I grew up in poverty, and I feel like it was pretty obvious to all my teachers growing up.

In 8th grade, I won a contest for designing the yearbook cover, cementing my place as "that one art kid" in my graduating class. I made the design with random pens and pencils and Crayola markers in the classroom, because I didn't have any of my own.

My teachers noticed I really enjoyed making art, because there would always be doodles in the margins of my assignments and notes, and any assignment that required drawing, everyone wanted to pair with me.

Well, the day before Christmas break I was told to go see the guidance counselor. I remember thinking "oh crap, what did I do", but when I get in there, there's a huge wrapped box on the table. The guidance counselor says it's for me and tells me to open it. It's full of art supplies. Prismacolor colored pencils, a sketchbook, colored pencil case pencils, pens, etc.

I remember breaking down and crying.

I asked who got it for me and the counselor told me "Santa". I had never believed in Santa and I insisted on knowing who it was so I could thank them. She refused to tell me. Those gifts helped me create art for years to come. I eventually retired those pencils to an old friend of mine. I graduated with the "most artistic" senior superlative.

I get all misty eyed thinking about this every now and then. If somehow you're reading this, thank you.