My fondest childhood memories involved two simple things: a kitchen counter, and a song. Most of the time, it was “New York, New York,” specifically the Liza Minnelli version, which my mother sang to me as a toddler living in West Point, New York.
As I grew older, taller, and able to climb onto higher countertops, I became more expressive, adding dance moves and facial expressions, and switching to some songs I had heard on commercials. My mother would watch me as I sang and danced, scrunching up her nose in confusion, the way I sometimes still do.
“Don’t you think the leg kick would be better earlier in the routine, little mouse? I don’t want to impose, but the leg is supposed to be earlier” she said to me one day. (“Little mouse” has always been her default term of endearment, even for her cats, which she suspects they find degrading.)
It shocked me that she would understand my little spectacle. Come to find out, this had been her spectacle all along.
My mom is a self-described “nice normal girl,”usually keeping to her books or writing blog posts on her laptop, so it shocked me that she would understand my little spectacle. Come to find out, this had been her spectacle all along.
My mother was born Jaqueline Zimpel in a United States Military Base in Nuremberg, Germany, where her dad was stationed during the Vietnam War, on September 15th, 1970. She was the oldest child of three, and the only girl, making her incredibly type A; everything must be done in a way that pleases everybody, but she's not afraid to be a little goofy when nobody is watching.
As a child, Jackie performed in church choirs, school musicals, and grand piano recitals. As she grew older, she saved her showmanship for special occasions. One of her most formative high school experiences was traveling abroad with her chamber choir ensemble to teach music to children in Portugal. “Music isn’t really her thing,” (she says), except in Portugal, where she spent two weeks in an unfamiliar place with unfamiliar people with only music to connect with. The same woman who “isn’t really a singer” was accepted into UVA’s Virginia Women’s Choir her first try, and performed the signature Zeta anthem, “Let it Grow,” for her entire sorority at pref night three years in a row.
I thank my mother for music, even if she will never acknowledge her talents the way I do. And I know she thanks her own mother for filling her life with music, too.
My mom doesn’t take ownership of her musical side, but I credit her with bringing music into my life. I wake every morning to her signature singsong greeting, and she sings about whatever task she's excited about next. She sings in the car (only the harmonies, while I do the melodies), to the cats, and even over the phone. Her ongoing dream is to start a family band so she can play a tambourine and practice her “backup singer dances” while the rest of us get our moments to shine. She has piano plunked every note for every song I have ever used in an audition, even when I get it wrong for the 500th time. It’s all of the little things she doesn’t realize that I cherish. I thank my mother for music, even if she will never acknowledge her talents the way I do. And I know she thanks her own mother for filling her life with music, too.
My Grammy, Marilyn “Dundee” Moore McManis, was born in Lakewood, New Jersey, while her dad was stationed there on April 24, 1945. Dundee made her solo debut at age 6, performing “Brahms Lullaby '' at her kindergarten class’ showcase. A stickler for tradition, she signed her children up for piano classes just as her own mother once had, to give her children the lessons she could never afford as a child. Not only did Dundee enjoy developing vocal and piano skills growing up, but she was “big into it;” joining the church’s children's choir, playing hymns for Sunday school, and singing in a variety of school ensembles. “We only sang the good stuff,” she would say, in the tone that she used to describe some of my more experimental choir pieces over the years. The greatest of stuff, as she tells it, was her senior year performance of Mendleson’s Elijah at the National Cathedral in DC, a memory that still gives her chills.
In my eyes, Grammy really “knew the biz.”
Grammy was my personal Broadway diva: a vocal coach, a casting director, and a dramaturg, all in the comfort of her foyer. Singing lessons from her always went off track as I laughed at the funny vocal warm-up sounds (“nyeh nyeh nyeh'' up the scale) or tried to strike a key on her grand piano without her noticing.
In my eyes, Grammy really “knew the biz.” In reality, she and I had gone through the same turmoil of public school theater productions generations apart, right down to our eerily similar tale of singing the high A in our school musical and henceforth being banned from singing our normal Alto 2 part ever again, as we were accused of being “secret sopranos.”
Grammy had her own family memories of music, starting with Granddaddy Moore, or George Hudson Moore, born in 1883 in Richmond, Indiana. She never met him, and her father only told her the full Granddaddy Moore story late in life. It turns out Dundee’s Great Grandfather, George Moore, was a Professor of Music amidst World War I and the Great Depression.
He worked hard to make the arts survive, because the arts were his way to survive.
George’s life was rooted in two central forces, the Church and its song. He began playing piano in the church as a young boy, took up the pipe organ as a young man, and became a professor of music at Martha Washington College in 1912 (quitting shortly after due to conflict with the Music Director). After moving to Cincinnati (which he referred to only as Cin’), he met his wife, Emma Moore, and they established a dedicated group of students at the Conservatory of Music.
Shortly after the war, he returned to Cin’, his wife, and his students, but upon learning that his former music director at Martha Washington had died in the war, he accepted his old position there, where he and his family remained until the school closed in 1931.
During the Depression, Granddaddy Moore found one-year stints directing music programs at small religious colleges and continued to offer lessons spreading his musical joy to a suffering population. He worked hard to make the arts survive, because the arts were his way to survive.
Music is who I am, but it is also my mother, my grandmother, grandaddy, and countless others I have yet to meet.
I have forged my own way with music, and yet I am still rooted in the actions of those who have come before me. My church choir showcases were monotonous and my piano lessons were mandatory, but I delighted in sharing these experiences with my elders. I may not have felt chills in the Cathedral, but did make awkward eye contact with government officials whilst singing in the White House. I’ve performed for UVA just as my mother had, but chose to sing a capella rather than choir.
Music is who I am, but it is also my mother, my grandmother, grandaddy, and countless others I have yet to meet. As my Grammy puts it “I look forward to seeing them in Heaven and having a grand time singing and playing piano!” I couldn’t agree more; maybe we can start that family band my Mom’s been dreaming of.
