When did I actually stop expressing who I am?
I had been told a story by my late father which I’m not sure is factually true. My dad was known for playing fast and loose with facts which is why I have some doubt. But even if some of the details of the story are not true I think there is probably some truth to it.
My dad told me that when I was two years old I went along with him and my mom to a doctor visit. Apparently the doctor was a very old school, serious Viennese man who was all business. My father told the doctor that I could draw. The doctor looked at him as if he had just landed from his alien space ship. “Sure, sure Mr. Singer. I’m sure she can draw.” “No really, she can. Give me a piece of paper and a pencil.” The surly old Viennese gave him a piece of paper and a pencil. I took the pencil to paper and proceeded to draw Wilma from the Flinstones. Now I know the Wilma part was true because I do remember identifying the shape of her bun and her face and drawing it over and over as a little kid. I don’t know if I was actually as young as two. That seems really young to me now but whatever. Also apparently the doctor was so amazed that he told my father: You must send this child to art school! I will pay for it if you need help but you must encourage this ability in your daughter.
I don’t know what happened after that but I know that I never went to art school funded by my parents or by a serious Viennese doctor.
I do remember when I was a little older going to Sunday School. The part that I liked the best was arts and crafts. I used to love doing those projects, particularly ones working with copper paper and all kinds of exotic materials that we did not have at home. I did also love the songs. A zillion years later and I still have perfect recall of the songs I learned then even though these days I forget why I have walked into another room.
When I got into elementary school I was sort of known as the class artist. And I was happy. I loved doing art and I certainly enjoyed being recognized as skilled. Everything was fine until fifth grade when a new girl came to town. I saw her drawings and I concluded: she’s better than me. I put down my pencils faster than a Japanese bullet train. If someone’s better than me then I must not draw. I invalidated myself way back then and this invalidation wormed its way into many experiences at many times and through various art expressions. I loved music too, and played the piano. My first major at Queens College was music. I particularly loved the classes that taught the foundations of composing. I thought I was in my element. Until the required performance part that happened late into the second semester. How is it that 50 years later I can still recall the sweat on my brow and the near stoppage of my heart as I sat in front of the professors playing? Absolute trauma. Oh no, this major is not for me.
There are many other instances, too many to recount in a blog post, in which I squashed my passions for the arts, for self-expression. This squashing most certainly led to a suppressed rage which, being a good little girl, never was unleashed on the outside. But boy, the way I eviscerated myself! The Marquis de Sade couldn’t have done a better job.
So today I am choosing to unsquash myself. I don’t want to be a people-pleasing, minimally expressed woman making everyone else comfortable at my own expense. I feel like a volcano that just needed to take a good belch. The lava is flowing now and it feels so good.
Musings of a Jewish Mom 