When I was a youth, I often wondered where I got my zeal for attention and creative imagination. I would put on concerts and plays for my friends, sang and told jokes in talent shows, built stage settings in the basement, danced in show choir, and eventually went into broadcasting as a writer and a performer. From there I did theatre and improv, began writing poetry, short plays, and opinion pieces. While none of us are limited by what our parents did before us, there is certainly an argument to be made someone like me must've been inspired or influenced during their upbringing. My mom sang as a teenager and my dad taught himself to play the Lowrey Cotillion organ, but that was the extent of my family's artistic side. My parents were both encouraging and supportive, but I know at times they were left scratching their heads wondering where my ego and need to perform came from and exactly what they should do with me.
Finding my birth family and discovering who my birth mother really was as a person has answered for me many of these questions. Rosie was a singer, wrote plays, loved to laugh, had a sense of humor, and performed on stage many times throughout her life. And like many performers, she was also very shy. As I never met her, I would never assume to know her heart. But you can tell a lot from pictures and stories and I believe we shared more than DNA. I certainly don't mind being the center of attention, but I promise underneath my pudgy exterior is a fairly shy person. I think I've created a persona which allows me to step forward into the spotlight or be the clown and willing target for razzing. My skin is thick and it's not just from too many beers and chicken wings.
Last night my newly acquired uncle, Jerry, presented me with a stack of short plays Rosie wrote for her church. After reading a number of them today, I now know where, if I can be presumptuous enough to say, any aptitude I might posses for scribing came from. Certainly teachers, friends and even news directors and editors helped sharpen my tools along the way. They still do. But at the risk of being melodramatic, in her words I can vaguely hear my own voice. The works are ecclesiastical in nature, but even my secular sensibilities can feel her devotion to subject and can discern the care she used in placing each word precisely. To me, these works are truly a treasure and I'm honored to include them in my library.
My only wish, is there was video or audio of her singing or performing. Then there would be no doubt where I got my jazz hands.
