In Her Nature

"Teacher, come here. I want to show you something."

I walked over to the tall girl with the black braids. She sat hunched over in her seat, a red notebook in her hands. Her classmates began to crowd around us, eager for the surprise.

"What is it?" I asked. I expected she would proudly show me a pencil drawing or a prom photo of her boyfriend.

"I found it right on the ground. I couldn't believe it," she flipped back the notebook cover. "Isn't it pretty?"

I had to agree. Pressed inbetween two lined pages in the notebook was a shimmery bluish-green butterfly, the size of my palm. I began to compliment her on her unsual find when the butterfly actually began to twitch and then squirm. It struggled to peel its wings off the page. "It's still alive," I said, shocked. I put my hand out for the notebook. "Give it to me."

"No." She slammed the cover shut, pulled it away, and hugged it to her chest. "It's mine. I found it, so I want to keep it. It was gonna' die anyways."

I desperately grabbed at the notebook, holding back tears. The students around us laughed and commented on my flushed face. Some murmured that their lepidopterist friend was mean, and that she should let it fly away.

"But it's still alive." I tried to reason with her. "You're being cruel. How would you like it if someone came and squashed you like that?"

The girl held on to her notebook. "It's mine. I found it so I'm keeping it," was all she said.

So I retreated to the teacher's desk at the back of the room. I tried not to imagine the butterfly imprisoned in her book-- the fine blue dust of its wings stuck to the pages, furry body squished to a pulp. It made me sick.

At the end of the day, as I left the classroom, the teacher next door stopped me and asked about my day. I told him about the butterfly incident. "It wasn't a big deal. I just thought it was strange."

"Was it Jessenia?" He asked, locking his classroom door behind him.

"I don't know. I didn't get her name."

"She was supposed to stay home today. She's suspended for the week."

He described her and we agreed that Jessenia was certainly the lepidopterist. Yes, he could definitely imagine her squashing live butterflies.

"It's in her nature," he said.

Writing about this, I wonder why I didn't force her to release the butterfly. How could I let her get away with it? As a substitute teacher, didn't I have any authority? But it wasn't about that. Truth is that I could have played the teacher card if I'd really wanted to, but I gave up because I felt silly for nearly crying and making a big deal over a small thing. I showed emotion. I felt weak. Somehow, I felt like I was being silly and overly sensitive over a little butterfly, just a shimmery bluish-green butterfly plastered to a lined page, struggling to fly away. It was gonna' die anyways, right?

This is how I treat my creativity. I'm trying harder to grab that notebook back.