Last Bell

Art at the Astrodome

An art education student finds out there is something she can do to help.

By Rachelle Omenson

Ten thousand evacuees, one stadium, and nothing to do. It seemed unimaginable that these people might have to wait months, even years, to regain some structure in their lives. Of course, after wading in contaminated water or clinging helplessly to your roof shingles, boredom and rest might be welcome respites.

However, children bounce back quicker than adults. It was the children who ran giggling up and down the aisles of cots at the Astrodome, yelling back to their parents, "I'm right here!"

But amid relief workers, chronically ill elders, hundreds of police, and exhausted parents, the kids only had nylon cots to go back to. And that gets boring.

I wondered what I, an art-teacher-in-training, could do. Saturday morning, I decided not to wonder anymore and took the next flight to Houston. There was no plan to this plan because if the fuzzy logic didn't work, I was out hundreds of dollars and a whole lot of wasted Labor Day weekend. (I apologize now to the true practitioners of art therapy because I faked being one of you. But I swear it was worth it.)

Arriving at the Astrodome, I told the guard I was the volunteer art therapist. Clearly this sounded logical because she yelled over to the other gatekeeper, "Open that gate, the art therapist is here." O.K., that worked.

Inside, from up high, it didn't look like people, just a moving carpet of rectangles. "Hello, I'm the wandering art teacher. Does anyone want to draw?" I asked the first kids I saw. Surprisingly, they ran over to a table laden with packaged snacks and pushed them aside as I pulled boxes of crayons and markers from my vest and sketch pads and construction paper from my wheeled bag.

They never asked why I was there. They never said they were too tired to draw. They only asked if I also had any clay. In fluorescently lit, dirty section 432, we set up art class. They called me teacher and raised their hands when I asked them questions.

They signed their artwork and volunteered endless information about their experiences in New Orleans. I asked them to draw whatever they wanted and not surprisingly most drew houses surrounded by swirling water. In the water, some put mean-looking sharks and snakes. There had been a rumor that the New Orleans aquarium was going to burst and man-eating animals were suddenly going to swim into their homes.

Next morning, I came back with a neon-pink poster board "Art Room" sign and spread my supplies the floor. Seconds later, children were standing there with gigantic eyes wanting to touch everything. But they didn't. They asked first. Just like in school.

They drew houses again, but they drew Spiderman too. And the real little kids drew swirly stuff that could've been water, but it could have been their mom. They molded clay into crosses, balls, and snake shapes.

They even cleaned up—as if they needed structure in a sea of chaos. A 15-year-old boy took more cots and made a squared-off area for creating art. A 10-year-old girl grabbed a broom and started sweeping when the crayons got out of control.

I didn't have a good answer when the kids asked if I would be back tomorrow. Their faces dropped when I said I had to go home to Philadelphia. But it was comforting to hear that a real activity room was being set up for them that day, and that school would be underway the following week.

On the flight back, as I sorted through the drawings the kids had given me, I felt my own private hurricane of unease. Did I hit my art educator peak just one day before starting to student teach? Is anything ever going to live up to doing art in a football stadium? I have to believe that it will.

Rachelle Omenson is an NEA Student member at University of the Arts in Philadelphia. Read a longer version of her story at www.neatoday.org. She has co-founded A Million Smocks to help those who need a dose of art. Visit www.amillionsmocks.org.

Photo: Rachelle Omenson