.
"I just need a napkin," I said.
"Take one from the table," she instructed.
The teacher was busy helping one of my classmates scrub his hands. I grabbed a few paper towels and turned around. I pushed myself over to my desk, leaving a colorful trail behind me. There were a few moist wipes in my backpack and I used these to wipe my hands, then I returned to the mess on the floor.
I got out of my wheelchair and began laying paper towels down over the paint. I'd seen my mother do this anytime my siblings or I spilled something. She said it absorbed the spills and made messes easier to clean. When the main spill was covered, I set to work trying to cover the colorful trail my wheelchair had made.
By the time it was done, my classmates were clean and coming to see what I was doing. A few even offered to help by attempting to wipe up the main spill with the napkins, but they only succeeded in creating an even larger mess. Amidst all of the chaos, the forgotten banner was ruined by the many feet which trampled it in our clean up effort.
"Stop," my teacher exclaimed, when she saw what we were doing.
I got up and saw the trail of smudged paint leading to the large smear in the center of the spill. A few foot prints from kids who stepped in paint, faintly marked the floor. My wheelchair tires were also covered in paint.
"Everyone back to your desk and don't touch anything," the teacher instructed.
We all went to our seats, and I was told to leave my wheelchair where it was and sit in a regular chair. The teacher pressed the intercom and asked for a janitor. Then she brought around wet paper towels for everyone to wipe their hands and shoes. When the janitor arrived, he took one look at the mess and called in a second janitor to bring extra cleaning supplies. While one cleaned the floor, the other took my wheelchair outside.
I sat quietly at my desk wondering how much trouble I was going to be in. The first janitor finished mopping the floor and our lessons resumed. But I found it hard to pay attention. I stared at the door waiting; my wheelchair had not been returned and it made me nervous. What if they were unable to remove the paint? I'd seen my parents throw away things my siblings and I 'ruined' with paint or permanent markers. Thinking the janitor might throw away my wheelchair terrified me and I burst into tears.
"What's wrong?" my teacher asked.
"Don't let them throw away my wheelchair!" I sobbed.
At that moment the janitor returned with my wheelchair. Surprisingly, he was able to clean off the paint. I sat in it.
"Thank you for not throwing away my wheelchair," I smiled at him, tears still on my face.
"I would never do that," he chuckled. "Is that why you were crying?"
"Yes," I admitted.
"Well, next time you want to give your wheelchair a paint job, just ask me. I have a garage where my brother and I paint cars. I can make your wheelchair look really cool!" he chuckled.
I laughed, imagining him with acrylic paints and those tiny brushes, painting my parent's car. Later when I got home, I told my brother about the paint accident.
"I want to paint your wheelchair!" his five year old eyes lit up.
"Only when you grow up. I think mom and dad would be mad if you did it now," I told him.
Today, my brother is an amazing artist, but I have yet to let him paint my wheelchair.
I got out of my wheelchair and knelt with my classmates along the banner as the teacher set down three circular aluminum pie pans in front of every other student.
"There aren't enough pans for everyone to have their own, so you will work together in groups of three and share. Decide now what color hand prints you want first. Everyone gets to make three hand prints. Only place your hands along the top and bottom of the banner," she instructed.
I worked with the girl and boy to the left of me and they chose red and blue. I mixed blue and yellow together to make green. Satisfied I had the shade of green I wanted, I stuck my right hand into the pan and began to mix it around, covering it with paint.
"You don't need to cover your whole hand," the teacher said. "Just get enough paint on the bottom of your palm."
But I continued to cover my hand in paint, imagining I was dipping it into a rainbow.
"No don't slap the paper," she chided a boy who was slapping his paint covered palm on the banner. Drops of blue splattered his clothes; his laughter suggested he was deliberately making a mess.
When we'd finished filling up the first banner, the teacher had everyone line up to use the sink in the back of the classroom. I got in my wheelchair, not realizing that one of the pans of paint sat behind me. I rolled backwards, tipping it over and rolled through the paint. The rest spilled onto the floor. I turned my wheelchair around to see the mess I'd made and knocked over another pan. Now my wheels and hands were covered in green, red and blue paint. The wheels left a trail as I pushed myself over the banner, toward the back of the room.
"Teacher, I accidentally made a mess!" I panicked.
"I'll be there in a moment," she replied.
I knew that dry paint was much more difficult to clean up.
"I just need a napkin," I said.
"Take one from the table," she instructed.
The teacher was busy helping one of my classmates scrub his hands. I grabbed a few paper towels and turned around. I pushed myself over to my desk, leaving a colorful trail behind me. There were a few moist wipes in my backpack and I used these to wipe my hands, then I returned to the mess on the floor.
I got out of my wheelchair and began laying paper towels down over the paint. I'd seen my mother do this anytime my siblings or I spilled something. She said it absorbed the spills and made messes easier to clean. When the main spill was covered, I set to work trying to cover the colorful trail my wheelchair had made.
By the time it was done, my classmates were clean and coming to see what I was doing. A few even offered to help by attempting to wipe up the main spill with the napkins, but they only succeeded in creating an even larger mess. Amidst all of the chaos, the forgotten banner was ruined by the many feet which trampled it in our clean up effort.
"Stop," my teacher exclaimed, when she saw what we were doing.
I got up and saw the trail of smudged paint leading to the large smear in the center of the spill. A few foot prints from kids who stepped in paint, faintly marked the floor. My wheelchair tires were also covered in paint.
"Everyone back to your desk and don't touch anything," the teacher instructed.
We all went to our seats, and I was told to leave my wheelchair where it was and sit in a regular chair. The teacher pressed the intercom and asked for a janitor. Then she brought around wet paper towels for everyone to wipe their hands and shoes. When the janitor arrived, he took one look at the mess and called in a second janitor to bring extra cleaning supplies. While one cleaned the floor, the other took my wheelchair outside.
I sat quietly at my desk wondering how much trouble I was going to be in. The first janitor finished mopping the floor and our lessons resumed. But I found it hard to pay attention. I stared at the door waiting; my wheelchair had not been returned and it made me nervous. What if they were unable to remove the paint? I'd seen my parents throw away things my siblings and I 'ruined' with paint or permanent markers. Thinking the janitor might throw away my wheelchair terrified me and I burst into tears.
"What's wrong?" my teacher asked.
"Don't let them throw away my wheelchair!" I sobbed.
At that moment the janitor returned with my wheelchair. Surprisingly, he was able to clean off the paint. I sat in it.
"Thank you for not throwing away my wheelchair," I smiled at him, tears still on my face.
"I would never do that," he chuckled. "Is that why you were crying?"
"Yes," I admitted.
"Well, next time you want to give your wheelchair a paint job, just ask me. I have a garage where my brother and I paint cars. I can make your wheelchair look really cool!" he chuckled.
I laughed, imagining him with acrylic paints and those tiny brushes, painting my parent's car. Later when I got home, I told my brother about the paint accident.
"I want to paint your wheelchair!" his five year old eyes lit up.
"Only when you grow up. I think mom and dad would be mad if you did it now," I told him.
Today, my brother is an amazing artist, but I have yet to let him paint my wheelchair.
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