Hi

My name is Abbi, I'm a girl from Canada and from the moment I could understand the English language, maybe even before that, my father would read me stories. All types of stories of all genres, books thick and thin, in English and in French. I loved them and in second grade I started to create my own stories, bring all of my dreams to life because I was creative; incredibly creative like the rest of the women in my family. That same year my father started to read me Harry Potter, every single word read aloud. This sprouted my love for fantasy and fiction. For the next two years I created my stories, I even started to paint. Creativity was pouring off of me in waves.

But in fifth grade, I was told that I was wasting my time; that I needed to focus more on my math and science as they where my lowest grades. I was told that my arts where taking time away from my school work. I was told that I wasn't smart enough and that if I didn't start doing actual work, I would fail. Not just school but life.

For me, it was hard; everything I learned was in French since I had been enrolled in French immersion in Kindergarten. My first language is English. I thought of myself as stupid because I was struggling while my best friend, in the English stream, was excelling. My mom would tell me that I was smart and my marks would be much better if my test were written in English, they would match my best friends, but they weren't. I had a difficult time reading and writing in French in elementary, even though I could speak it in almost perfect fluency. She said she was proud of my school work and my creative work, but I could tell she wanted me to choose one or the other, I knew which one she wanted me to pick, and I knew that she was not really proud of my grades. I knew all of this and on top of that, I knew that I could never ever be the intelligent veterinarian that she wanted me to be.

My dreams of becoming another J.K Rowling were crushed and I stopped. I placed my easel in the basement along with all my different types of sketch pads, brushes and paints. I covered it with a sheet and to this day it collects dust. I told myself I couldn't paint, I was just a small dumb girl from Newfoundland and I wasn't going anywhere anyways. I stopped writing my stories and threw all of them in the trash, telling myself they were horrible and pathetic so it didn't really matter. Telling myself that was my attempt at dulling the pain of throwing away three years of my hard work.

I put my school first and by sixth grade my marks were the best they've ever been, but I wasn't as happy. I wasn't reading as much as I used to as a lot of my time was spent working. I thought that when I had finally become this smart girl my parents wanted that I would also be wanted by the more popular people in my class, but that last part didn't happen. So, I became a colossal bitch to my real friends, my friends who were creative and kind, so I could hang around with the "smarter" and more popular girls in my class. That is my biggest regret to this day. Alexandra, if you ever read this, I am so sorry.

My teacher asked me why I had become a dull plank of pale wood with higher grades. She noticed I had changed the way I was, from my clothing to my actions. I wasn't as creative as I used to be because I purposely blocked it out. My tests where no longer covered in doodles and sloppy writing, they were neat and straight to the point because I was taught that's all teachers cared about.

Slowly, school drained my creativity because it told me I didn't need it. Being highly intelligent was valued more then being able to create magnificent art and intricate plots in stories. The superiors at my school drilled it into me that if you wanted to be seen as important in the classroom you had to be a walking talking encyclopedia and raise your hand for every question and get it right. But I never got it right, and to this day, I hate speaking in class in the fear of failure and laughter; and to this day my parents continue to tell my teachers to call on me when my hand isn't raised because a therapist said it would help with my anxiety disorder, but it doesn't help. If anything its worse and I am starting to develop a stutter.

In eighth grade when I was told to write a story for an English assignment I got a 67%. I hadn't let myself be creative in over two years at this point so when I tried to create a 500 word story, it was horrendous. This surprised my parents because up to this point my grades were pretty good and I used to be excellent at writing. I've even made the honours role since seventh grade. Seventh grade was arguably one of the worst years of my life but I managed to finish with an 89% average overall. So close to being on the principles list. Just that title made me angry back then. Be smart and be accepted by the principal, be on his/her list. Other than that you're useless.

My parents and I were told repeatedly by my English teachers of 8th and 9th grade that I wasn't creative enough. But the thing was, I was creative throughout those two years, just not showing it in our TDSC's since I was taught not to in elementary school.

I sacrificed my marks in the middle of 8th grade in order to start being creative again. I missed writing stories and that year I wrote a couple short stories in a notepad that I hid under my bed. In 9th, I wrote a whole book, the first to a trilogy, but my marks had dropped far far down. I started to draw again but I found I wasn't as good as I used to be so I turned completely to writing. That full story I wrote was adored by people here online but I wouldn't write the same in school, in fear of being shamed by my teachers again. I wouldn't show my creativity because at the young age of 10, they told me to stop. Be smart instead of creative.

But now, in high school, they're looking for that creative spark again, that creative spark I purposely lost.

In my family, all the women are artists. But not as a full time job. They have regular ones, nurses and teachers but once they go home they become creative because society and the education system told them that creativity isn't valued enough to fuel a proper job. It's a hobbypeople say. I am the first writer to come along and, frankly, I'm scared. When I started to pick up my grades and ditch art and writing, I decided I wanted to be a veterinarian instead of an author. Because I was told what I loved to do could not be what I could do and support a family doing. What I wanted to do was titled as a hobby, something you do for fun on weekends. I'm afraid that what I love will not be enough to keep me alive if I were to take it in full. I'm frightened that I might be stuck in an animal hospital with a sterile stench and barking dogs in pain because that's what teachers told me would fit. I'm terrified I'll be breathing but I won't be alive because what keeps me alive is doing something I love. But the truth is what I love is not important to others. What's important is good memorization; I have never had a good memory.

Think about the impact of your words before you say them, especially to children. Be careful of crushing a small child's dreams. When they told me that my arts were not important, I took it that I wasn't important.

Why can't words impact people in a positive way through a novel and be glorified instead of impacting them negatively by a teacher telling a small, impressionable, and struggling girl to drop her loves and become a scientist? Books with meaningful quotes, messages and themes have saved lives, to me, that's pretty damn important. Why can't what I love be loved? Why can't the creative children be valued? Why must they be put in the back? Why must teachers tell their parents that they have a learning disability instead of saying that they are an amazing artist?

Why is creativity shamed?

You, person who clicked on my profile for some reason and read this entire thing, are amazing. You are great because you, just by being on this website, just by this website even existing, is proving to me that being creative is important and that I'm not the only one fighting to prove that. If you are a reader you are proof that words are just as important as multiplication because, right now, you could be studying but you're here. If you are a writer you are strong, you survived and did the thing your elementary teachers focused on the least. I'm proud of you just as much as I'm now proud of myself.

Thank you for reading and thank you for writing.