Most two-year-olds are unfamiliar with Ani DiFranco. But the 1990s punk-folk rocker enraptured my mom’s attention and consistently filled our car and living room with angsty music. Mom stuffed my ears with earplugs and, refusing to let a child disrupt her rockstar dreams, drug me to a DiFranco show, my first concert.

The musical influence on my life did not slow with time. I spent afternoons in elementary school watching my dad mix tracks on Protools and direct local bands in his sound booth. My father, basically a musical prodigy from birth, owned a record label and music studio in my hometown.

It seems reasonable to assume that my parents’ combined rockstar and sound engineer genes would result in a musically-inclined super genius. Instead, they ended up with me.

Even my physicality demanded an interest in music, as I certainly wasn’t athletic. My fingers, unnaturally long, are perfect for gliding across a guitar fretboard or spreading across octaves of a piano. My parents’ friends in the music community would almost always ask if I played an instrument or--even more absurd--if I could sing. I’d developed an unspoken game between myself and them, the adults. 

“No,” I would respond confidently, somewhat satisfied that I’d broken their expectation. It felt like a tiny rebellion, and it was a sure-fire way to end any boring conversation with the grown-ups.

In middle school I took free vocal lessons through a family friend. Aside from severe stage fright, I didn’t have a good reason not to try. I was more afraid to admit the fear than to face it, and my first performance was a disaster. Immediately prior, I’d hyperventilated and nearly fainted. The program director reminded me that I didn’t “have to do this.” But I did. My parents were musicians; I would be too. My sixth-grade self mustered through a rendition of Katrina and the Waves’ “Walkin’ on Sunshine” with extreme difficulty, and in a brand new Limited Too outfit, I battled through the longest four minutes of my life. 

Something, probably High School Musical, prompted me to attempt singing again a few years later. Half-expectant that he would recognize my undiscovered talent, I pressured my dad for studio time. He never offered me that record deal, despite recording countless karaoke versions of Vanessa Anne Hudgens’ solo in “Breaking Free.”

Realizing that singing would not be my life’s passion, I gave my vocal cords a break in favor of piano lessons from my dad. These sessions resulted in more time debating whether or not I’d practiced, an argument that’s easier to win with a non-resident instructor. The cycle merely resulted in a pile of unused sheet music, a dusty piano, and a building resentment toward creating music of my own.

Moving to college removed the exceptional influence, and pressure, of making music from my daily life. It reappears now only when I listen to my dad play the mandolin outside on summer nights or attend a concert of my mom’s rock cover band. 

While I can’t call myself a musician, I possess an intense appreciation for music, which I attribute to my parents. I have two blown-out car speakers, my favorite bands’ set lists and autographs, a growing vinyl collection, and carefully-curated Spotify playlists to prove it. Part of me is proud of my younger, defiant self, unwilling to accept the “expected” identity of my parents’ friends, yet I cannot deny how instrumental it still is in my character.