Growing up, I was a dreamer.
I believed that I could be anything I wanted to be. I sang, drew, played piano and steel pan, wrote, and decorated. I lived to be creative but I had someone who told me that drawing was a waste of time so I stopped.
I had someone who never showed up to anyone of my musical performances so the sparks died.
I had someone who only knew of my decorating talents when it benefited them.
I had someone who said writing would get me no place in life so I burned my journals.
I burned my dreams.
That someone was my father. I tried to act like it didn’t bother me but it did. I mean how could it not. I grew up in a world where I wasn’t good enough and I stopped believing.
Now I have a child of my own.
He looks like me.
He acts like me.
He talks like me.
He begs for my attention…the same attention that I craved and yearned from my very own father.
He draws, writes stories, loves to sing.
He is the splitting image of me. I smile because of him I can find my way. I can dream again. Dream of a future for him where there is no racism. No hatred.
I dream that he will get to live the life I wasn’t allowed. I don’t want him to live a life with regrets because dreaming is a wonderful thing.
To live a life without a dream is to live a life without air.