from the dining room table.

My family’s dining room table was my first canvas. It was there where my two-year old self would crawl in between the legs of the chairs, armed with a green sharpie and a vision. Underneath the table it was just me, the scratchy green carpet, and my rugged wooden canvas. I worked hard, using the neighboring kitchen light as my guide to line the surface with neon green scribbles. My parents never yelled. Instead, they bought me an art set, paper included.

My mother rolls her eyes whenever I mention how I have immortalized myself in the centerpiece of our home, but, like mother, like daughter. For 21 years I have watched her use the table as her own canvas. By the end of a two hour phone call with her friends, old receipts were covered in flowers and trees, and any notepad left on the table would fall victim to being used as a temporary invoice for her clients. Maybe they did not yell because I am just a copy of her.

Our dining room table was also our classroom, and my mother was the teacher. Unfortunately for her, I never cared what two times two equaled, and the names of capital cities and countries would leave my head as quickly as they entered it. She tried to push me academically, and would teach three year old me the same material she was teaching my seven year old sister. It never worked. Five minutes into the lesson, the sound of my mother’s voice was broken by the echo of my chair scraping against the floor, followed by the tip taps of toddler feet leaving to search for a much more interesting event that may be happening in the house. It remained a cycle; Attempted lessons, disinterest, and play, yet still, she never yelled. After two more torturous years for us both, my mother tried an alternate method of teaching. The worksheets were replaced by CDs and the multiplicative based dronings melted into song. I began staying still long enough to mold into the green and gold seat cushions and needing to free myself from pins and needles in my legs and feet.

I only made it to college because I was able to learn science through the tunes of old singing games and nursery rhymes. Though my parents practiced patience with me, I never grew to have that same patience with myself. I immediately become obsessive when I receive any grade less than my goal, and more often than not, my days and nights are held captive by the subject’s following assignment or exam. I force myself to plan everything out to the last detail, because anything less than perfection is a failure. The dining room table taught me what patience was, but it never taught me how to be patient, especially not with myself.

Everyone says that my mother can celebrate a broken pencil. Our dining room table is usually themed, letting any visitor who enters, or driver who peers through the open curtains, that an important occasion is being recognized at the Pratt home. In 2018, the table was lined in Ankara print, wine, and charcuterie boards. The dim, stubborn overhead light almost seemed to grow brighter during these celebrations, and the wooden oval sat dutifully as my mother and her friends did their first walk around before racing to see Chadwick Boseman appear on our living room’s television screen. My mother never watched another Marvel movie again until Black Panther: Wakanda Forever was released. When I asked why, she looked at me as though I had grown two heads. “Why would I need to?” was the closest thing to an explanation she would offer.

Each birthday table would alternate depending on the family member; My younger sister’s table was decorated in doilies, tea cups, and lace, mirroring her gentility and grace. Meanwhile, my older sister’s book shaped cake and newspaper wrapped presents paid respects to her love of literature. Through these themed tables, my mother made an effort to not just celebrate not just an event, but the very essence of who we were.

Since leaving home, I have had to create smaller, portable dining room table celebrations. To my mother’s pleasure, my desk, most often a cluttered mess of paper, sticky notes, pens, and books, transforms into a haven of all of my favorite things during my birthday. Flowers, cupcakes, and old wrapping of my favorite foods are my personal indicator that I have made a major or minor accomplishment. A celebration is held whenever I have finished an exam, completed a presentation, or just needed a reminder that sometimes life will suck. At the dining room table I learned that everything, even just life and living, is enough of an accomplishment to stop and honor.

I entered adulthood at the dining room table. I sat on the now faded and worn cushions and began the final phase of my education. At 7:45 a.m., I opened my computer, ready to navigate the halls of higher learning and begin my 8 a.m. First Year Experience class at the University of The Bahamas. However, by 8:30 a.m. the chair that supported me through 18 years of my academic endeavors began working overtime to support my full weight, as my upright posture slowly sank into an annoyed slouch, and the chair’s creaks and sighs echoed my own. In thirty minutes, I was subjected to an over enthusiastic, yet no nonsense lecturer who I decided was determined to make my first semester miserable through an excessive amount of research papers, marathon-length videos, and additional mandatory virtual events. I made a big mistake.

While there were no educational songs to keep my attention and make the experience less miserable, every monday morning at 8 a.m. I would suffer for an hour and a half and absorb lessons that no longer seem relevant. The place that once offered comfort became a battleground for a personal struggle, as I was forced to face the reality that I had no idea what I was doing or where I wanted to go. The same place I entered adulthood, I left childhood. I felt as though the table robbed me of the same experiences it had given me, and instead, dropped me into a territory that was uncomfortable, unfamiliar, and uncertain. It fed me a new truth that the second you leave what you know, you have to figure the rest out on your own. It was easy to become resentful for not being made aware of this shocking revelation before adulthood had come, but really, I learned the lesson when it was time. Just as the space helped me navigate past phases, I blindly, and unknowingly, allowed it to guide me through that one as well.

I do not think I can fit underneath my dining room table anymore. I have not tried to in a long time, and I believe I have grown out of those dimensions. However, I am because of the lessons from my dining room table. The green scribbles underneath the table are a memory of the beginning of my creative journey. While I no longer use it as a sanctuary of creativity, my spirit continues to echo my mothers, and no scrap piece of paper is safe as long as I am holding a pen. As I grew older, the dining room table became more than a stage for creativity and celebrations, but a sanctuary for introspection. It watched as I went from singing my multiplication tables, to making the decision to be baptized, to breaking down into tears when I got news of an unexpected death. From my canvas, classroom, and commemorations, I learned how to create, how to love, how to celebrate, and how to persevere. I learned that patience is not earned or deserved, but given, that small actions have big consequences, and that every human’s essence should be held close. To me, some of my core lessons are from the dining room table.