Painter, Pianist, Persona Non-Grata

My father is a pianist. He plucks each key with care and precision, and could tune a Steinway using only his sense of smell. I don’t play piano, but I’ve enjoyed painting for over fifteen years. I may not boast a sprawling loft in Soho, but as a fun hobby, it helps scratch the itch. 

I inherited my father’s creative streak. Unfortunately, my father is also a devout Jehovah’s Witness, and the same proclivities that make him such a talented musician and craftsman are the same qualities the Organization has found a way to exploit. In the name of faith, my father has put the same sweat and toil he puts into his piano business into working for people who tell him he can’t speak to me.

My mother and I have a complicated relationship. It’s a mother-daughter thing. But my father was simple: he bought me the junk cereal I wasn’t supposed to eat, and when asked if I wanted to see Babe, a movie about a talking pig, or Clueless, he laughed his ass off watching a bunch of teenagers make stupid decisions. “How could you take her to see that?” My mother was not amused. As if!

My father has been an elder in the Jehovah’s Witnesses for over fifty years. These are the pastors or priests of the Jehovah’s Witnesses, church officials responsible for leading the congregation. Since the Organization doesn’t have paid clergy, my father has devoted decades of his life to this role without receiving a penny. My father has inspired people, and at times, been thrown under the bus by his own cohorts when he followed his conscience rather than the consensus. I can respect his hard work and ethical compass. But, I also wish I could just watch my dad play the piano. 

My father made the “choice” to dedicate himself to the Organization at 10 years old. Before my father hit puberty, he committed himself to a religious ideology that would slowly strip him of his humanity, and drive a wedge between him and his only daughter. When I told my father I was revoking my membership from the Jehovah’s Witnesses, he made it clear that he would “remain loyal to Jehovah and His earthly organization.” His response was immediate and rote, like turning on your blinker at a stoplight. And just like that, our relationship came to a screeching halt. No more Chopin. No more Rustle of Spring filling the house while my mother cooks. Well, maybe so. I just won’t be there to hear it.

Maybe I wasn’t meant to have my parents forever. Maybe my mother was supposed to feed me, clothe me, and give me a strong voice. Maybe my father passed down some artistic gene that would make me appreciate the visual arts, a skill that would help me get through strange and difficult times. Whatever the magical reason is for why this all happened, I no longer use art as a diversion; an escape from the brewing tension in my brain. I don’t have to pretend to be something I’m not just to make others comfortable. Now, I’m free to be the weird, gallery-reject, Michael’s-coupon-clipping motherfucker I always knew I could be. Thanks, Pop.