The Day My Dad

The Day My Father Began to Understand the Colors of My World

The world is full of color. It has to be. Where else would we find depth and meaning and purpose? Colors come together to make shape. The vibrancy of blues, reds and yellows all wash over us as we experience life. Everything ruptures with color, even music with its bright highs and dark lows or language spoken with meaning and clarity. Existence is an art and the freedom to express your art a privilege we all hold dear. I discovered the power of expression when I was young. Crayons and scissors filled my mind. I could manipulate a world of my own on paper, shaping its people. I was king. I knew my subjects. They were spread in 2-demensions before me as they struggled to all escape my mind at once. Although my scribbles never quite matched the emotion I felt deep inside me, they were enough. The forms and figures were mine. I created them. I began to know myself as I continued to grow and develop, but I could never reach the ultimate plateau I felt so strongly that I needed. I needed a boost to reach some sort of self-assurance in my ability and my love.
I tried to achieve acceptance once. Although I was young, I remember it well. I had spent all day in school creating another expansive world. As my teacher rattled off times tables and division, I furiously created an eight-year-old masterpiece through a storm of colored pencils and erasers. As I perfected each tree in my landscape, I began to feel powerful. I knew what it was to create and to be good; all I needed was for someone to show confidence in my work. My mother picked me up, but I didn't take this opportunity to show her. My picture was special. It deserved the ultimate unveiling. I was going to show it to my father. Dad came home unhappy, as usual, and ready for dinner. I knew better than to involve him yet. As I ate my unnoticed meal, I could barely hold my excitement. After dinner, I ran to my room and unfolded my work along its careful...