A whiny letter to my mother

São Paulo, December 24th 2014.

“Dear and most beloved mama,

Since you were the one that carried me inside for 9 months and gave me 50% of your DNA, I think that is your duty to answer all my questions, since people never do and expect me to understand why. Or will you let me down like everyone else does, telling me that I will find answers myself.

Mama, is it one of your (or dad’s) hurtful jokes? Or the planets positioned perfectly in order to make me like this? Why when I ask people, they always end up with a disgusting expression just to not answer me? Am I too selfish for this? Mama, I’m not an artist, am I?

This must be the dream of every parent, every school and every CEO. At least one of them must be thanking the world for the lack of artists. In fact, I don’t even what does it mean to be an artist anymore, now that the culture is so involved with economy that I can’t define which one is who. And I won’t even try it, because I’m not in position to do so.

~The worst poem you could ever read~

Mother, I could write you a poem or two
But I’m no poet at all, so what should I do?
I’m so stuck to the rules of poetry
That I’ve forgot that you don’t have rules to do it.

I shall finish now because of my poorly methodic rhyme
So I let the art to those who are talented shine.

Okay mama, I know that life is not just about art, and I’m already cool with that. I mean it. But I just wanted to share with you how many hours I’ve spent trying to write a senstive essay without being… too sensible. How many tears I’ve cried when my grades depended on my artistic side to write a composition when they all ended up -sorry for the word- so fucked up. How much attention you spent on me trying to get me into the public ballet school, but we didn’t realize that I was too clumsy and not talented for that. How many worries I have because we never had the money to pay my violin classes or my so-dreamed drama school. How many time we wasted investing on it, just to hear people say that I look like a physician.

Not that this is a bad thing, but it is too much for me.

I know, and you too, that I can do something useful to the world and be more respected by the artists than the artists themselves. But can I live with the fact that I have no talent? That I can’t be both scientist and artist like Brian May or Hedy Lamarr? You know that if I was an artist, I could spread knowledge and beauty.

Maybe someday I will find beauty in myself. Maybe someone finds beauty in me, and help me find it too. I’m sure that we’ll get married and travel the world. I was even thinking about buying a camera and start to look after some volunteer job, even if it isn’t abroad. Maybe I find knowledge inside my little open-minded world, who knows? (I know that I bother everyone with this. That’s fine, because I know I’ll have everything handled by the time they will end up in their mid-life crisis.)

Mom, where’s that big book of yours, full of recipes? The house is missing you, but she knows that you did the right thing. Come visit me sometime, so I can show my cook talents. God, my days are no longer happier than they were 10 years ago. And I don’t know if they will ever be like this again. Now, life is stressful. Full of grades. Full of people suking your energy. Full of personal needs. Full of living by the surface. Is that start being a adult?

Merry Christmas and the best New Year’s Eve for you in your new life.”

May God bless you,
Your (misfortuned) daughter.