It’s 1985 and as I walk into the ABC Radio newsroom, I am immediately assaulted. My eyes squint against the harsh fluorescent ceiling lights washing the room in brittle white, eliminating any nuance of shadow or contrast. It’s one big open space with no cubicle separations. The thunderous decibel level emits from a combination of ringing phones, reporters shouting at editors, and editors barking orders into intercoms at engineers.

“Tom, you need to send someone to Russell for a Bob Dole stakeout. And be ready to roll on a feed from the White House at 1 o’clock.” The assignment editor speaks into an intercom to a master control engineer enclosed in a long glass booth in front of him.

“Hey, Andy, where am I going to pull an engineer to send to the Hill?” The engineer responds and adds a few phrases prohibited by the FCC about what part of his anatomy he will pull the engineer from. Neither man is fazed by this interchange. I imagine it’s a match they play several times throughout the day. As my senses adjust to the environment, I’m invigorated by the energy and pace, but also deflated because at the age of 35 I’m back in the same job—a radio engineer—that I thought was behind me.

In the 1970s, I exited this male dominated world after finding work as an on-air cultural affairs producer and host for radio magazine programs. I interviewed actors, dancers, film directors, painters and decided whom I would put on my program, and how it would sound. But the public broadcasting cutbacks of the 80s which had eliminated that job had cut me back as well. With no success in landing a new production job—I was deemed “too experienced” which was code for “too old”—I discovered my only marketable skill was my radio engineering experience. ABC Radio hired me with a strong recommendation from an engineering colleague from my past. As I survey the newsroom and feel its rhythm roll over me, I sense my decade as a producer is slipping away—like a fantasy that never happened. My career identity is wiped clean as if I had been in a witness protection program.

But as I peer closer into those glass enclosed control rooms, I realize the gender landscape changed while I was gone. Several women are “manning” the control boards, and a petite woman is lugging a gear bag, perhaps heading out to set up the audio for that Dole stakeout. In the 70s, I was the first “girl engineer” at two radio networks, swimming with the tide of affirmative action, and against the currents of male chauvinism. Now I was no longer the sole woman in that tech world of my early 20s. But the gender breaking barrier memories lingered.

As a broadcast major at the University of Illinois at Chicago in 1970, I joined the university radio club where I wanted to help with programming and had no aspirations to go on the air. Women broadcasters were still a minority in the early 70s because their higher voices didn’t resonate with the males who had the power to give them jobs. But I had a deep voice that sounded a bit like Lauren Bacall, which appealed to the male eardrum. The all male club members plopped me in front of the microphone, giving me my own campus radio show. I used the opportunity to hone my skills running an audio board, played my Joni Mitchell records, recited my scripted spontaneous ad libs, and performed and edited interviews with students that no one listened to. I never enjoyed being a campus DJ. I couldn’t do the patter, my personality was too low-key, and my knowledge of music was limited. But that experience helped later as I faced the professional DJs at a Top 40 station.

After college, I moved from Chicago to Washington, DC where my sister lived because I thought it would be an easier market to break into. I’d also have free room and board while job hunting. I felt confident I’d find an entry level niche in local TV production which was my initial goal. But the only job I could find was as the “TWX” girl in the sales department at the CBS Washington affiliate, WTOP TV (now WUSA-TV). The TWX was a prehistoric fax machine, which spit out lists of advertisers who bought commercials for specific time slots. My job was to go though the TWX list and pencil in the advertisers’ names on the daily TV schedule. The ad name had to fit into a tiny 1-inch box which represented a particular time slot for a program. Stuck in a cramped corner of a windowless office I shared with the noisy, bulky TWX machine, I hated the monotony and solitude of the job. Struggling to stay awake, I often put an ad in the wrong box, angering sponsors and losing money for the TV sales team. During one mishap, I accidentally scheduled some inappropriate commercials inside a local access program which had a different topic each week. I never knew what the subject would be ahead of time. The week I put in the Alpo commercials, the story focused on man-eating wild dogs.

Escape came three months into the job. At the station’s Christmas party in 1972, I met a TV engineer who told me about vacation relief jobs in engineering at the NBC affiliate, WRC. The jobs were temporary for the summer months to fill in for permanent staffers on vacation.

“I think they’re looking for women, so you’ve got a good shot, especially since you’ve got a broadcasting major. That might give you an edge.” He gave me a contact name at WRC-TV.

When I called, I was told that all the TV vacation slots were filled, but radio still had some openings. I wanted to stay in TV, but couldn’t face another TWX. I called Hal Monroe, the chief engineer at WRC Radio, who “wasn’t available.” I called every day for two weeks. He finally called back, interviewed me over the phone, and hired me.

“See you Wednesday, sunshine,” he said as he hung up. Sunshine? Why did he use such a familiar term? I hadn’t even met him, yet. My joy at landing a job and escaping the TWX allowed me to bury negative thoughts about facing a lech for a boss. Maybe he’s just an older avuncular type who calls all women “sunshine” because he’s—well—uncle-like.

When the elevator doors opened on the radio operations floor, Hal was waiting to greet me. He was in his 30s with a thick brown mustache and a bad toupee. When he looked at me, his smile faded, his mouth dropped slightly open and he looked down. He appeared stricken as if he’d just received terrible news. Maybe he thought I was going to be buxom and beautiful instead of a skinny kid who looked like Lily Tomlin. His manner turned cold and professional as he showed me the radio operations studios for the Top 40 music and news programs.

WRC-NBC Radio had two studio-control rooms. One was usually dark and empty, designed to record occasional news programs or spots with TV reporters. The other was bright and active with the live studio and control room for the DJ, and an adjacent editing room.

In the editing room, one engineer monitored a series of waist-high, reel-to-reel tape recorders the size of washing machines. Another engineer sat in the on-air control room operating the board for the DJ, who was encased in a smaller booth across from him. The DJ gave hand signals to his engineer through the glass window signaling him when to start the music, an ad or a public service announcement.

Hal introduced me to the edit room engineer.

“This is Bob, our senior guy here. Bob, this is Therese. She’s one of our vacation relief engineers. I’ve got to run; Bob will show you the ropes.” Hal hurried away.

Hal later explained why he was disappointed on seeing me for the first time.

“I thought you were black. You sounded black over the phone with your low voice and you were from Chicago. I wanted a two-fer,” he admitted, referring to the affirmative action label for a woman who was also black. Later, I pondered if I was a “one-fer” since I was a white woman, although I had never heard the term. Both words sounded like heifer to me, which felt sexist. But most of all, I was relieved his crestfallen face at the elevator was caused by the color of my skin, not my looks.

Bob Shelton, the edit room engineer, was more of the avuncular type, a pleasantly cranky engineer, jaded, ready to retire, and fed up with “Brother Love,” the morning DJ. Brother Love performed a daily routine talking with a mouse that substituted for his radio sidekick. He managed this by having Bob record in advance Brother’s voice for the mouse’s side of the conversation. Brother gave Bob a small metal funnel to fit over the capstan on the tape machine which speeded up the playback so Brother’s voice would mimic one of Alvin’s singing chipmunks, which apparently is what a mouse sounds like when it talks. At a designated time each morning, Brother Love would signal Bob to play back the mouse’s part of the conversation with Brother.

“Okay, here’s your stupid mouse, you idiot!” Bob would respond to the hand signals Brother was giving from the DJ booth. Brother couldn’t really hear Bob’s verbal ranting but I’m sure he read his body language. Despite this daily acrimonious routine, Bob and Brother never missed a mouse beat and their timing with this odd two-way conversation was impeccable. I was impressed with the smooth technology, if not the substance, of this mouse/DJ duet.

I noticed Bob was permanently assigned to the editing room—he never ran the control board for any DJ. Although it was never mentioned, I suspected it was because he no longer had the cool head to run a fast paced Top 40 format.

He reminisced about two radio guys, Ed Walker and Willard Scott, “The Joy Boys” whose program he had engineered years earlier and who had been replaced by the jock format.

“Now those guys were a class act, not like these jerks,” I had not heard the Walker and Scott show, but somehow felt that no one could replace them in Bob’s eyes and ears. I was 23 and I really liked the current Top 40 music format, but I’d never admit that to Bob.

“Well, I think it’ll be a good experience for me to work here,” I responded, “I’m kinda excited about working in live radio.” Bob rolled his eyes in despair.

Each DJ had his own engineer at the control board. The engineer cued up the latest hits recorded on 45s, and played pre-recorded oldies music and PSAs on a cartridge or “cart.” A cart was an oversized cassette about the size of a Blackberry—only thicker.

During the summer, I filled in for the DJ board engineers as they took their vacations. The pace was fast but I could keep up once I got into the rhythm of the format which became predictable. I glued my eyes on the waving hand signals of each DJ to know when to push the button for the next song, commercial or mouse conversation. One time I misunderstood one of Brother’s errant waves and pushed the button for an ad a bit too soon.

“She socked me in the mouth with Preparation H while I was talking!” He shouted when he got off the air. “I want that girl engineer off my show!” Brother Love was neither brotherly nor loving, but he had a lot of clout as a highly rated morning DJ. I was removed immediately from his control board, and banished to the news editing studio to serve less excitable reporters taping their sound bites. At first I was devastated by being bounced from the board, but later realized it provided a welcome break from the music format which was getting tedious, hearing the same songs in rotation over an 8-hour period.

Brother Love had little tolerance for mistakes by girl engineers but he wasn’t as dangerous as the laid back afternoon jock named Bobby McGee. Bobby also looked like he wore a toupee in a kind of carrot color. But I found out one day that his hair was real. While I was standing over a machine editing tape in an empty studio, he quietly emerged from his booth. He wrapped his arms around my midsection from behind, pulling me against him. I yelled at him to let go, but he wouldn’t. I tried to wriggle free but his grip got tighter. I reached up and backward to try to grab or hit him, and managed to reach his hair which I pulled as hard as I could.

“Ouch. Why did you do that? You messed up my hair!” He screamed.

“Oh, yuck it’s caked with hair spray!” I gave him the most disgusted look I could muster, which wasn’t difficult since my fingers were sticking together from the hair spray residue. I also noticed with satisfaction that several strands were sticking straight up, making him look oddly like a drunken over-the-hill rock star.

It never occurred to me to complain to anyone about what today would be considered a blatant sexual offense. I was afraid of getting fired and facing the dreaded TWX again. Since Brother bounced me for one minor mistake and no one defended me, I assumed any complaints would be disregarded—sexual harassment cases were rare at that time. I did, however, tell all the women throughout the station about Bobby’s icky, sticky sprayed hair and his Neanderthal advances. Word travelled through the female ranks. They ridiculed his vanity and imagined what might have happened if I had actually pulled off a wig!

Bobby never touched me again.

Later that summer, I engineered for a young DJ during the evening shift. He was a tall, skinny, friendly kid, with a Florida tan and sandy hair brushing across his eyes. His name was Doug Tracht and his on air name was “The Greaseman.” He had a surprisingly light voice for radio and an “aw shucks” personality. But when he went on the air, Greaseman dropped his voice down into a low, sinister register and contorted his face menacingly. He dubbed me Elvira, his silent sidekick. Off the air, I’d tell him what I was doing socially and learned to choose my stories carefully since they sometimes ended up in his routine.

“Elvira went to the ballet last night and saw lots of twisting and twirling” he growled into the mic, making the ballet sound like a sadistic horror show. During his off-air breaks, he reverted back to his sweet persona and shared his stash of mini Snickers bars with me. We were both skinny and trying to put on weight. I thought he was one of the most adorable guys I’d ever met. He was married and I had a boyfriend so our relationship was strictly platonic. But his Jekyll/Hyde persona was a bit creepy and I never really understood it.

One evening during the Greaseman show, my parents came to visit. My father was horrified at the dingy subterranean atmosphere of the windowless studios, and concerned that I was the only woman working among a crew of sloppily dressed guys.

“Why couldn’t you have gotten a nice job as a secretary? Why are you working in this awful place?” he asked.

“But Dad, I’m the first girl engineer they’ve had here! It’s a big deal for me, and I’m getting paid a lot more than a secretary would.” My father, unconvinced, wandered around making sure the engineers knew he was checking them out.

Meanwhile, during an off-air break, my mother and the Greaseman found each other. He was flashing his million-watt smile, shaking hair back from his forehead. She was totally charmed by him. My mother had four girls and no sons, so she relished every opportunity to mother a potential foster son.

“Therese, you work with some very nice young men.” She hugged Doug as he made his way back to the booth. “And the fact that you’re the first woman to do this job—well that’s really great. I’m so proud of you!”

I returned to the control board and she viewed me in action through the glass booth. Her smile faded a bit as she heard Doug turn into the Greaseman, with his scary, bass growl and twisted face. I waved at her reassuringly as she was leaving.

Mom waved back. She had a mini Snickers bar in her hand.

Another girl engineer, Marianne, was hired midway through the summer. She was very pretty but had no experience in broadcasting and botched one of the DJ shows very badly. Hal had left the station and was replaced by a new chief engineer unfamiliar with my abilities. After Marianne’s debacle, he made the unbelievable announcement: “No more girl engineers on the board.” He never gave a reason why I was also banished. Aside from socking Brother with Prep H, my board work had been excellent. But I was reluctant to speak up because my summer relief position was coming to an end. I had my “first girl engineer” title and experience and didn’t want to cause trouble in my final days. I was looking forward to moving on, hopefully to that production slot I was still dreaming about.

But I had to wait a bit longer.

During the next four months, I had not found any production jobs in TV or radio. Then in February 1974, I heard about a full time radio engineering position at Mutual Broadcasting. Broke, I reluctantly applied and was immediately hired. Again, I was the first woman hired as a radio engineer. Mutual was one of the old venerable radio networks, and its listeners skewed older and more conservative than the Top 40 climate of WRC Radio. There were no DJs, just news anchormen and reporters. The job consisted of cutting sound bites with editors, running the board for live newscasts, and taping news conferences and congressional hearings.

When I entered the Mutual editing room on my first day, the engineer I was relieving silently got up and walked out of the room. I looked at the editor—a woman. She didn’t appear surprised that I had been deserted; only mildly annoyed. There wasn’t time to complain about the unprofessional behavior of the sexist engineer.

“We’ve got a feed coming in from the Pentagon. Plug in four rows down on the panel on your left. Start rolling tape on deck three.”

I quickly found the Pentagon line, plugged in the cable, and rolled the tape. Her directions were perfect.

“I’m Annette. Welcome to Mutual. Don’t worry. I know what you need to do. I’m just not allowed to push the buttons because of the engineering union rules. When we get a break, we’ll get another engineer in to help you,” she reassured me as she turned to answer a phone.

But no other engineers came in to help. Their lack of concern made me feel they were hoping I’d fail. Annette and the other editors, not the engineers, trained me for the edit room operations.

Some engineers, along with reporters, were assigned to cover the same beat on a daily basis. Danny, a short middle aged man who sounded like a mobster, spent his days on Capitol Hill. At the end of his shift, he’d return to the bureau. When he first saw me he fell silent, and walked away. I was now adjusting to this reaction. Whenever he was required to speak to me, he called me “the girl engineer.”

Annette warned me: “Don’t take your eyes off him. He sneaks up from behind, squeezes your tits.” She laughed as she said this, believing it to be a harmless action from a demented old guy which had no effect on women or their jobs. I was shocked, but also flat chested, so I was pretty much out of danger—and I’d already beaten off a lecherous hair sprayed DJ months earlier.

One day I was assigned to assist Danny on the Hill. We were sending a live feed back to the bureau from a Senate hearing with Henry Kissinger. Danny asked me to pick up some coffee and donuts from the cafeteria. I did not see this as sexist. I was the junior kid who had to do the grunt work for the senior engineer. Besides, I was starving. When I reentered the hearing room with the donuts, an iron arm shot out barring my access with a mild karate chop to my rib cage, upsetting my tray. I watched in horror as the donuts flew onto the floor, one heading toward Kissinger, who continued in his accented drone, turning briefly to monitor the path of the pastry.

“Stop, let her in, she’s the girl engineer. She’s with me!” Danny ran toward me and the Secret Service agent, who let down his arm as Danny approached.

Clearly annoyed, Danny asked me, “Where are your tags?” referring to the stack of photo IDs the media wears around its neck on the Hill, at the White House, State Department or Pentagon.

“I put them in my pocket. They were getting stuck in the donuts,” I responded sheepishly. I could see that Danny wanted to drag me by my ear back to the bureau.

“Never, never take off your IDs, understand?” Danny helped me retrieve the donuts as I pulled the chain of IDs from my pocket and replaced them around my neck. Kissinger was still droning on, unperturbed.

Despite this incident, I felt encouraged. Danny had acknowledged, “She’s with me”—I was now part of his team. I happily dusted off my donut and bit down.

But my coup d’état happened at the White House. In the early 70s, women were not allowed to wear pants, not even pant suits inside the White House. I always wore jeans since much of the field work entailed crawling around dirty floors, plugging in cables. I also never knew until I came into work what my assignment would be for the day. One morning I arrived to find that I was the network pool audio tech for a news conference with Father William McLaughlin who was supporting President Nixon’s reelection. The priest later became the vociferous TV commentator, Bill McLaughlin. Mutual had done a quick required FBI clearance for me the previous night. The pool audio person was the only engineer cleared to be in the room once the conference started. I had never done a pool before and if I blew it, none of the networks would have sound for their newscasts. It would be a silent film story. I was terrified.

When I arrived in my jeans, there was an outcry from the other network engineers, who wore shirts and ties. Not only were they allowing a woman to do the pool—she was wearing jeans, something even men were not allowed to wear. Another Mutual engineer assigned to help with the setup, took me aside and spoke in a low whisper.

“It’s okay. I’ll help set everything up for you, and show you what to do, you’ll be fine.” Bill Wisniewski was one of the Mutual engineers who respected and was not threatened by women. After running through the controls with me, he was escorted out of the room by the Secret Service. The news conference began. I rode the audio, adjusting the volume up and down between the reporters and the priest making sure I wasn’t too slow to bring up the audio, or too fast in bringing it down thereby missing parts of questions or answers. My palms sweated, my shoulders were hunched over, and for 45 minutes I never moved anything except my hands.

When it was over, I felt exhausted, breathless, aching and parched. The suited engineers were removing their plugs from my feed. They got to their feet. I checked the location of the Secret Service agents for help if I was attacked by a cable swinging mob.

“One of the best feeds we’ve ever gotten.” They were smiling and looked as relieved as I felt.

“Great job, Therese!” Obviously, they had already forgotten my name: Girl Engineer.

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My dad said “Honey…if you want to do it…then DO IT”

So I did…

At the first track meet of the year I won the hurdles, high jump AND 440…if you believe in yourself anything is possible!!

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I was told a long time ago I would never achieve the level of success/pay that male radio personalities did. I did.

Then I started thespacestore.com and listened to customers explain why they COULDN’T buy an astronaut flight suit or science kit for a girl. I would explain she had a better chance of becoming an astronaut or scientist than a princess.

Buy the flight suit not the tiara!!

Now I travel the country teaching others how to find their ‘inner rock star.’ There is no reason you can’t be the fame Mick Jagger!

A Note from Gretchen:

Dayna has a new book out called Rock to the Top: What I Learned About Success from the World’s Greatest Rock Stars where she shares her knowledge of success gleaned from her backstage adventures with some of the hottest celebrities in the music industry.

I am about halfway through this book and it’s wildly entertaining but also the lessons are very clear. I especially liked hearing the reason Van Halen requested all brown M&M’s be removed from the bowl prior to their shows.  The reason is quite valid and might surprise you.

Rock to the Top is definitely worth the read.

you can find out more about Dayna Steele at daynasteele.com

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I am 62 years old. In the 1950′s I worked full time in my father’s Drug store since I was four years old. My mother taught me to read and I traveled around the Niagara Frontier with a black delivery car driver named Roy. He drove and I read the prescriptions. I developed self confidence because when you deliver drugs people are happy to see you.

When I was in grade four a bully, who sat behind me in Catholic school, pulled my hair out in large chunks every day. It hurt so much I was dizzy. Finally I couldn’t put my blond locks in a pony tail anymore since it was mostly stubble. I asked my Mother what to do. She said I should invite the bully for lunch and make him into a friend.

Knowing that was crazy I turned to my father who said to tell my teacher, Sister Immaculata, and if that did no good go to the Principal. Mother Agnese, the Principal, told me that only souls of the devil complain and I should offer up my sufferings for the lost souls in limbo.

One day in the delivery car Roy noticed that I was having trouble leaning my raw, patchy scalp on the back of the car seat. He said I had to get that bully. However he was much bigger than I was and a boy.

Girls can never beat up boys. Everyone knew that.

The bully had failed second grade twice and was mistaken for the janitor on parent teacher’s night. Roy said that I had to hit him once and get him good, not when he was pulling my hair, but when he was least expecting it. I bid my time. One day we were bisecting angles with our compasses and I saw my opportunity. I turned around suddenly and looked at his hand. The veins looked like a road map. I picked a major highway and I stabbed my compass in.

Blood burst out like a geyser. The bully rose and fainted. He went over like a Douglas fire. The ambulance was called. I was suspended until I got psychiatric help. I didn’t care, I was back to school in three weeks.

I was never bullied again in my entire life.

You can find out more about Catherine at gildiner.com

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Check out Bethany’s review of Girls Can’t WHAT? and enter to win the prize pack.  Contest ends August 31st so head over to MusingMainiac.com and enter today!

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Things can be chaotic but I enjoy my life. Recently, someone made a comment that I needed to stop doing the extra things in my life, specifically pageants, and just focus on being a mother and wife. I would be lying if I said the comments didn’t slightly hurt my feelings for a brief moment…notice I used the word BRIEF.

My feelings were initially hurt because the one thing I take pride in is being a GREAT mother and wife, so whenever that is in question… Hey, all you have to be is a mother and/or wife and you will understand exactly what I mean when someone questions your skills to take care of house and home.

But as I began to reflect on all the things I do, the people that are touched, and the joy I get from the community service that I perform, I started to feel better. It also, didn’t hurt that my wonderful husband let me know that as long as he stood behind me and the things I am doing, that is all that matters.

So what have I learned from this?  Well, here are a few things…

1. No one has the right to say that a woman should not fulfill her dreams because she also has the role of wife and mother? Dreams motivate us to keep going and growing. Dreams should be looked at as something we do with our family, and not in spite of our families.
2. A mother has a unique role in that she works, is creative, and nurtures her children, and teaches them right from wrong. It doesn’t matter if you are the type of woman that works in the home cooking and cleaning full time, or if you go to the office, have your own business, or…yes, you love wearing big beautiful crowns occasionally - it is possible to still fill that role.Every time I get up in the morning and go to work for eight hours, I teach my children responsibility. Each time I launch a new book, not only am I excited about the accomplishment, but my children learn the importance of being dedicated, commitment, and they see creativity.

   Whenever I wear my crown and sash, speak in front of a room of people, or ride in a parade, I take my children with me and they see that hard work pays off.

3. The glass ceiling was made to be broken! That is self-explanatory, and I would love to know what you think.

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It is no secret that hunting has predominately been a ‘man’s’ sport. Growing up as a girl who enjoyed hunting was not ‘the norm’ and I often had to listen to negative comments or work to justify my love of the sport.

However, if I had let the talk get me down and hadn’?t ?stuck to my guns? I would have missed out on a special relationship with some amazing role models such as my dad and granddad. I wouldn’t have the special memories that I do and the many traditions that I am able to pass on to my children today.

Being a female host of a hunting television show watched and critiqued mostly by men is challenging. However, earning the respect and being labeled as a top hunter in the industry makes it all worthwhile.

I’m so proud of the opportunities that hunting has given me. I was thrilled when I was named ‘Viewer Favorite Personality’ on the Sportsman Channel in 2009 and am honored to be the only female spokeswoman for Remington Arms since Annie Oakley.

I still have people ask me how I was able to succeed as a finalist on the ESPN reality-type hunting show while in my third trimester. I tell them that if you can learn anything from my career it is that breaking down the stigma of ‘a girl can’t do it’ comes with challenges but with determination, persistence and the support of family you can overcome whatever nature puts in your path.

And remember….there’s no mountain too high. No animal too evasive!

Click here to view the embedded video.

Haley is the host of “Family Traditions with Haley Heath” on the Sportsman Channel and earns the respect of hunting enthusiasts around the world.  Now the mother of two, Haley shot her first deer at the age of 6.  Visit Haley Heath’s Web Site.

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Click here to view the embedded video.

Libby Sauter walks the Lost Arrow Spire Highline, nearly 3000 feet above the Yosemite Valley floor. Twenty two years after Scott Balcom’s first successful crossing, Libby is the first woman in the world to cross this beautiful highline.

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“I never let fear inside my heart and learned that I had already beaten breast cancer through a self-test. My breast cancer diagnosis, surgery and chemotherapy were just stepping stones to my new birth as a stronger, more compassionate spirit. LOVE conquers all, shares Carmelina.

Fondly known as Harlem’s golden girl, Carmelina has gone back in the studio to record a special survivor’s version of the song “LOVE,” which will be released along with a music video this Spring.

As the daughter of a merengue musician, Carmelina is an artist from birth. She lets her music communicate her soul and reflect her upbringing, which spanned from Barahona, Dominican Republic to New York City.

Carmelina first appeared on the national music scene in the summer of 2008 with the release of her first single “Mueve Las Caderas,” a rhythmic modern Pop/R&B track infused with tropical elements and dynamic harmonies. The song became the #1 Listed Track on LALA.com and inspired ASCAP Latino to highlight Carmelina’s new album “Morena” (Morena Records, June 9, 2009) as one of the most anticipated albums of the coming year.

“Since I was a little girl I wanted to sing and dance and my family always encouraged me to explore my creativity. At home we listened to Merengue, Salsa and Bachata but outside the window the base line of hip-hop rattled my window. That baseline and combination of tropical sounds has become a signature of my pop/R&B Sound,” explains Carmelina. “I was heavily involved in all facets of this album and it has been a labor of love, literally.”

“After writing some lyrics, I already knew in my head how the music should sound. The producer and I would sit and share ideas about instrumental influences and that became our blueprint. I really enjoy the writing process.”

Carmelina collaborated with producers (former Trackmaster) Curt Gowdy, Game G and Coptic. Carmelina penned the entire album and co-produced three of the twelve tracks.

Carmelina has appeared in the pages of  Defining Trends Magazine, La Isla Magazine and El Especial Newspaper. Online features include LaMega.com, Batanga.com, Sparkleshelf.com, Nochelatina.com (album review), Domicantoday.com, Pontealdia.com, Mijamag.com, Ahorre.com and Corrientelatina.com. She also recently appeared alongside Sesame Street icon “Maria” (Sonia Manzano) at the Children’s Aid Society to raise funds for New York Public Schools.

Watch for Carmelina as she supports breast cancer research for the years to come.

When asked if she’d ever been told she can’t because she’s a girl, Carmelina responded:

I used to love playing sports. My favorite was baseball. My big brother teased me and told me “baseball is for boys”, so I joined my school’s “softball” team.

I preferred it.

Because I was a girl, the ball was bigger and softer. Our uniforms had pink and we wore gloves that fit our small hands. I learned how to be a team-player and how to compete and bond with my girlfriends. We shared secrets and had a female coach!

Eventually, I became the captain. Ironically, I had been practicing my pitching for years before I joined the team with my big brothers baseball.

Girls are soft outside but some of us are built like warrior inside.

Related posts:

1. October is Breast Cancer Awareness Month
2. Kimball, Cheyenne (Singer/Songwriter)
3. Girls Can’t Play Baseball or Softball