The girl who drew heaven
This matter is difficult for me to express. You see, as a child, something that stood out about me, aside from my extravagant and open personality, was my creativity. Last night, over a pleasant dinner with my aunt and cousin, my aunt reminisced about my earliest years. Whenever she visited my parents, I would pack my suitcase to go back with her without a second thought. Sometimes my wishes were granted; other times I had to unpack my toys and paints from that little plastic suitcase. My aunt tells this story with a warmth that only the years can give: you have to be there to enjoy it fully, but in the end, it paints me as a daring or bold child, depending on who you ask.
During those visits to the same aunt, I used to give her drawings of the sky, with angels, Jesus, and all that religious imagery I loved, for at the time I felt a deep connection with the divine. I never missed a mass, always in my beautiful handmade dresses with the matching purse. I didn’t yet know what vanity was, nor shame, for sometimes I would climb up to the altar to pray for the less fortunate with an eloquence that, according to my parents, was not typical of a child barely four years old. Personality and creativity: that’s what I mean.
But, as seems to be the custom, I lost that spark. I moved to a foreign country I loved, but I left all that behind, and the children there made sure to remind me that I didn’t belong in their world. I learned that expressing myself was not the proper thing to do if I wanted to live in peace, if I didn’t want to be a burden. And I don’t know when I began to confuse humility with fear, restraint with submission. The change was gradual, but its effects, for those who had known the extroverted little girl who read magazines, wanted to keep up with fashion, and once dared to walk a runway, were evident. My mother and grandmother mourned the child they lost; some of my aunts sighed at the memory of that girl with not a hair out of place. I became a withdrawn, cautious person. I stopped painting or drawing for pleasure and suffocated my need to create or to experiment, thinking it would spare headaches for those who cared for me.
Now it feels as though, before me, whenever I have to choose, two paths open: one silent and the other louder. I often find myself caught in that dilemma. For example, as an amateur writer, I debate which platform to use for my writing.
At times, I admit, I feel the desire to be read. To be read by many people, to achieve something valuable (which, in other words, means money or recognition). But at other times, the very idea of advertising myself, of seeking approval, of having what I say judged, whether positively or negatively, repulses me.
I long for something simple, something intimate, which, after the next wave of wanting to be heard, might run the risk of disappearing because it isn’t enough to feed my hunger—and I don’t mean hunger for food.
And everything, like this text, remains unfinished. Because in this struggle there are things I don’t understand, or perhaps choose not to follow. Because suddenly, writing with an audience in mind, as is recommended, makes me nauseous. And I don’t offer conclusions to everything I write because—why must I be the one to provide the answers? So many buts, so many justifications, but in the end, it all comes down to: I don’t know who I am or which path to take. Should I listen to the child, or to the fear that silenced her? Not everything is as easy as it seems.
This paralysis I’ve carried for years grows heavier with time; each day I recognize it more clearly. I see it in the way I face other artists, in the new challenges that come my way. I want to be free, to see with clarity what it is that I truly want, and what has been imposed on me by others.