I drew this in about twenty-four seconds. It’s a depiction of man positioned as though he is on a cross. This square piece of paper is usually pinned to the corkboard above my desk. If you look closely you can see the holes in his hands that accomodate the pushpins. Most people reading this will make the assumption that this is Jesus Christ (the main character in The Bible) but it’s not. His name is Frank.
In third grade a spastic kid named Desmond approached me with some questions about my plans for Christmas holidays. It’s worth mentioning here that Desmond was an oval-headed sociopathic Chinese kid who was prone to violent tantrums (or as the class cheerfully called them: “hairies”). It’s also worth mentioning that in the third grade I “skewed precocious” (read: I was a smartass) and was no less the bear-poking asshole that I am today.
So anyway, Desmond asked me about Christmas, and I cheerfully announced that I would not be celebrating Christmas with my family. With a dumbfounded look he asked me why not. I calmly replied that “I don’t believe in Jesus Christ,” in the cocksure way a kid nailing a word in a spelling bee would. I might have even smiled wryly.
The kid lost it. He ran across the room and started tugging on our teacher’s dress. I think he would have moved with less haste if I had doused myself in gasoline and struck a match. “Vivek doesn’t believe in Jesus! Vivek doesn’t believe in Jesus!” I’m not sure what happened next, but I probably sighed and took a swig of chocolate milk.
I think that story neatly sums up my feelings on the holidays, crucifictions and third graders. Thank goodness for chocolate milk.