I try to impersonate you on a daily basis. Your achievements, extracurriculars, friendlessness, and bluntness. We are both artists, responsible for our own canvas (lives). But while my strokes are quite hesitant and messy, yours are bold and purposeful. It’s a test and though our art teachers (parents) are not too strict, I still peek at your painting and cheat.
I cheat just enough to get myself a thumbs-up or, on rare occasions, a smiley face drawn on the assessment of my painting. I’ve earned applause that had driven me to the point of fooling myself into believing that this was my own doing–that I was made for this, such a sky high success. But the truth sits heavy in my chest: It’s your call. You’re the wild artist and have always been so distinctly different from me, the dull amateur.
You have 206 bones in your body and I dream of having them replace mine, as if their strength would bolster me, as if your ambition could be surgically implanted into my soul. A yearning to be an ounce of what you are, a belief in your overflowing greatness. This is no longer an art class, we’ve moved to music and my envy is now a restless drumbeat. My yearning, on the other hand, a hum trying to be steady. But this is not hate and it is certainly not resentment, you’re a stunner I could never feel negativity about. This is admiration in its truest form–a sibling form, and it runs so deep in me that it is almost painful.
This is a burden on my teenage heart which has been feeling too much too deeply. It is a burden on my whole being who feels every success and failure too deeply. It is especially such a shame– such a waste to have my soul stretch itself thin to replicate yours. But I’m restless and I continue on because to be like you– and to be with you– is the greatest thing I could ask for.
Some nights, while I am enveloped by the emptiness of my bedroom and black dots surround my vision, I wonder about the day I won’t need to peek at your canvas anymore. A day where I won’t need your strokes to guide mine. A future where I flourish, my garden of dreams and achievements blooming on its own. Completely different from now where I can only plant the seeds and must wait for the gardener– you, to proceed on with the beauty. Must take notes, draw my own examples, take anything I might need to try on my own for next time. My future garden would have vibrant colors, my favorites, not yours. However, while this day excites me, it equally scares me.
On that day, you would surely be miles away. Maybe in a different city, state, or even country. You’d be perhaps painting a new canvas I won’t get to see every day, no more peeking. Maybe by then, you’ll have new admirers, your own little apprentice looking up at you, and you’ll think of me– probably even call. This heart of mine beats faster than ever at the thought of our possible separation but a part of me understands there is no need to feel sadness, not even an ounce of it. So, I won’t be sad, at least not entirely. I’ll be content because I would have figured out how to stand strong on my own. Content because our parents– our greatest cheerleaders and teachers– will see two masterpieces at the final of our art class, side by side. No competition, at least not one within myself.
An internal battle will be over and I’ll stop impersonating you. This will not mean I no longer admire you, but that I’ve found my own creative juices and they are erupting out of my being. This is beautiful and you will surely be happy for me. In that moment, I’ll call your name–not to show you how I’ve cheated off of you, but to show a creation of my own.
And you’d smile, laugh, hug me, shower me with praises as an older sibling should. My head on your shoulder, arms holding you tight, giving back everything I’ve taken. When we break apart, I’ll look up to you, not with envy, but with joy at our differences.
Anthonella Bitoka is a Junior at Ulysses S. Grant High School, a Congolese girl of numerous linguistic abilities. Living in the Valley, she's caught between doing it all and doing nothing. Her days are filled with music that makes her ears bleed and overflowing school work. She's figuring her life out, one beat at a time. Maybe she's ahead of the race, maybe she's not.
Photo provided by author.
