by Cyn Bagley

Created on: February 15, 2008   Last Updated: December 29, 2009

Since my birth, music has been entwined in my life. I was the first born. My parents and I lived in a small cabin north of Vancouver, Canada. My mother, as she tells it, didn't have much room for a baby. So, she would wrap me in a blanket, place me in a basket, and put me atop their stereo. She would play everything from symphonic music to opera. I would sleep to the strains of Beethoven, Bach, and Mozart long before the Einstein series for babies.

Music was her life-saver, she would say. When I was listening to music, I didn't cry. And I had a pair of lungs, she said.

My mother was never meant to have children. She had vocal cords. She was a diva in her small community before she married my father. He played the violin and was a concert master for their small symphony. My mother with her big blonde hair and blue eyes played the leads in musicals like Oklahoma, The Sound of Music, and Music Man. When I was older, I would find her scripts. It was my first introduction to stage plays. My mother was born to be a performer.

I was confused about music. I loved music. I hated music. Yes, my music and my mother was so tightly intertwined that when I took vocal lessons, it was like having a therapy session.

You see, she was a diva. She would put together musical performances to showcase her own talents. Her children would spend hours standing straight in front of the piano like soldiers. We would practice hour after hour "Do, Re, Me" from The Sound of Music.

But, when we wanted to take lessons she would frown. Why, she would ask. You only have enough talent to be in a chorus. When she would offer a lesson, it would become grueling. I learned the hard way that family especially divas shouldn't teach their own family the performance arts. Her competitiveness tainted the whole experience.

Let me give you an example. My mother and I with two of my sisters had auditioned for parts in a production of the "Messiah." We were excited about earning our solos. The conductor asked my mother to sing her part slightly differently. She was offended. She had been taught to sing the solo a certain way and she was not going to change. She marched off the set.

My sisters marched off with her. I stayed. For a week my mother sniffed and cried about my disloyalty. When she started on my talent, as in I had no talent, I finally went to the conductor. He listened as I explained that it had become impossible to practice at home. I even doubted that I had enough talent to sing the solo.

"I am so sorry," he told me. "I understand. But, I want you to remember to never Never.," he emphasized. "underestimate your talent." He hugged me and I left.

But even so, I had a niggling doubt that I had enough talent to be a singer. When I went to college, I played it safe. I played the piano. And yes, it was a self-fulfilling prophesy. I could play, but I wasn't good enough. I hit my glass ceiling. I started to research other college majors.

That summer the vocal professors were looking for students to teach on the off-season. Just for the heck of it, I auditioned. I made it.

I wish I could say that I continued in music and became a singer of renown. But no, even with my few successes, I believed my mother.

Nowadays, I sing in the shower. When someone compliments my voice, I hear my mother saying, "They are just trying to be nice."

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