Mrs. Ford saved my ass in 8th grade art class. It was the first time a salty, sophisticated older woman of authority took an interest in me, as a student or anything else, and she praised my surreal mordant doodles before the whole class. And surprisingly they didn’t even resent it, they seemed to agree with her that I was genuinely creative, something set apart by a sigil of beauty. Silver-blonde long hair, in corduroy jackets and bell bottom jeans and cowboy boots, like some sort of Belle Star outlaw, she would hold up an abstract poster print to the class and say, “What do you all see in all this?” The room was silent. Then she looked over to me and asked, “Chris? What do you see?” I buzzed and brimmed like a virgin sacrifice led to a volcano. “Small faces,” I replied. “It’s a swirl of small faces in a tapestry.” She responded, “Not surprised that you saw it.” This was sweet relief, as I’d been kicked off as cornerback on the Junior High football team for aggressive defense. But the jocks in that class didn’t give me shit because of the open encouragement Mrs. Ford showed me. Not like in drama class, which also had a beautiful blonde teacher but one who seemed to despise me, and I was getting my ass kicked in there daily by the snobby kids who called me “Animal.” (Not the last time I’d have that nickname in a social circle. More on that later.) Mrs. Ford loved playing this album on the class turntable as we all drew or sculpted or collaged, and “Beast of Burden” seared deeply into my soul, “Miss You” foretold a creepy future cruise for me in a City far away, and “Shattered” brought me to my knees in the temple of bass. Later on at home, inheriting the album from my brother who bought it but then got kicked out of the trailer, the snarling and mysterious “When the Whip Comes Down” connected me to a new world of expression. And it was “Before They Make Me Run” that became my life’s anthem, as I’d get run out of two Eastern Washington towns for “not looking too good but feeling really well.” (I have the feeling that song could have been Paul Westerberg’s autobiography jam growing up too.) I would stare at that weird LP cover of replaceable faces changing out transgressive desires and androgynous identities for hours. Still deeply love this album, and I owe the rich creative existence of my life to Mrs. Ford.
Rolling Stones – ‘Some Girls’ by Chris Estey
