Photo by Carlos Aristizabal
My parents had a professional photographer come to our house to take a family photo.
From my mother’s questionable wardrobe selection of a polyester, yellow jumpsuit, my guess is that it was around 1973 or 1974 — which would put me between the ages of two and three. Along with the family portrait (my father sported an equally loud, wide-collared shirt and sideburns the length of the state of Florida), individual portrait shots of my two sisters and me were taken, blown up to poster size and hung for the world (or whomever found their way into our home) to enjoy.
Three vastly different girls hovered above the credenza, beginning with me, the youngest, with wispy, wheat blonde curls framing a somber stare commanded by impossibly large blue eyes brimming with tears. I was petrified of the camera, I’ve been told, and no amount of puppetry from the well-prepared photographer would change my mind. My oldest sister hung on the far end, smiling confidently and with ease, while our middle sibling was placed between us, exuberating happiness. Chestnut curls spilled past an adorable and effusively joyful face. Like the tears begging to fall from my eyes, unbridled laughter promised to emanate from her portrait.
My sister and I "performing" circa 1975
With only fourteen months separating us, we were rarely apart, yet we couldn’t have been more different at that time. I was wary of strangers and painfully shy. She was the entertainer of the family - singing and dancing to whoever would serve as her audience, whether it was our parents or the plumber who’d stop by to deal with a leaky pipe.
Eventually, I caught on, realizing a performance, no matter how sloppy, brought on the intoxicatingly addictive praise of those subjected to its charms. My shyness took a back seat to this newfound revelation as my sister and I embarked on a tireless schedule as a duo, creating our own costumes, clomping clumsily in our mother’s heels and coating our eyelids in celestial blue eyeshadow, like every fine female performer of the ’70s did. We sang, danced and joked to our hearts’ delight.
This was our brief jaunt with showbiz, save for the plays we were in years later in high school, but the times I performed as a kid with my sister — and the love, support and applause that came as a result — had an indisputable impact on who I’d become. I was no longer the child on the brink of tears in front of a camera, but rather, one yearning to put on a great show, realizing at that tender young age that life is there for the taking in all its glorious, wonderfully imperfect acts.
Happy Reading!
Alona Abbady Martinez
alona@bocaratonobserver.com