An elementary school art room smells like mud. Fidgeting first graders wear hand-me-down clothes protected by paint spattered aprons. They make faces at each other. They trace invisible shapes on thick wooden tables with their pudgy index fingers. They flick crumbs of dried clay onto the dusty concrete floor and whisper about the new project as their teacher marks the final accent on a partially recognizable word. White letters on a green chalkboard. Papier-mâché. A smiling twenty-something with bright eyes, her exuberance for the children is matched only by her love for expression. Everyday is a new chance for exploration. She can see the possibility in each of them.

She dumps a bucket of lifeless balloons onto the center table leaving a bright pile of color. The children scurry over and grasp at them, returning to their stools with their favorites.

“Is it a balloon if it’s not blown up?” a freckled one asks.

Soft faces turn pink as their cheeks puff and tingle on the inside, making them salivate. The bright elastic expands, stretching from opaque to translucent with each small breath of air. The ends are tied off and suddenly the balloons are capable of existing on their own, familiars to those who gave them life. Accompanied by giggles, strands of hair reach out to touch the surface of the new planets. The balloons squeak against their palms and bounce into the air, taking their time, but always returning.

Their tiny hands tear long uniform strips of newspaper from a broadsheet. Sentences break apart and words separate from their neighbors into chunks of out-of-context language. The children concentrate, tongues poking out from the corners of their mouths as they soak the ink blotted ribbons in a mixture of white glue and water. One by one they press the slimy lengths of gray over the contour of the balloons, smoothing the wrinkles as they go. Criss-crossing and overlapping, the text and images coagulate into a dark ambiguous jumble that eventually covers the last little triangle of color peaking out from beneath.

When the lights in the room go out, and the chattering voices leave the confines of the four surrounding walls, the paper dries and bonds together. A thin membrane of indiscernible thoughts hardens and protects the delicate interior. Layer after layer, year after year, the children continue to build upon these foundations and a second skin is formed. The snippets of stories bury others, but do not make them disappear. And before you know it, features that resemble faces begin to form. Small bumps at first, but definitely a nose, a mouth, eyes.

A few forge ahead, hastily covering their mistakes, and some, for better or worse, build up the tiers into something new and unrecognizable. Most look over shoulders, unsure of themselves, and when they turn around to keep pace, the others look over their shoulders. Copying off one another, their masks grow in parallel, the same but different, each afraid of standing out. With each new coat drying, the skin becomes a shell, thick and rigid. The peaks higher, the divots deeper. Once fragile films of newsprint come together to form creatures with personalities of their own. Infinite combinations of information bleed into each other, the experiences and identity simultaneously defining each other. Every one made from different sections of the same paper. Politics. Economics. Entertainment and Sports. Obituaries. Religion. Bias. Hope. Hate. Love and Sales.

One day they leave school hiding behind their creations, vague echos of the balloons they started as. Some are dull and boring, as plain and gray as the flat sheets they were born from, others are dyed vibrant and full of spirit. Some frown and are painted over and over again. A few have horns and wretched snarling features. Occasionally one fills us with joy and understanding.

By the time they reach the age of the teacher in that art class most are unable to distinguish themselves from the masks they’ve made and many have forgotten the balloon all together. They continue through the masquerade, playing their part. One day, while passing through an empty room, alone and unhappy, they find a mirror. They stand before it and stare, for hours, days, sometimes years. They try to look past the familiar shapes, curious if they can dig up their balloon, deep beneath the surface. Some turn away, afraid they’ll find it shriveled and unrecognizable, but some keep looking. Knowing the bright balloon is still there somewhere, they wonder if they can remove the disguise to see it again. Can they pick off the scabs of old news and forgotten tales? Can they soak in a bath of warm water and slowly peel away the years of accumulated pulp? Or, are they still looking over their shoulder, waiting for someone else to do it first?