Finger Stories.

My Grandma Tati’s fingers made the best faces. On long road trips, Tati told stories using her fingers as puppets. She dug around the cramped back seat to find a marker or a sharpie, and then the show began. Her fingers boasted carefully drawn mustaches, bow ties, raised eyebrows, winks, and any facial expression imaginable. Tati called her fingers The Tickles. They represented various figures from Tati’s childhood, like her cousin Greta who was chased weekly by the neighbor’s wife, Señora Cartachef, for stealing grapes off of their stone wall, or Tati’s sister Tía Tina who hid in their father’s furniture shop to scare Tati when she had the hiccups. I often dozed off to Tati singing Hebrew lullabies or Spanish love songs under her breath, imagining that I was running through the streets of Buenos Aires with Greta and a bunch of grapes. Tati’s creative spirit seeped into me on those long road trips; I was her obliging audience, clinging onto every word she said.

Tati is a storyteller, as am I. Though I don’t spend my days drawing faces on my fingers anymore, that desire that Tati had to make me listen to her words carries forward. I express my story through music and theater. When I embody a character in a play I become responsible for telling their story. When I am Martha in The Secret Garden I tell the story of holding on to what gives you joy; When I am the Scarecrow in The Wizard of Oz I tell the story of desire and friendship; When I am Erzulie in Once on this Island I tell the story of true love. Those characters’ stories stay with me years after closing night.

Singing brings emotion to my stories. When I sing, my entire body connects. I feel my breath and vocal cords swell around certain words and bring them to life. I remember the first time I sang in front of an audience; I was seven years old and terrified. I felt a sense of excitement and expectation that was overwhelming, and that is when I realized the power of an audience. I was once the audience holding on to Tati’s every word, but now I command the stage.

Tati taught me the importance of using my voice. She grew up Jewish in Argentina during World War II and was constantly silenced. Tati was kicked out of her high school for standing up for herself when her friends did not have the courage to do so. As a young girl, listening to Tati tell stories, I was unaware that she was teaching me the value of a young woman’s own voice. Tati told me that her whole family gathered for a final Shabbat service days before moving from Argentina to Israel. She never forgot the remorse in her mother’s voice while she sang the prayers; My Sabta Sonia (her mom) had the most beautiful voice. Tati tells me that I sing just like Sabta. Though Tati’s voice lacked the elegance that Sabta Sonia’s had, she had the vigor and command that Sabta Sonia was too afraid to use. I have both.

I sing to make my audience come alive; I take them through Tati’s stories and struggles and teach them the importance of using their own voices, just like Tati taught me. I remember the contempt Tati received for being different, being Jewish, and I remember that music allows us to unite with no boundaries. Our stories are all different, but those differences make us powerful; I will never forget that thanks to Tati. My voice echoes two generations before me, and we have a story to tell.