In 1969 I was a senior at the University of New Mexico in Albuquerque majoring in studio art. I had just one semester left when I was drafted. After a brief period in the army and Viet Nam I returned home. My desire to achieve the goal of completing my education and becoming an artist was, if anything, even stronger after being in a war zone. It was a maturing experience and now I felt certain about what I wanted to do with my art... portray the truth and beauty of my culture, something I had rarely seen in any art books. A decade later I moved from painting part time after work to a full time career in art.
My story about becoming an artist is about heeding that inner voice telling you what you're meant to be. I understood that early in life and that voice has never changed for me. If an inner voice is telling you who you are but society is telling you you're something else, who do you listen to? Judgemental social messages were always a part of my life. Hispanic and poor, no one thought I was an artist even when the proof of my talent was right in front of them. So I shouldn't have been surprised when I heard that message of low expectations again my last week in high school in a counselor's office.
Valley High was a big school and in 1965 there were close to a thousand teenage baby boomers in my senior class. The school assembly the week before graduation was packed with students. By a stroke of luck and the circumstance of my last name I was seated next to Jeanette Gonzales, recently voted homecoming queen. I knew who she was but I'd never spoken to her, I was too shy. Jeanette wasn't just pretty, she was popular, getting more votes than her non-Hispanic blonde challengers, probably because of her sunny I never met a person I didn't like personality. Even with her reputation for being nice I couldn't bring myself to speak to her. I looked straight ahead but Jeanette seemed unaware of my discomfort. She smiled at me and gave an exaggerated shiver.
"Aren't you excited about graduating?" she asked.
Before I could answer, someone on the stage called out my name. It was Frank Walker, my art teacher throughout my high school years. Mr. Walker was an introverted man. He never seemed happy in his role as art teacher but I always knew he liked having me in his classes. He told the assembly I was getting the annual award for best senior student artist.
"There's only one student in school who deserves this award," Mr. Walker told the assembly. "He's worked hard and I know he'll go far in the field of art. I'm proud to give it to Edward Gonzales. So Edward, will you please come up here and accept this award?"
Out of the corner of my eye I saw Jeanette. She looked surprised and then impressed that the nobody sitting next to her won an award.
"Congratulations!" she said, which made me even more self-conscious.
"Thanks," I mumbled. I had to walk to the stage then back to my seat with applause all around me. I was embarrassed by the attention and quickly sat down, sincerely hoping to go back to being unnoticed. Instead Jeanette leaned toward me. She cupped a hand around my ear and spoke over the noise.
"Edward, I won because I was popular but you won because you're talented. Good for you! But you have to be more outgoing because you have something nobody else has."
I blushed, thinking about how beautiful she was.
Nothing that homecoming queen Jeanette Gonzales did went unnoticed by her admiring constituency, which was the whole student body, including my low brow buddies from the hood.
One was sitting in the row behind me. He leaned over and spoke in my other ear. "Hey, stud, gettin kinda close, you lucky dog!"
"Ahshuddup."
The next day seniors who were not considered college material were assigned to meet with counselors to help them plan their futures. Those who were college material had been meeting regularly with counselors throughout high school with the expectation they would make something of themselves. My guess is that the school didn't think this was going to happen to me so before today's appointment I'd never seen a counselor. I sat in the cafeteria along with kids like myself, mostly Hispanics from poor neighborhoods.
I waited impatiently for my name to be called. Here was the opportunity, finally, to talk to a counselor about my dream of going to college and becoming an artist. With all my heart I wanted to know how to make this happen. Frank Walker had expressed his opinion that the University of New Mexico had a better art department than other colleges in the state, which was helpful information. But the process of going to college and majoring in art was a complete mystery to me. Since there wasn't a single person in my neighborhood or family who'd done this there was no one I could ask. Hopefully the counselor would unravel the mystery.
My name was called. A tall Hispanic wearing a brown corduroy jacket and green tie sat at his desk.
Mr. Sandoval greeted me. "You're Edward, right?"
"Yes sir."
"Well, let's see what we have here." He opened up a folder. "Hmmm.... You got this award in art? You like art?"
"Yes sir, that's what I'd like to do."
The counselor looked at my grade sheet, average grades overall, with high marks in all my art classes. He didn't look up. Anticipation was building in me, at last I'd know how to tackle this confusing mess of getting into college.
Finally he spoke. "Well, I think you're really better off enrolling at Albuquerque Technical-Vocational Institute. You're good with your hands so you should consider taking courses in auto mechanics."
"That's not what I want to do," I said, shocked at what I was hearing. "I want to enroll at UNM to become an artist." The thought of going to the state's vocational school had never entered my mind.
"Based on your grades I don't think you're college material so you're better off going to T-VI. It's easy to enroll and it doesn't cost much."
"Thanks, Mr. Sandoval but I am going to college." The counselor looked up from the folder and saw me for the first time. "So I would appreciate it if you would give me any material you have on enrolling at UNM."
He handed me a brochure and I left his office. I felt let down, then angry at myself for expecting anything different from him. But why be angry, I thought, this is par for my experience in all my school years. Anyway, I was holding the real treasure, the pamphlet on how to enroll at UNM. I looked it over and discovered the deadline for the fall semester was in two weeks.
My anger did help; I decided I was going to show the counselor and the entire school that somebody like me could not only go to college but graduate and become an artist. From that day on I began educating myself on the process of getting into college. It meant adopting a different mind set so I could understand this new language of transcripts, class schedules and prerequisites, student loans and SATs. The counselor should've been the one to help me do this but he didn't and because of it I realized something important...I didn't need him. I could read, so I could figure it out myself. I underlined everything in the brochure I needed to know. I learned there was an employment agency on campus and I quickly signed up. The money from summer work as a roofer helped pay for school. There was a financial aid office and I applied for loans.
During the summer a letter came. "Congratulations," it said. "You've been accepted to the University of New Mexico."