Ignore the Critics

Ignore the Critics

Saidia G.



Oh the joys of family gatherings. Rooms filled to the brim with people you can never escape, almost never see, and yet constantly want approval from. I feel like I'm at a funeral, not a thanksgiving dinner, but it's only me. Everyone else seems so joyous, happy to have flown in or driven in or bussed in from wherever it is they came from for one of our annual gatherings. I just can't seem to muster the same excitement.

My family is seems particularly large, probably owing to my mother's six siblings and my grandmother's four, and everybody's invited. These intense congregations happen at my Aunt Tracy's small mansion at least three or four times a year but I have an excuse to attend only one or two. Five years ago I moved away to attend art school, a move that has never pleased members of the immediate family. Now that I have my expensive piece of paper and am on my own, they seem to be waiting tenderly for the kill, waiting for me to realize that art was a waste of time, return home and finally settle into a real job. I hate the conversations that constantly expect a job title, a significant other, perhaps a bank statement: all the expectations of quantifiable success, thinly veiled as “catching up.”

I try to avoid personal encounters with a distant uncle or the always enjoyable interrogation from my grandmother by moving rooms as often as possible. Heading to the kitchen is a decent fall back plan. You can look good by offering to help while stay busy enough to forgo conversation. The kitchen is occupied, stereotypically, by women; my mother, two aunts and some kind of cousin.

“Hi mum,” I say, announcing my presence. “Can I help?”

My mother, a short, rounding woman secretly approaching her sixties, looks up from her wasteful carrot peeling and at least smiles at me. She's in a good mood. She looks about for a moment and then replies, “Mmm, sure Melanie, how about you take that plate of deserts into the living room? Just find a spot on a table that doesn't have sweets yet.”

“Okay,” I say. That wouldn't distract me for very long. “Anything else?”

“Nope, that's it for now,” she disappoints me. I nod and gather up the tray. At least I have an excuse to move slowly so as to not bump into anyone or drop the array of cookies, squares and tarts. Some of them look good enough to be homemade.

As I make my way to the living room, two or three children speed underfoot and I dodge them just in time. It's too bad it's long past the days when I could escape by playing with children my own age. I find the place for the tray, and immediately a portly family friend scoops up a date square. I suppress the urge to give him a look of disgust, as if to say “at least wait until I put it down!” But then again, he seems to have a reasonable party strategy. I begin looking for the nearest glass of wine and take up a butter tart from my former charge.

It doesn't take long for dinner to be served, which means the evening is mercifully beginning to progress along its schedule. But of course it also introduces a new situation: choosing dinner companions. The manoeuvre is tricky: you can sit next to a sure bet who is already seated, but then your open side is a wild card. It's just as unlikely to find one empty seat between two completely desirable dinner companions. Choosing a totally empty section is too much of a gamble to be a wise option. This introduces the need to mill around just long enough to look like finding a spot is difficult, but not too long as to give away you're trying to avoid certain dinner mates. Finally I go for the first strategy, sitting between an empty space and Kate, an old family friend who I've known most of my life, but haven't seen in a few years. She will likely be friendly though somewhat superficial in conversation.

“Where have you been hiding yourself?” a voice that I quickly recognize as my grandmother's suddenly chimes in my ear. The wild card has gone terribly bad.

“I haven't been hiding,” I murmur, too caught off guard to come up with something better. “I've been helping Mom in the kitchen.”

“Oh, well, good girl. We never see you anymore, you live so far away.”

Oh I would be so happy to move back here just to be closer to my family, I think to myself. “I like it there,” I reply, trailing off.

Our conversation is thankfully interrupted by a brief toast and the dishes being passed around. Whatever else my maternal relatives may be, they tend to be excellent cooks. Mashed potatoes drenched in melted butter, perfectly seasoned stuffing, turkey and ham, always juicy and hot. I take a good helping of all of these, a couple spoonfuls of roasted carrots and a dinner roll.

“So have you gotten a job yet?” my grandmother elbows me gently to get my attention. There it is. I swallow a mouthful of turkey swimming in gravy and give my best effort to pleasantly answer the question I've been avoiding all night.

“I've been working on a lot of projects actually. Some friends and I have been renting a table at a local market, selling things that we make like scarves, books, I've even sold two of my photos last weekend,” I tell her. I had been quite proud of the last point, finally selling two framed prints of my own photography.

“And you make enough money just selling crafts?” she returned. What she really means is I'll never be able to afford a house in the suburbs by selling crafts.

“That's not all I do, I also busk with my violin sometimes,” I tell her and realize it's the wrong thing to say the moment it comes out of my mouth.

“Well, it's good to see those lessons didn't go to waste,” she quipped. What were the lessons for if not to teach me how to play, and even better, actually utilize my skills later in life, i wondered, but I held my tongue. I had one more chance to convince her my activities actually have a future associated with them. “I have several pieces that I'm working on getting displayed in some local art shows too.”

“Well, that's nice. You could have a show here too so that we could come see it.”

“Of course, I'll definitely look into that,” I say, as if it really would be the easiest thing in the world and take a long draught of my wine. I came all the way out here for her dinner I thought bitterly, but the same thing for an art showing of mine would be far too much to ask. I hate that she never asks about the art itself, or congratulates any step I might make towards what could eventually resemble a career. My mother is often the same way, both too caught up in the absence of a daughter who can't make it around every week or doesn't call every other day. They worry that I'll never drive a nice car or have a house with a yard and two-point-five kids and retire in 40 years, right on schedule. They just can't conceive of wanting anything else. They can't convince me that kind of life is the pinnacle of human existence just as I can't seem to tell them I have so much more in mind. My aunt Janet is now chatting with my grandmother from across the table, asking for a story about a recent purchase she had to return to the store. They always seem to be so interested in the intimate, irrelevant details of each others lives. I reach for another helping of stuffing.

To my right, Kate leans over to me slightly and asks, “Did I hear that you're an artist?” I smile and nod through a mouthful of mashed potatoes. “That's right,” she seems to recall, “you went to the Academy of Art and Design a few years ago?”

“That's right, I graduated last year.”

“What kind of art are you interested in?” Kate asked. It was so nice to have simple, inquisitive, guilt-free questions at the dinner table.

“Photography, concept art and I'm becoming more interested installation art as well.” My grandmother probably thinks all art is simply paintings and sculptures that are too expensive for anyone to ever buy.

“So art that makes you think, basically.”

I nod fervently. “Yes, exactly! I'm working on constructing a piece entirely out of items designed to have a single one-time use, like a coffee cup or plastic straws, to highlight how poor our design of these items is, and how much waste they create.

“Well, that's interesting. When will you be showing that?”

“A friend of mine is running a show with environmental themes at the end of the month so I'm hoping to get a place in that.”

“I take painting classes from a neighbour of mine, but I'm no professional,” she said with a small laugh.

“Oh, that's wonderful,” I replied, flattered to be referred to as a professional.

We chatted about art for a little while longer, until there was no more food on our plates and it seemed the attitude in the room was shifting towards clearing the table and bringing out desert. Because the kitchen has limited space, it's always more helpful to let the few people who always cleared at these functions, namely my grandmother, my mother and her two sisters, to just get on with it while everyone else stayed seated.

Someone new slipped into the seat my grandmother abandoned when she went to the kitchen with the others. My older sister, Christina.

“Hey kid,” she greeted me. We had never been very close, but we are quite genial to each other when we are infrequently thrown together. “Surviving?”

“I think the worst is over,” I reply as she pointedly topped up my wine. After two glasses I was definitely starting to feel more tolerant. She doesn't enjoy these gatherings much more than I do, though I find it harder to understand why. Christina followed the rules, earning a very normal degree in environmental design and going on to work as an architect. She owns a nice car, and lives in a nice condo with a nice live-in boyfriend. Definitely the favoured child.

“How are things going? Finding work OK?”

“Well I don't have a nine to five, but who would want one of those?” I joke. It's a relief to finally be myself with someone tonight.

“Well, as long as you enjoy what you're doing,” she said, then added, “and not starving.”

“I'm definitely not starving!” I exclaim somewhat defensively. “I mean I'm not living in the lap of luxury, but that's fine with me. I have what I need, materially speaking.”

“When can I see some of your photos? I'd like to buy a couple, maybe one for my office, one for at home.”

“Really?” I'm not rejecting any sales, even if they might be semi-pity sales. “I'll send you a file with watermarked copies of everything. Let me know if there's photos you like.”

“Cool. Oh, here comes dessert!” Christina gracefully returned to her side of the table, positively excited at the approaching apple pie and strawberry shortcake. We both had a slice of each, though I have no idea how I still had room for them.

I managed to corral a turkey sandwich for my three-hour bus ride back home as well as a ride to the station from Christina. Fortunately she was leaving almost right after dinner owing to her nine-to-five, which meant I had an excellent excuse to leave as well. After milling through several relatives we made it to the door where my grandparents and mother came to see us off.

“Don't forget my phone number,” my grandmother says, while my grandfather just smiles and gives me a hug.

My mother is a bit more tactful. “Keep in touch. Let us know if you need anything.”

I want to tell them both I can take care of myself, but of course it's just my excessive independence trying to assert itself. I have to suppress my knee-jerk reaction so as to not insult them.

“Of course I will, good to see you, thanks for dinner,” the good-bye pleasantries flow, and finally we are out into the fresh night air under a wide sky.

I inadvertently give a small shudder of relief that the exchange at the door went so smoothly.

“Don't let them get to you,” Christina advises. “They always give me a hard time about Brian.” Ah, the live-in boyfriend, I knew there was a weakness. I guess a daughter can never be too perfect, no matter what you do right.

“I'm already trying to forget it,” I reply as we got into her nice car.

Later I gazed out the window of the bus, watching the lights fade into the infinitely black countryside. Anyone who became successful, I thought, probably never listened to their critics. Even if you were related to them. I soon fell asleep with the lull of the bus and the fullness of my stomach, my leftovers resting on my lap. Another family gathering survived.