"The Impossible Dream", Mixed Media Journal Page, June 10 2011
Lately, I’ve been thinking about how art helped me survive family turmoil during my early years. We had a lovely house, clean clothes and good food at the table, but at the heart of our home something was terribly wrong. By the age of 10 I began to sense how important communication and expression of feelings were, but I had no one to share my ill feelings about family life with. Being open about sources of personal pain and conflict at home wasn’t something my parents endorsed. Like their parents before them, they learned that these were secrets meant to be left unspoken and contained within a tormented soul.
It’s with a heavy heart that I go back to that period of my life to journal the pain away. Being the oldest of three children (and eventually five), I was expected to be the mature and responsible one; this was a huge burden on me emotionally. Especially when I realized I would have to spend most of my time trying to find ingenious ways to keep the peace between my parents who constantly fought with each other. Sometimes things got physical, but mostly theirs was a war of words; of flaring tempers bound up in words as sharp as swords which they mercilessly wielded against one another. Often I went to school worrying whether I’d come home to find that my parents had split up. If they broke up, I couldn’t imagine what we’d do – living in Canada with only a few relatives, all we had was each other. Becoming North American citizens radically altered my parents’ attitudes towards life and each other; each harboured their own incompatible dream of success and desire.
With all the fighting going on at home, my ability to concentrate on my homework and any aspirations I had for my future began to slowly dissipate. My role as peace keeper and the seer of things virtually unseen (the little gestures and dramas that precede an argument) became everything. To relieve myself from the anxiety of this full-time job, I rewarded myself emotionally by escaping into the arts: reading books, watching movies and creating art. These activities allowed me to regain a sense of control over a small portion of the world that was mine. I remember skipping school so I could watch the afternoon matinee on TV. I loved seeing Hollywood characters pursuing their dreams in movies and, almost always, having them come true. If I wasn’t allowed to fulfill my dreams, then the next best thing was to watch others fulfill theirs. I loved reading stories, in which silent, intelligent, marginalized heroes and heroines like Jane Eyre overcame their emotional issues and demons. And, I coloured, cut and drew my way into worlds I created with my own hands and imagination. In these places, I found a power and a voice within myself I never knew existed as well as a calming force that kept my spirit stable and alive. Even today, beyond showing at galleries or making a name for myself, for me art continues to be one of life’s most profound coping mechanisms; a strategy for staying sane in a sometimes merciless world.
Other Related Links:
Making “A Memory of a Photo of My Parents”
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