The Poet Visits Family at Christmas: A Poem

"So, what have you been up to this year?"
they say, though what they're really asking
is why you're not married yet
and when are you going to quit
playing around and get a real job,
put that degree to use and wear dress suits
to the office and suffer through a two-hour commute
to prove you've got fortitude
and that you're serious about your career
and want to move up in the company
in the next five years, the road map all planned
if you're willing to spend your nights and weekends
worried about getting fired
as you build someone else's empire
and make someone else money

"Oh, honey, that's cute, you and your little hobby," 
they say, stopping you in the lobby
before you've even made it to the party.
"What do you have to show us?"
they ask, as if they hadn't said behind your back
that you'd outgrow it by the time you graduated,
like this passion you feel is the same
as a little girl infatuated with unicorns,
your chance of success just as real

"How much have you made?"
they want to know, which goes to show
they're still thinking in terms of cash,
not the impact words have
on those who need to hear what you have to say,
who need to learn that we're all the same.
But you're feeling brave and play the game,
the hope of the season clouding your judgment
as you forget the reason you never shared
your last book with your family.
And it's simply a disaster
as you pour out your heart,
reading a bit from your greatest
work of art to a quiet room

"It's not really my thing,"
they say when you're done,
"but you sound like you're having fun."
Then they rush off to make sure
everyone has a glass in hand 
as the conversation devolves
into rehashing the rumors
about some distant cousins you don't know.
But you'll take the brush-off
over being humored, over the glazed looks
in everyone's eyes that make you doubt yourself,
make you think there's nothing so special
about the one thing you think you're good at,
the one thing for which you have any talent

You'd rather be invisible
than vulnerable with these people
who know how to touch your last nerve
in the way only family can
so you stand quietly in the corner
and think of the good old days
when get-togethers for the holidays
meant a shower of praise for reaching
the minor milestones of growing up,
when being yourself was enough