CREATIVE AND BLACK
“Take a minute every day to give yourself the freedom to indulge in an art form. Take time for yourself. It’s okay to be considered a creative person, we all are. Even if you’re flat broke, I promise, you’re worth it.”
My great-grandmother was a sharecropper’s wife who worked hard. So much so, that even when she gave birth to my grandma, she did it in the field where she worked, wrapped her in a bundle on her back, and kept working. At least that’s what my grandmother reminded me, when I was younger.
I remember sitting in my grandmother’s living room in the small house we shared, in the middle of bumpkin Texas. My grandmother is white as hell, so she typically struggled to do my hair. I was patient as she did her best to braid it into two pigtails.
Being a biracial child in a town full of racists, I often dreamt of what was beyond my time there. I told my grandmother I wanted to be an artist, maybe a sculpture or an illustrator. My grandmother was usually empowering of my educational goals, pushing me to excel in all of my other subjects.
She started to braid my hair tighter than usual and told me about how poor her family was back in Arkansas. “My dad worked long hours of the day to provide for the nine of us. I worked two jobs just to survive on my own with your mother and aunt.” Then she said the phrase I will never forget, “we’re poor; we don’t have the luxury to be artists.”
Before this conversation, I was already aware that we were poor. I knew because my grandmother bought all of our clothes off of eBay, in jumbo trash bags. Most of my toys came from grab bags at a local thrift store. My childhood was always filled with concerned faces from the adults when they sat on the couch and did their finances. Living in the country didn’t help either.
Despite how my home life was, I felt a sense of freedom in art class. We would use our hands to mold clay sculptures or sketch landscape designs. My art was never as intricate and neatly detailed as other girls in the class. My colors were all askew, and there would be cracks in my sculptures. The pieces I made never felt right or perfect enough for me. I just liked the feeling of getting my hands dirty in the clay, or drawing, even if it was just still-life fruit in a bowl.
I was thinking about art class when I asked my grandmother about it, sitting in her living room. Her dream for me was to be successful. Not a starving artist, whose passion kept her in the same cycle of poverty as her.
I couldn’t blame her at all.
“It’s hard to consider creating a painting series when you might not have a place to live in a month or so. I’ve been there. ”
As a child, I unintentionally felt the burdens that perplexed my grandmother’s everyday life. The overwhelming feeling of poverty is a mindset that you have to continue to work past your emotional and mental well-being for the sake of survival. She never wanted me to be afraid the way she was for months, where the money just wasn’t there.
She took on the role of a caregiver, when her multiple auto-immune diseases were preventing her from even braiding her own hair. She didn’t have time to think about writing a book about her mother, or creating the beautiful home and garden she wanted. She had to find ways to hustle with two, sometimes three, kids while living on disability. My grandmother always encouraged me to be successful in what I choose to do, to work hard, and focus.
So I put “childish” art things aside after that and began to invest in getting an education without allowing myself the time for self-expression. I was building skills for what, I believed, would save me from a life of begging churches to pay for my electricity. Soon I didn’t give any thought to creativity, just what could make me the most successful version of myself. I knew it was very possible I would one day end up like the rest of the women in my family; poor and living paycheck to paycheck without a career.
I think all children, especially black children in poverty, grow up with the idea that being poor is a lifestyle we are meant to accept, because we haven’t seen anything else. We see investment in self-care and expression as a luxury for the middle and upper class, who saw their parents be successful artists or doctors. For us, dreams were not attainable or reachable.
It’s hard to consider creating a painting series when you might not have a place to live in a month or so. I’ve been there.
The guilt our parents or caretakers pass down, because they are in survival mode, forces us to see creation as irrational, rather than as a means of maintaining our mental health. In a way, art is our emotions. Art is our outlet. To deprive us of these tools is to deprive us of mental freedom. I realized this when I was 21 years old, working for a news station my professor forced me to join, because he said I had “natural talent.” I didn’t see the appeal in writing, because I didn’t think it would make me any money or success.
Working with other journalists, who had accomplishments in the literary and artistic world, inspired me to take on creative projects as well. At the time, I was shocked that people actually invested their time into paintings, poetry, even collectables that made them zero dollars. I realized I was missing out on other needs I had, beyond surviving. I write poetry or take on art projects when I can, to fully express myself and emotions. I no longer fear calling myself a creative person and I accept when people say I am a talented creative. It’s not a luxury, it’s peace of mind.
Take a minute every day to give yourself the freedom to indulge in an art form. Take time for yourself. It’s okay to be considered a creative person, we all are. Even if you’re flat broke, I promise, you’re worth it.