Mr. Cellophane, On Being Invisible

I’ve got a mother-in-law who constantly tells me she has no talents. Can’t do what others can do. Just fades into the background. She feels like Mr. Cellophane. You ever hear that song? It’s from the musical Chicago.  Goes like this:





The thing is, talent is not just the obvious things, like singing or writing or acting or dancing. Talent–and not being invisible–exists in everyday things too. And sometimes, maybe even often, I think these everyday talents are the ones that matter most.


How about the person who walks into a room and is able to hone-in on the individual who feels least important, most alone? And then goes over to the individual and makes them feel part of the group. Listens. Talks. Invites.


My mother-in-law does that.


And what about someone who would catch a shuttle and drive 6 hours, even though it isn’t very comfortable for them and they have to bring a c-pap oxygen machine, and they have a lot of other health issues that make sitting that long difficult for them. And they do it just to watch a grandchild play soccer. Or perform in a play, or a dance concert.


My mother-in-law has done that too.


See, the thing is, I can sing and dance and act. I don’t get nervous in front of a crowd.  But when my children or friends are having problems, how much help am I going to be if I make them sit through my interpretation of Tamora’s vengeance monologue  from Shakespeare’s Titus Andronicus? Or do a reading from the book I am writing? Or sing “The More We Stick Together The Happier We’ll Be”?


No. I think the real talent lies in being able to put other people first. To listen. To feel. It’s people that matter. Making other people visible is the best way to become visible ourselves. My mother-in-law is not Mr. Cellophane. She’s Wonder Woman.


As for not having obvious talents, this was her gift to me last Christmas. She painted it and had it framed: