Here's a toast to all those who hear me all too well--"Your art Matters--It's what got me here": Part 2

***Disclaimer: The title is a mash-up of the Eve 6 Song and a quote from One Tree Hill***

It's been nearly two years since I wrote an open thank you note to all the people that have inspired me. Two years. I should be saying thank you every day. 

Because truly, "Your art matters"--yes you--"It's what got me here." (One Tree Hill)

I am a go getter--a strong-brave--courageous-lively individual. But I am also grateful. I didn't get here on my own. I got here through all of you--through all of you in my past--through all of you who are in my present--through all of you that I've only met for moments--seconds in my life. I got here through my past--I got here through looking towards the future--and I got here through your constant pushes, your endless support, your brilliant love and passion for life and whatever it may bring. I got here through you. Yes--you.

I didn't always wear my heart on my sleeve when it came to what I truly wanted. The truth is--I've always wanted to be a performer--an artist--a creative soul giving her most intimate thoughts and gifts through words and writing on the side of the street. I always wanted to be in the school plays, take voice lessons so I could be on Broadway, and make art. Growing up, the only reality TV show I wanted to be on was Say What Karaoke. But up until my senior year of college, I never acted on it.  I am not sure if I was scared of what people would think of me--or if I just didn't have the confidence in myself. Whatever wall was stopping me seemed unbreakable. But I don't regret waiting so long to find my inner arteest (hehe)--because along the way, I formed friendships and long-lasting relationships with people who taught me to love myself and push myself in ways that have propelled me to become the artist --and person that I am.

I was an athlete. In everyone's minds that's where my life was going--athletics. When I was in eighth grade, I engraved it in my head that I needed to be good enough to get a scholarship for college--at softball. In sophomore year, I sat down with a recruiter and discussed how to reach college coaches. And by junior year, I was no longer focused on softball--but rather field hockey--another sport. I hadn't given myself a chance to TRY anything else. Being an athlete was all I knew. My life revolved around the emotion of the final game of a season--statistics--and morning runs. I knew nothing else--and my heart yearned for me to be trying EVERYTHING. I got a glimpse of what my heart was truly yearning for when I auditioned for class speaker, and won a vote to speak at my high school graduation. I compared high school to coffee--my inner art was screaming to get out, but again the wall built itself up. But my heart was yearning to be on a stage--somewhere--talking to people--laughing with people--performing. My head won this game. But I don't regret it.

What better way to get comfortable speaking and performing in front of people than playing sports--where you are put on display for people during every practice and during every game--choreographing just like a dancer how you'll dodge, move, and drive toward the goal. What better way to learn about performing in front of people than when you don't have time to worry about what people on the outside are thinking of you. It's just you and your teammates. It's because of those teammates--those coaches--those support systems--that I can perform. Here's to you.

Additionally I was always one to quote underdog movies: and prove that I should be on that field through my drive and my passion for wanting to be there for my teammates--for wanting to be a pillar to the foundation of a group of girls who meant the world to me. Through my teammates--through my coaches--through those support systems--through wanting to be there for people--who were always there for me--I found passion. Here's to you. My team.


When I moved to New York City, life changed. I met hundreds of people who were all part of team-dream (haha). I met hundreds of people who were following their passions. I met hundreds of people who made me realize that I could do the same. I met people who invited me to their shows--who asked me to watch them do their art--who showed me WHO THEY WERE. I met comics--and actors--and singers--and aspiring novelists. I met my acting class--I met my new mentors. I met people who were okay with being THEM--I met people who showed me that it's okay to be ME. These people are part of my team--these people are part of me. Here's to you--my team.

That's what life is about to me--the passion to perform--and the inherit pleasure in being part of a team--an endless team of people that are constantly making moves that in turn allow me to make my own. A team that often is off on their own, performing on stage, singing, dancing, playing and dreaming--a team that is inspiring me. I consider the world my team: My friends--my old teammates--my family--my new acquaintances--the faces of people who don't look back--the faces of people who worry, but push through--the faces of friends who pursue their dreams. You are all my team---Whoever you are--wherever you are--whether I met you in passing--or I spend time with you on a consistent basis--whether I read your blog--or followed your Twitter--I admire you--and I am inspired by you. I am me because of my team--This team. I am me because of  you.

                                                           "Your art truly matters. It's what got me here."

I traded in my light up shoes for a billion light up smiles

“Tag you’re it,” a boy yells as he touches my shoulder on the elementary school playground.

‘Damn,’ I utter in my mind before I continue the game by chasing anyone who I deem slower than me. As my feet touch each patch of dirt, each strand of grass, each piece of the pavement, my white and blue kicks began to blink a red glowing light. The collage of black, green, red, and orange shoes that I chase around also light up the playground in a similar fashion. Eventually, the monkey bars, the red fire truck, and the silver smooth slides have a better light display than Macy’s at Christmas time.

Light up shoes.

I think it was around my ninth birthday that I traded in my light up shoes for a billion light up smiles—when I went from chasing kids and stringing blinking Christmas lights on the four square boxes and dodgeball circles to causing a contagious strands of smiles, ones as big as the acre of land that stretched from the fence of the playground to the back parking lot of the school.

When I was in fourth grade, I won the egg award for my smile. And when I was a freshman in college, the assistant athletic director said to me, “Smile more. You have a wonderful smile.”

I think it was around my sixteenth birthday that I first traded in that light up smile for a look of angst as I became a broody teenager who suddenly thought not smiling was the cool thing to do—who believed that an angry look far exceeded the power of a happy one. I was pretty emo. (Ha)

But near the end of college, like the time I traded in my light up shoes, I found a way to trade back my angst and broodiness for my light up smiles. I found ways to make the Rhode Island athletic fields look like the exterior décor of the Empire State on a clear night—I found a way to light up the world again with that brilliant smile that I once bared in the cafeterias of my elementary and middle schools—on my first day of high school softball practice, and on that last day of high school in which I went from smiley to broody.

As I took a seat on the train, just the other day, a child sat across from me with furry, calf high boots, that blinked that brilliant red light I recognized from the playground. I smiled with each blink the young girl’s boots made. And with my smile—I took a look around the train, and made “smile contact” with a stranger, and just like that a strand of shining smiles began to blink on what would normally be a dull tooth ache of a subway ride. Smiles—the light up shoes of adults.

With each stride I take, I’ve got another smile for another purpose, for another person, for another memory, for another reason. For each step I take I light up from cheek to cheek, and like yawns…it catches. And for that thought, I smile again.

How do you light up the room? Do you have a billion smiles? I bet you a pair of light up shoes that you do.

You can't buy what I am putting on this blog...my passion is priceless.

It’s November 2005: It’s halftime at a district semi-final field hockey match. The winner of this game will go on to the district championship as well as the state tournament. I look at my teammates, carefully. Sweat is dripping from my eyebrows, and tears are working themselves up from behind my eyes. The score is 0-0. I look at my teammates again, and I think ‘We are tied with what is considered the best team in the nation…we have a shot.’ Once more I look at my teammates, and I feel love, compassion, and determination on this night. Most of all…I feel passion for this game, for this fight, for this chance.

Fast-forward two years to August 2007: It is late afternoon and one of the first practices of my college field hockey season has just let out. Our coach has told us that not every player will be traveling this season, that some will be left behind, and that some won’t get to go on the road, maybe ever, that they will post the names a day or two before each game. My teammate and I enter our temporary dorm suite.

“I am not missing any games this season!” I proclaim. “Kick my butt every-time I let down. Push me harder each time I stumble. Whatever you do, help me to make that team every week. I am not getting left behind!” I was more passionate in that moment about field hockey than I had been since the night my high school field hockey team lost the semi-final district game. I was more passionate that day about field hockey than I would ever be again.

It was in these two moments that I truly learned what passion for anything was, what passion for doing well was; what passion for success was; was passion for a sport was. Sure I had played sports for twelve years, but it was in these moments that I knew true passion. Regardless of my team losing on that November night and regardless of my being left behind for a game in Maine that fall of 2007…I came away with something more than I could have ever imagined…I came away with a passionate heart.

I am not sure that anyone would have guessed that four years later I would be more artistic than athletic, more savvy with words than with a molded metal bat or composite stick, or that my weapon of choice would be a video camera rather than a dodge left or spin on a field hockey field. But here I am…passionate. Passionate about life, about words, about filmmaking, about sending a message to people—passionate about art and creativity!

I am not the only passionate one out there. People write about passion all the time. Some people talk about it. Some people sing about it—and normally those people who sing about it are actually doing their passion at that exact time. Sometimes our passions and our talents go unrecognized, unnoticed, and unacknowledged. Sometimes we perform for someone, or do a task for someone revolved around our passion and we never get the pay off; we never get the check for the concert we agreed to put on for some extra cash; and we never get the favor in return for doing ours.

But at the end of the day our passion is still ours—and whether or not we get stood up on a paycheck…No one can buy our passion from us. No one can put a price tag on it—because simply enough, 100 dollars for a concert; 200 dollars for beautifully stunning words, 1 million dollars for what we love—could never be enough to pull whatever we are passionate about away from us.

I am Sam...Sam I am...I am a writer...A writer I am

When I was four years old, I limped on a sprained ankle to a microphone, at my pre-school graduation, and announced to every classmate, parent, grandparent, and stranger in the room that I wanted to be the first female president of the United States.

When I was seven years old, I walked up to my second grade teacher and told her I wanted to be just like her: a caring, considerate, wonderful, top-of-the-line second grade teacher.

When I was thirteen years old, I told my parents that I was going to be on the U.S. National Softball team, and that I would play in the 2012 Olympics. ---Even if I was on the U.S. National Softball team, I wouldn't be playing in the 2012 Olympics because it's no longer an Olympic Sport--just wasn't in my cards.

When I was seventeen years old, I told the college admissions counselors in a number of applications that I wanted to be a sports journalist and Major League Baseball commentator.

And now, at twenty-two years old: I am not the first female president of the country (though I guess there is still time for that--and a chance if Palin were my contender in twenty years), I am not on the path to be a second grade teacher, I haven't touched a softball in three years, and I am certainly not commentating for ESPN or Major League Baseball.

But I am SOMETHING.

I am a writer.

A few weeks ago, at a Superbowl party that my friend was asked to play the half-time show at, I met several creative minds. We introduced ourselves, we shook hands, and we gave the run-down on our creative niche.

"I am a singer," the one told me.

"I am trying to be an actress."

"No," I said.

"Excuse me?"

"You aren't TRYING to be an actress...you ARE an actress."

It is only recently that I have discovered that the more we TRY to be something, the less we become that. The more I TRY to be a writer...the less of a writer I am...the less motivation I have...the less I produce...and the less I am heard.

I am not trying to be a writer.

I live in New York City, sleep in an artist loft, and produce new material every day.

I am not trying to be a writer.

Ladies and gentlemen...

I AM a writer.

Now...who is hiring?!

Di Dove Sei? (Where are you from?

“The city of big buildings and bright lights. The city that never sleeps. Good Old New York City,” I say cheerfully to the paper boy who has just asked me the most asked question of all, here in Italy, “Di dove sei,” (where are you from?).

I suddenly want to retract my statements, and put a “But I grew up in Pennsylvania, and lived there for a majority of my life.” But somehow saying New York City seems so much more fun and interesting, and it rolls off my tongue much more quickly and simply. I think deep inside, I truly believe I was meant to be a New Yorker my whole life, to be someone full of adventure and attitude, to be someone who could get through a crowded Times Square without slamming into a single person, to be someone who could walk from Astoria, Queens to lower Manhattan without wincing, to be a true city girl. I think I knew this the first time I came to Italy, when I realized how much I loved Rome and the big, nonstop city atmosphere. As an overwhelming person myself, an overwhelming place to live seems to be a perfect match. “I am from New York City,” I continue to think to myself.

But I am not, and it is crazy to me how nine months in New York City can make me believe I am. In four years of living in Rhode Island, I never once referred to it as my home, and I never once believed it was where I was from. And it never was where I was from.

I deserve a slap on my wrist for forgetting my roots when I told Giuseppe, my new favorite paper boy, who stands in Piazza Della Repubblica every morning, that I was from New York City.

I am a Pennsylvanian. I live near the Amish. I live an hour north of the cheese steak capital of the world. And I couldn’t be more proud of my family or friends that have come from there. But when you start traveling as many times as you buy new shoes, it gets more difficult to remember the last place you occupied, the last place that was your true home

So what makes somewhere HOME? Is it your family? Is it your friends? Is it where you grew up most of your life? Is it where you went to high school? Is it where you went to college? Is it your address? Is it where you have your bank statements set? Or is it where you feel most comfortable, most happy, most lovely, most simple. I want to believe that it’s where you feel most happy, most lovely, most simple. I want to believe that home is what you make it. I want to believe that when I am telling someone I am from New York City, that I am telling them really where I am from.

But I think New York City will soon be just a memory of where I am from. Because if home is really where the heart is, then I am starting to believe that Italy is my home—because I don’t think my heart will ever leave. So when the next Giuseppe asks where I am from, well I think I have a new answer. I am from Italy…and when that next Giuseppe looks at me like I have ten heads, I think I’ll laugh to myself and say, “I just need to say that in Italian next time.”