Personal Narrative: Rejection

Applying for a program is not terrifying. Opening the letter of acceptance- or rejection- however, that is terrifying. My sophomore year of high school, I applied to the Governor’s School for the Arts. I pieced together my visual arts portfolio, comprised mostly of acrylic paintings. I attended the interview, dressed to the nines. I was nervous going in, but confident going out. I had been complimented; I was told I answered their prompts in a way they had not seen yet. A few months later, I received a text from my mother that my letter came. Teeth chattering and fingers quaking from nerves, I held the envelope up to the window to read through the paper. I knew. My heart dropped, I knew. Alone in my bedroom I opened the response, knowing the answer already. Rejection.
How could it? I still love art. I have always loved art. I have loved art since my parents hung a print of “Starry Night” above their bed and my eyes grew dizzy from staring at the blue and yellow swirls too long. I have loved art since my mother pulled out construction paper and pipe-liners and I labeled my big-headed, googly-eyed characters as my family. I have loved art since I was handed my first sketchbook and I frustrated myself by not drawing scenes that look like photographs. I have loved art since I took my first real art class and was introduced to the painting medium. I have loved art since I first set foot in a museum and absorbed the passion that oozed from the walls. The rejection from the art program did not harm me. It fueled me. It inspired me. It proved to me that I have much room for practice, much room for improvement, much room for experience. Rejection filled my room with stacks and stacks of bulky canvases. Rejection added bottles of paint to my shelf. Rejection amplified my desire to paint. Rejection intensified, rejection heightened, rejection created. I learned the most powerful form of inspiration is