Candace Campanella recalls being the sole muralist for her middle school's new library addition—chosen, trusted, given a mural brush and permission to leave her mark. Her teacher bought her hot dogs. She painted through a half-day while other kids were gone. And when she looked at what she'd created, she felt something she now wants every one of her students to feel: "This place loves me. My school needs me here."

Today, Candace teaches middle school art at Du Quoin CUSD 300, where she's building that same sense of belonging for a new generation. She's not alone. Three art teachers—Alexis Moore at the elementary level, Candace at middle school, and Richelle Lietz at the high school—serve different age groups and came from different places. But the heartbeat is identical: every child deserves a place where they belong.

Alexis grew up in St. Louis, where art ran from kindergarten through twelfth grade. "I didn't know that it wasn't normal for schools to not have art kindergarten through high school," she says. When she realized rural districts often went without, she knew where she could make a difference. Her own high school art teacher "really made me feel like I had promise in that field," and that encouragement led her to SIU, then to a student teaching placement in Du Quoin. The connection stuck.

Now she teaches kindergarten through fourth grade, where students lose themselves in creation—so deeply that transitioning them back to their regular classroom becomes part of her work. "They get very locked in very quickly," she says. They enjoy the time creating because "there is no wrong answer. They're just making to make and to play with the materials." It's where students first learn to trust themselves.

By middle school, they learn they belong. Candace sees students who feel like art is their team sport—their moment to shine. "In the art room, this is a lot of kids' team sport," she says. "The art show is their only big event." And it's therapeutic. Post-COVID anxiety among children has spiked, and "creating is 100% therapeutic," Candace says. In her room, students decompress and express. They coexist across all levels—special education students, behavior disorder students, general education students, gifted students. "They're all in there together," she says. Even the basketball boys get seriously invested in their clay sculptures. "You better believe those basketball boys are really concerned about their clay sculpture. They're loving every minute of it."

At the high school, Richelle completes the arc. She grew up in Perry County with "very limited art access." When a teacher—Connie Morgan—showed her art could be a career, then left and the program was defunded, Richelle felt the loss in her bones. So she rebuilt one.

Her students often arrive unsure—scared to try things, hesitant to speak. But by Art 3 or 4, she doesn't even have to prompt critiques anymore. They talk naturally. These are often students who have struggled elsewhere. "I hear every day," Richelle says, "if it wasn't for this class, I wouldn't come to school."

And the data backs her up. Before the program expanded three years ago, Richelle would walk into her high school classroom and find four students. "Where is everybody?" she'd wonder. Now? "My students are always there, like, unless they are sick. And that was not how it was before." Attendance rates at the high school have climbed into the top 90 percent.

That expansion didn't happen by accident. A few years ago, art at the high school was a half-day position. Richelle taught on a cart—literally rolling supplies from room to room. Students couldn't get into classes because of scheduling. Candace watched talented high schoolers observe her middle school classes and heard them say they loved art but couldn't take it. It wouldn't fit.

So Candace approached then-superintendent Matt Hickam armed with a Google Slides presentation. She laid out the research, the data, the need. Her final slide? "If you think you can't find an art teacher, I got two." And there were Alexis's and Richelle's faces. Hickam listened. He asked Diana Rea to write the grant and the three-teacher program became reality.

The work they're doing now isn't just about skills. It's about safety—about students learning their voice matters, their ideas don't have to be perfect, they can exist alongside different peers and create something beautiful together.

Alexis admits that convincing students "it doesn't have to be perfect" is a year-long battle. But she fights it every day. Richelle sees seniors finally choosing what they're making, why they're making it, and how—the same freedom Alexis gives kindergarteners, but earned through years of growth. And Candace sees middle schoolers discovering that art is where they fit.

Because in Du Quoin, there really is no bench in art. Everybody's involved. Everybody belongs.