Meet Me in the Middle

Chapter 2: Luke

A pedestal is where you are born, and a pedestal is where you will always be.

My father used to always say to me, with his perfectly tailored dress shirt and styled haircut. I looked at him in confusion, not quite getting the motivational gibberish he was saying to me in front of the mirror.

Standing in front of a crowd exhilarated me. Even before I could even put into my words what that rush I felt was, I knew that it was the only thing I ever wanted to do in this world. Looking out into the audience, my parents sat in the front row. My dear mother, gawking with pride, she clapped her hands together along with the rest of the crowd. Beside her was my father, a monotone expression on his face, you'd think his son hadn't won another talent competition at his annual school program.

I couldn't forget that disappointed, almost indifferent reaction my dad gave at every single performance.

So again, I tried to impress him as best as I could.

Painting.

Another creative avenue I discovered I could pour my overwhelming passion into, every stroke on the blank canvas eased my senses. I drew everything and anything, the only limit was the colors I had and the expanse of the surface that was available to me. Well as much creativity a child can muster up is subjective, but the effort was there.

I remember the first time I presented one of my first sketches to my dad. He was sitting on the sofa, watching TV. I concluded it was the best opportunity I had to get his attention.

"Dad? Do you have a second?" I perked up, slowly descending the steps and peeking out at him.

"Yes, Luke. What is it?" he grumbly replied, adjusting the framed glasses on his face while focusing his attention on me.

I took a deep breath and handed out the makeshift sketchbook that'd taken me days to fill out, the book was just an ordinary ruled notebook with extra quirks and a big title heading that said Luke's Drawings. "I wanted to show you something"

He quirked his eyebrow and took the small book in my hands, mindlessly flipping through the pages with differing reactions to each one. With wide, expectant eyes, I go back and forth between the notebook and my dad; gulping in nervousness as I await his impending comments.

"This is cute" he said.

"What do you mean 'it's cute'?" I questioned, sensing the unseriousness in his tone.

"For a child your age, this is just alright. Very, very colorful" he mused, adding emphasis on 'colorful' as if he'd felt disgusted by it. He put down his glasses and set my sketchbook on the coffee table beside him.

I still felt conflicted, sitting down beside him and watching the show for a while in silence.

"I want to put my paintings in a museum someday, Dad," I said out loud. My dad snickered adjusting himself to face me once again.

"Son, if you want to get taken seriously as an artist, just random colors isn't going to cut it" he reasoned. "Besides, drawing won't put food on the table".

From then on I vowed to change his mind about my art, to make him think that I could do it and have my work in the spotlight with other notable artists before me.

I am my father's son after all.

-

Being an only child was both a blessing and a curse at the same time. I was the apple of my mom's eye, loved every step I took, and celebrated just as I was pressured to be my best potential self.