Technically Anonymous

By middle school, I had two dangerous gifts:

observational drawing—and absolutely no filter.

It was a lethal combination—

especially in Stafford,

where every authority figure thought they deserved automatic reverence,

and every adult face was practically begging to be drawn—

Exaggerated.

Unforgiving.

True.

I wasn’t drawing butterflies or horses.

I was drawing people.

Real people.

Teachers.

Staff.

A few students.

Anyone who struck me as absurd.

And in a small town obsessed with Jesus, modesty, and lawn maintenance,

that was nearly everyone.

Julia, my best friend, was my favorite audience.

I’d pass her a folded piece of notebook paper

and I could see her begin to vibrate in my peripheral.

I knew if I made full eye contact, it’d be over for both of us.

She laughed so hard, so often,

she had to keep a designated hoodie in her locker—

to hide the aftermath.

The piss aftermath.

The most infamous drawing was of our lunch lady.

She looked normal behind the lunch counter—

torso unremarkable, just another cafeteria lifer.

Then she’d step out.

And from the hips down:

a structural event.

Her ass extended like a balcony—

wide, flat, load-bearing—

and visibly separating under stress.

I drew it as faithfully as I could.

Julia lost it.

Unfortunately, so did Coach Renn.

He confiscated it mid-laugh.

Held it like it was radioactive.

Squinted at the drawing, then at me.

“Who is this?” 

I looked him dead in the eyes.

“Just a character I made up.”

He didn’t believe me.

The resemblance was forensic.

But I held the line.

Because even at thirteen, I understood two things:

One: The drawing was technically anonymous.

Two: Power is deeply uncomfortable with being seen 

Especially when it’s funny.

Especially when it’s true.

People thought I was mean.

I wasn’t.

The pencil wasn’t just for art.

It was my weapon.

My protest.

My mirror.

Julia was my witness.

The hoodie, our flag.