Short Story: The Table Talks

Dad. I'm an artist.

This fight for self can sometimes feel like a lonely battle, aware that maybe our amour is a little too heavy for us, our sandals might not strap and our sword. Double edged, promising death to our enemy and us. I find this battle for self lonely, not because I am alone but at the end of the day in order to conquer my fears I must first admit that it is 'me' indeed who must carry on the very weight of 'conquering'. How does one learn to fight? how does one pick up a sword they're not too sure they're worthy of it? I sat across my father tonight; this huge dinning table consisting of five chair. Marble, stone black with streaks of angel dust. He worked hard for that table I must add, he sweated, bled for not just that table but our home. Our family. I sat there, with full awareness that everything that surrounded me was birthed by the intentionality of one man. Including myself. 

We sat, the silence that surrounded us not bothering anyone. across me laid three canvas works, one for every year that had past till today; grey faces, swollen with blunts elongated and exaggerated. muted. Only one piece had colour, deep blues and warm citrusy oranges that scratched the once negative space of the canvas. the focal point? nonexistent. 

He proceeds to ask me what my collection of work means. I vaguely explain it's ambiguous nature and it's deep reflection of my current state while disguising myself as the muse. I stare at them, in hopes that he is lost in my gaze not to see the facade. 

I respond. 

"They're a metaphor... of how... as individuals we inhale mainstream consumerist culture unaware of it's intoxicating nature which eventually leads to this disrupted and deluded sense of reality... leading to this death of self. slowly fading away."

My voice as uncertain as my stare. 

"How is school?" he asks

I knew this was coming. I could feel his eyes on me as I spoke faced to my work. I regretted instantly opening my mouth to share with him a piece of my mind. my response indirect, "good."

"Are you still at school?" He asked while trying to find my eyes.

"yes." 

"Are you studying?"

"well..." (damn, he got me)

for the last few weeks I had danced around this conversation, with every request to share details leading in my slow disappearance teamed with a faint smile and light footwork to my room.

"You usually only paint when something is wrong with school, you know I know you very well."

Instantly the silence that surrounded me was no longer comforting but piercing. The lights that graced our ceilings began to plunder on my head and the butterflies in my stomach turned into moths. My eyes warmed, preparing for the gush of tears that followed embarrassment and shame. 

why shame?

Imagine, a family that sought refuge, survived poverty, built a home and when I say home I don't mean a house with furniture. But a space that feels like refuge; rest, love (something that this world never gives out so easily), having their last born who despite being raised in the transit is fully aware of this and hasn't become a millionaire yet?! So yes shame, My identity has always felt borrowed, distant. My heritage almost mythical I still feel as if I owe them the whole world.

"Centiya, I see you. I love you. Why do you think you have to fight alone... I am here, speak to me". The words warm as if they were fresh out of the oven. Baked in love and soul hugging reassurance.

The shame grew to guilt, instantly I began to see how it was easier for me to paint him as the villain in my story. You know, the strict ethnic dad who wants you to become a lawyer or doctor who doesn't care for your suffering as long as you make him proud.

"Dad, I... I can't do it. It's just... it's not me"

he responded, "do you know who you are to say 'me'?"

A stab, in the most kindest way he held the mirror up to me. 

"What is it that you want? for you, for your future?"

Each question, a dance. 

Taking me for a spin, my emotions all tied like a wet towel in a dryer, my tongue caught in my throat along with the words to respond to his questions. How can love be so warm and burdening? He starts to paint this picture for me, an audio piece with Da Vinci like qualities.

"You know, a child is born without the ability to speak and overtime they attempt to mimic their surroundings... At first random babbles leave their lips until one day they can construct a 'word'. Out of a deep desire to connect. they speak. eventually a sentence." 

I sat there. The lights no longer a problem. My artwork, screaming at me. his eyes on me and mine on my fingers that twiddled in hopes to find the same courage as that child. 

The sword lied between my my lips, I just needed to find the strength to pick it up.

His words like anointing oil reached parts of my heart that a father only has reserved for him. "You are at a bridge and you just need to cross it, I can see you have two voices in your head and they're constantly at war. Maybe that is why you keep going in circles... Let me tell you a story." 

Fixing his bed robe while leaning back into his chair. His eyes now on the ceiling, "when i was 17, I went to a wedding in a providence back at home. It was with my father and I managed to find myself drinking a glass of cognac after being offered it, unaware of what it was I consumed. My father beat me and told me I would never amount to anything. He called me all sorts of names. He implied that if I grew comfortable with handouts from hands I don't know, unaware of what I am allowing inside of me i would never make it."

"Now I purchase my own bottles." he said, proud of himself.

My mother managed to sneak into the conversation, sharing her glory day stories. "When I was training up to become a teacher, I had a really strict professor. The school I attended required you to maintain an average of 80%. The professor however was so mean. She would do surprise tests! One day she walked into the room..." Her voice rising near the end of her sentence, following her hands that shot up as if the conductor to her own orchestra. "I got 4 out of 20. She called for me to stand", as if storm clouds swarmed that memory, her head fell. "I stood and her response was simply 'I see'."

From that day forth she began to study the whole unit back to front and ended up top of her class.

Eventually as the the words of my parents faded into the background with the lights. I began to hear my thoughts, the fight within. The only witness in the room, my art; swollen with a deep need to surrender the fear. My parents words and concern, necessary and important but were not enough to activate my tongue in that moment.

I remained silent. Only to later to run to my notes on my phone, releasing this tsunami of emotions, digitalising my tears. The only armour I know is at the tip of my fingers, these words are my sword. For where my tongue fails me, I know these words grow incarnate. For where my tongue fails me, I know my paint brushes promise victory. 

So Dad if you're reading this, I am an artist. That is who I am. 

- and thank you, because of your kindness I am able to find the courage to even say those word. Maybe one day i'll say it to your face.

by Sisi-Cynthia Ingenere