I had been bitten. Singing had become my passion. If it meant that I couldn't fit in with my friends, then so be it. If it meant that I'd need to practice for hours on end, then I would. There just had to be a way that I could make it all happen for me, even though my circumstances made me feel closed in, scrutinized, drained dry, and hopeless. I still sang--but mostly in private and never in front of my parents. If they were going to dictate when, what, and how I sang, then I simply wouldn't sing at all around them. So at age 17 I stopped singing at home and have not sung in the house in front of my parents since. If I sang in front of them, one of them would cry, or stare at me so I felt uncomfortable. My voice got all the attention at the cost of Barbara getting any attention at all. I would be volunteered to sing any number of places and have hell to pay if I refused. But I thought, if they won't see me, then they don't hear me either. At least I could control what I did at home.
This is the very thing that anorexics do: if they can't control their own lives and do not get to order how they live or negotiate rules for themselves, or if they feel out of control in general, they focus on their eating. That, they can control, and control it, they do. I completely understand that concept. I have always loved to eat, so anorexia never occurred to me. But I suppose you could say that I had vocal anorexia!
Our family did not have money. In fact, I was frequently reminded that because we did not have what other people did that I needed to keep a low profile so my lack wouldn't be as obvious. At least that is the message that came through. This made me feel rather hopeless that I would ever be able to get out of my home town, afford to go on to school, or get to a place where I could afford voice lessons. So many people could afford lessons and I couldn't. I had to beg my parents for piano lessons, and even then, we could only afford lessons for six months, all told.
Somewhere I came across the book, "My Lord, What a Morning!" --the autobiography of Marian Anderson. She was the courageous African American woman who was invited to sing on the steps of the Lincoln Memorial in Washington, D.C., 1939. She was a famous mezzo soprano who had come up through poverty and difficult family circumstances to become a much loved opera and recital singer. I devoured her book and borrowed records from the library of Marian singing spirituals. I had a cheap little record player in my bedroom, and I used to listen to her singing as I lay in bed at night, all those wonderful spirituals. If she could do it, so could I.
My last two years of high school were absolutely miserable because I withdrew into myself, certain that my peers didn't like me. The music that the choir sang was unappealing and our choir director was loud and socially awkward. So I dropped choir. It seemed that there was no social connections available to me at the school.
When it was time to go on to college, I was eager to go to New England and study music. There are so many excellent musical opportunities there and wonderful schools of music. I was very excited about finally being around students who were serious about music. My parents strongly encouraged me to attend a college in the Southeast, stating that I could become a refined, well-mannered young lady if I learned the Southern way. I was horrified at the thought of being pushed into the Southern Belle mold and told my parents that I wanted to go to my father's alma mater in New England. Imagine my shock and disappointment to be told that my education would not be paid for unless I studied nursing. If it couldn't be music, I wanted to study psychology and journalism. I already realized that writing was enjoyable. Neither of those were acceptable careers, however. So I dutifully went up to New England and enrolled as a double major: voice performance and nursing.
I knew a good number of music students, because many of them had been in the youth orchestra with which I had traveled three years earlier. It was terrific to be able to sing with the orchestra once again, and to eat, breathe, and dream music. I felt free and at the cusp of opportunity. Even though I worked three jobs to pay for my education (yup--I ended up paying for most of it myself, even though I studied the requisite subject!), I spent every free moment down in the music department. It was pure joy to sit at the piano and accompany myself singing all sorts of art songs and operatic arias. I was a soloist with the choir and performed several challenging choral works there.
Meanwhile, nursing studies were not going so well. I enjoyed microbiology, anatomy, and physiology. I even enjoyed learning about various diseases. But I couldn't quite grasp what my role as a nurse was supposed to be. For whatever reason, I couldn't catch on to what I was supposed to be doing when we went to the hospital. I followed around other students, trying to figure out how they knew what to do next. It could be that I had no interest in the subject matter so I simply didn't take in the information that had been offered in class. Or, maybe I was so unstructured that I couldn't develop any sort of routine. My nursing labs at the hospital were stress-filled and anxiety producing. I had no idea what I was doing and was so painfully shy that I could hardly converse with my patients.
But as soon as I left that world and made my way to the music department, all the pieces fell into the right places. I could chat with people, I felt outgoing, and my grades--while they were all C's in nursing--were all A's in my music classes.
Sadly, I had to drop my music major in my last year of college. I just couldn't keep up with all the nursing labs and required recitals. I still gave a junior recital that was very well received. But I began to notice things about the music department and musicians that I'd not seen before. Once, when returning a reel-to-reel recorder to my voice teacher, I tapped on his office door and heard scurrying sounds and whispering. After I knocked three more times, he finally came to the door--no shoes on, his glasses off, and his shirt hanging out of his pants. I knew the girl in there with him and my idealistic sense of right and wrong was outraged. Storming into the office of the chair of the department, I told him what I thought about my discovery and followed up with the comment, "I don't know how you expect God to bless this department when this kind of thing goes on!" I later found out that my roommate was having an affair with him, and quite possibly, another faculty member. Of course, nothing was ever done about my voice teacher.
There had also been interesting events with my previous voice teacher there with whom I had worked two years earlier (the orchestra conductor had paid for them herself, God love her!) Alex had come to our college to teach for a couple semesters. He was very worldly to my way of thinking, but he liked me because I joked and laughed with him. But there were times when his comments caused real discomfort. "Lift your chest when you sing, Barbara, or I'll come over there and lift it for you!" Suggestive words for a 16-year old. He'd put his hands on my stomach, chest, and back, while coaching me to produce sounds from various regions. He had me lie on the floor and pant while making vocal sounds--to get me to breathe properly. This is when we lay under the piano and laughed about the pictures of Big Bird that he'd taped under there.
One day he said he'd like to take some time and help me with my French pronounciation. Not wanting to waste time with something I could get elsewhere, I said I just wanted to work on the music. Alex blew up and called me "spoiled rotten" and "conceited" and told me that if I didn't get my act together, no one would be able to tolerate me. I was stunned. How could I be all those things when I was afraid of my own shadow, felt helpless and hopeless? When I feared that I'd never be given opportunities to really sing. I had two more voice lessons with him before the end of the semester. I tried very hard to do what he said and was cheerful and appreciative as I knew how to be. And I remained confused. I didn't connect having enthusiastic opinions with noncompliance. And since singing had come to me so easily, I didn't know how to work at it. Perhaps it would be important for me to try to appear to be more humble and quiet. So I pulled in a little more, trying to keep that low profile that I'd been groomed to create.
It was an odd, almost out-of-body experience to be taking voice lessons. One of my teachers sounded constipated when he sang, so I wasn't sure what he was going to be able to teach me. Since I sang very well and very naturally, some of my voice teachers didn't know what to do with me. We all knew it. So I'd go perform at some concert and have excellent reviews about my effortless, full-bodied voice. Then go to a voice teacher who lazily encouraged me to sing any art song that was handy, and really was more of a vocal coach (pointing out phrasing and music dynamics) rather than a teacher. Many times I'd go through the motions during my voice lessons, feeling utter disgust for my assigned teacher.
Looking back, I realize that my standards for these teachers were impossibly high. I just assumed that if I could sing the way I did without training, and they had years of training, they should be able to do more with me. So I dropped singing lessons.
Graduation finally came. I sang something that my voice teacher chose--something really awful and atonal. But I went out of that college with a bang, glad it was over, wanting to return after a year off and finish my voice degree. I wanted to be a singer. If Marian could do it, so could I.
No comments:
Post a Comment