where it's been

At eleven years old, I told my mother I wanted to be an artist of my dreams. She asked me why. Because the things I see in my dreams don’t exist in our world. Wouldn’t it be selfish of me to want to keep it all in my head?

My mother’s response. Will it put food on the table? Maybe. That dead tree over there, that’s nature’s art. People don’t have to pay to have art. Art is everywhere. But I don’t want money for my art. Then how will you support your family? How will you take care of your sister? I don’t know. Then that would be selfish.

After this conversation, my Vietnamese sensibility kicked my survival mode into full gear. I put aside my aspirations to become an artist. Packed away any desire to give the phantom creatures I met in my dreams notoriety. Dumped all my creative juices into a mason jar and buried it in the ground half way to China. That was it. I was to be a doctor so I could support my family. To be not selfish.

In school, my track was obvious. Biology. Physiology. Anatomy. Calculus. Physics. Statistical Analysis. And the straw that broke the camel’s back, organic chemistry. I am going to be a doctor. I am going to be a contributing member of society by healing the sick and weak. I am not to indulge or participate in such pleasures as art because it will not support my family. Like a broken record, these words repeated themselves over and over in my head.

But, this doctor thing, it’s not me. Medical school is not for me. Is my lifetime suppose to be only about duty?

When something isn’t you, it never last for too long. I know this to be true because I would always find myself trying to satisfy that unfulfilled yearning to be artistic and creative. Slowly, I’m opening up my mason jar of pent-up creative juices. And my dreams, I’m finding ways to tell them.