Nothing

No Compromise.

They tell me to change. To compromise. To recant what I have claimed as mine. They make it seem as though it really matters . . . but does it? Its my art. They tell me to change, to move forward to something harder, when the very thing they claim is improvement, I have left in my past because it was too easy. They try to change my work, and I resist. It doesn't matter to me if most people don't understand it because I refuse to compromise the quality that I have worked for years to gain so that some people can know exactly what I am saying through it even if I'm creating it mostly for myself.

With a loving and understanding look, my uncle so near to me takes my left hand in his and rubs. He plays with my fingers like they were some toy as he continues to talk with others. But the touch is so intentional. And only I can tell. He massages my hand as though he's trying to restore the confidence and pride these fingers once conveyed. My left hand too . . . the hand with which I write. The hand with which I write things that cause so much trouble.

And his callused fingers rub my nails and playfully pull at the skin upon my hand.

He asked if there was anything good about the experience. Yes, because I learned how closed minded to things of the past people are. I learned that my traditional style is not loved by others as much as it is loved by me. I learned that as a US citizen I am expected to dumb down my art and decrease the quality so all can understand, even if all aren't meant to. I learned that society doesn't appreciate high standards.

Rub, rub, fiddle.

And before I know it, my hand, again has the confidence that it almost lost. No. I will change nothing because what I write is beautiful even if I'm the only one in the world who understands it. I will not compromise.