Who are you?

(Photo by Jessica Carbone McKinney)

Who are you?

British philosopher Alan Watts is quoted as saying, “Trying to define yourself is like trying to bite your own teeth.”  

I understand exactly what he meant. I’ve been me for more than half of a century and I still don’t know who I am.

For a woman, discovering her true identity can be a difficult task. From the moment of birth, society defines a female not by who she is but by what she is. For example, I am Adrienne’s daughter, Joan’s sister, Mike’s wife, Michael and Jessica’s mother. As important as each of those titles is in my overall identity, they are roles I play in other people’s lives not how I define myself. Tonight I set out on a journey of discovery. Join me.

First and foremost, I’m a Jersey Girl and proud of it. I’m fairly certain you already knew that from my accent. Although I moved to Florida more than twenty years ago, I never actually left the Garden State. Like most Jersey Girls, I’m opinionated and stubborn.  Give me a worthwhile cause and a willing ear, and I’ll preach until I’ve whittled my soap box down to a toothpick.

On one level, I am my mother’s daughter. Silly as it may seem, I put on lipstick and comb my hair to take out the trash. There are 30 plus pairs of shoes in my closet and the higher the heel the better.  I get a manicure every two weeks. I’m a girly girl.

On another level, I am my father’s son. While most little girls enjoyed dolls and tea parties, I preferred hammers and nails. I knew the difference between a Phillips head and a slotted screwdriver by the time I was five. I’m a tomboy… happiest when digging in the dirt, which is why I need a manicure every two weeks.

As for hobbies and interests… in 1915, Irving Berlin wrote a song entitled I Love a Piano. He wrote it for me. Oh, I know he didn’t actually write it for me, but, well, I do love a piano. I love it so much that, when my mother tried to convince me to take dancing lessons, I put my foot down and demanded music instruction instead. My parents were horrified! To them, buying a piano was equivalent to purchasing a penthouse on Park Avenue. My disappointment was impossible to miss, so as a compromise, they got me an accordion. I can still hear the screeching sounds of Lady of Spain in my head. Needless to say, I never did make it to Carnegie Hall.

I did eventually take dancing lessons. I was 35 at the time and, much to my surprise and my mother’s delight, I discovered I was quite good at it. When she died two years ago at the age of 96, she was still saying “I told you so.”

In business I’ve been employed by Fortune 500 companies and mom and pop enterprises. I’ve been low man… excuse me… low person on the totem pole and the big chief. Last year I opened my own public relations company and fulfilled my dream to write for a living. I mean that almost literally. Words are my oxygen. If I could not write… I shudder to think how unfulfilling my life would be if I lost the ability to write.

Returning to Mr. Watts analogy, how do I bite my own teeth? Who is Donna Carbone?

I guess you could say I’m much like a set of Russian stacking dolls. On the outside, a single wooden figure is all that is visible. Hidden away inside, however, more dolls stack neatly one on top of another. I am a daughter, a sister, a wife, a mother, a friend, a decent dancer, a horrible accordion player, an excellent cook, and a talented writer. I am a work in progress. Tomorrow, I’ll probably be someone new.

I’m keeping my manicured fingers crossed that it’s either Ginger Rogers or Maya Angelou.