Why Do I Write?

#52Essays2017
Week 4


"Tienes que ser alguien en la vida" (you have to be someone in life). Someone meant: a person with a successful career. Economically stable. Independent. Prestige. Status. A corporate America job, a doctor, a lawyer, an engineer. When I was young, I felt proud that my parents pushed me, knew even that I was going to be someone. Because I dreamed. My dreams were wild. My 'home' was huge. My possessions were out worldly. But as I got older I started to realize those dreams hurt me. Because at that moment in time I wasn't that someone. I wasn't someone. I was no one, simply because I didn't have those things. I started realizing my parents weren't someone either. They weren't the someone they wanted me to be.

In between the emphasis and praises of my A+'s and 100's in school tests and home quizzes created by my dad, they supported my artsy side. I sketched, read, wrote and decorated countless journals, created stories in my head and acted them out, I did clay sculpting, later on photography. When I was a child, my dad was a carpenter and brought home pieces of wood for me to draw on. He would later lacquer them to make them into wall art.

When I was 10, my dad entered me into a drawing contest, to join an art program. I was sent the pamphlet exam by mail. The rule was to sketch two very complex and detailed pictures that came in the pamphlet, down to the smallest detail. It was going to be graded on similarity between original and sketch, lines, shading, and all the technicalities of sketching. I worked so hard for it. I felt important. I felt like a true artist. My dad of course, gave me his own grade. I mailed it in, and waited impatiently to receive word. The days seemed eternal. My impatience to receive my results was greater than that of a child having to wait for 12 o'clock to open Christmas presents on Noche Buena.

I scored an overall grade of 97% and in the letter I was congratulated for my work and talent. BUT, participants had to be 14 and older. I was devastated. I wasn't someone yet because I was too young to have the career that would make me someone, but I also wasn't someone in what I loved the most. At the end of the day, it was just a hobby. They supported it, but they reminded me time and time again it was just a hobby. "Un artista se muere de hambre y solo es reconocido cuando muere" (an artist goes hungry and is only recognized when he dies). So, yes, it was just a hobby.

Hobbies that faded as I got older and embarked on the 'becoming someone journey'. The journey was so time consuming and exhausting, it didn't allow much free time. I went to Hunter College for psychology. I loved my time there. I was exposed to so many different people, cultures, knowledge, ideas and opinions. I wanted more. I didn't want to do the bear minimum. Someone would do more. Someone should do more. I joined two research labs. Graduated with two thesis, sat on stage and had a special recognition during the ceremony alongside a small group of graduates. I felt proud. I still do. But even after graduating from Hunter I still didn't feel like someone. I thought it was silly of me to think I would feel satisfied, or be someone with only a bachelors degree, so I decided to become a speech and language pathologist and went to Columbia University for grad school. It was a tough two and half years. 6 years overall of excessive studying, reading textbooks, not reading for leisure, sleepless nights, and little room for creativity.

I graduated. I was now an Ivy Leaguer. I still didn't feel like someone. What was missing?

Am I proud of what I've done? Absolutely. Do I enjoy what I do? Of course. I love the kids. It's a rewarding job. But it wasn't in me. As a child I didn't dream of being a speech and language pathologist. I didn't line up my dolls and teach them strategies to improve their language skills, or stuttering. I did dream of performing in front of an audience. My dolls were my audience.
I did dream of drawing and painting murals. I did dream of acting. I dreamt of being an artist in all its shapes and forms. All day, every day.

But I didn't just dream. Because I was actually good at it.
I sketched cartoons and gave my drawings out to friends in middle school. I even came home with orders of characters I had to draw and give out the following day. I wrote short stories and skits. I created a crazy life which I would play, or better said "live" without anyone knowing. So was being a speech and language pathologist my dream come true? No. It wasn't the someone I wanted to be. It was the someone my parents wanted me to be. It was someone for them. It was the someone that would make them proud.

I'm not being whiny here. I'm not miserable. I promise. I'm getting to the 'why do I write part'. I enjoy my job. I love my schedule and all the free time I have to do all the things I love and thought were merely hobbies. At the end of the day it was my choice. A choice I made influenced by my parents, by society, by what I thought was right. But MY choice after all. But it is also my choice to finally listen to the little girl who KNEW what she wanted. To the little girl with a crazy imagination and dreams who should've been my biggest, most important influence of all.

That's why I write. That's why I photograph dogs, and all things beautiful. Because it's art. I lived and breathed art. I suppose I can say I stopped living and breathing for a while. But I am filling my lungs again. Because that's the someone I was, am, and will always be.