Warnings

Found here

So here I was, a gifted child living in a small rural community with people who for the most part, didn't understand or appreciate classical music, let alone an operatic voice in a 15-year old. I didn't know anyone who could tell me how to navigate these waters. My father tried to encourage me to sing like the female performers that he knew of: Christa Ludwig or Dame Janet Baker. I loved listening to the latter and feared sounding like the former. Baker had a clear, crisp, decisive sounding voice. To my ear, Ludwig sang hootily and sounded like her mouth and throat were full of cotton. My father presented me with a recording of her singing Brahm's Alto Rhapsody, along with the vocal score. It is a soaring piece, written for an alto voice against a men's chorus. I was immediately entranced both with the music and melancholy lyrics of Goethe:

But who is that apart?

In the underbrush he loses himself

Behind him the shrubs clap together,

The grass stands up again

and the wasteland engulfs him.

Ah, who heals the pains for him

whose balsam became poison?

Who drank hate

out of the fullness of love?

First despised, now a despiser

He furtively consumes

his own merit in

unsatisfying egotism.

If there is in they Psalter,

Father of love, one note

audible to his ear,

Then refresh his heart.

Open his clouded gaze

to the thousand springs

next to the thirsting one

in the desert.

(Harzreise im Winter)

Well, that's pretty heavy stuff. Contemplating what it meant made me recognize that I felt like the bitter, brokenhearted man wandering in the desert. The music took me places that I'd never been before, mentally, spiritually, and vocally. But immersing myself in the lyrics like that was not good for me emotionally. About 60-70% of teenagers experience dysphoria: feeling sad or melancholy for long stretches of time. It's a sadness that is not quite depression, but is a melancholy that holds on. It is one of the things that makes us think of teenage girls as "drama queens." Being a teenager is hard enough, but living in the romantic composers' world dropped me down into the subterranean levels of mental health. Consider these lyrics of Robert Schumann:

I'll not complain though I have loved in vain.

Now you are lost to me!

I'll not complain

Once blind with love I saw you pure and white;

How could I know your soul was black as night?

But now I know...

I'll not complain though I have loved in vain.

(Ich Grolle Nicht)

Or the words of Mahler's Lieder eine faharenden Gesellen (Songs of a Wayfarer) in which a man sings about his agony on the day of his true love's marriage to someone else:

I have a burning dagger,
a dagger deep in my heart,
Ah pain, it cuts so deep.
In every joy and pleasure deep,
so deep it cuts with pain so deep.
Ah, why must I have this evil guest,
never is he hushed, never will he rest.
Not by day, not by night when I sleep.
Ah pain.
When I look into the sky,
there I can see the bluest eyes. Ah pain.
When in the golden fields I roam,
there I can see her golden hair
on breezes blown. Ah pain, such pain.
And when from my dream I start
then I hear laughter, her silver laughter,
Ah pain.
I wished I lay in the darkest grave.
Oh never, never to wake up again.

(Listen here)

And so there I was, living in the ephemeral world of anguished romantic composers--a good 60% of whom have mood disorders, as I would later learn. My external world had enough challenges of its own without this added ingredient. Longing to sing these songs, I was consumed every waking moment with a type of unrequited love: the music was in me but there was no place out in that rural environment to sing it. It was within me, but didn't belong to me. When I did sing it, I had to brace myself for whatever unthinking remark was made by my siblings or friends. And all the time, I kept wondering who on earth could I turn to who could help me with all of this.

I grew up in a very conservative religious home. One could say that we were fundamentalist Christians. We were told that it was our duty to develop our talents and gifts as much as possible as a way to bring honor and glory to God. But I began to notice that as I did that, I was getting unspoken messages that there was something spiritually dangerous about being a professional classical musician. I might lose interest in spiritual things and become full of prideful, dissipation. Especially with all those opera stories of lust, betrayal, and all manner of relationships inappropriate for Christians to portray. Think of it: Carmen, the girl with the loose morals who worked in a cigarette factory, has an affair with the jealous Escamillo who eventually knifes her to death in a jealous rage. Or let's see, how about Madame Butterfly? A 15 year-old geisha girl falls in love and marries American Lt. Pinkerton. In doing so, she must renounce the religion and love of her own parents. She does not realize that her marriage to Pinkerton is merely one of convenience and is not legally binding. So when he returns to America saying that he will return "when the robins nest again" she innocently believes him. Of course, he doesn't come back. When he writes to tell Butterfly that he has married an American woman, she does not read English and assumes that his letter is full of love for her. In fact, Pinkerton and his American wife come to Japan to tell her that they want her child to live with them in America. As Butterfly realizes what has happened, she tells them that they can return for the child in half an hour. She bids an agonized goodbye to her small child, goes behind a screen, and with Pinkerton's own dagger, kills herself. Pinkerton and his wife rush in to find her dying, and as the curtain falls, Pinkerton is pathetically calling out her name and weeping over her.
This is the ilk of operatic stories. No wonder conservative Christians do not like the idea of opera. They contain every stripe of immorality. But if I couldn't sing that sort of thing, why would God give me an operatic voice? Was I to sing Christian hymns in church? Was that to be my life?

I sought out every person whom I thought might be able to help me. One of them was my religion teacher, Mr. Barton. He had a thundering bass voice and when he sang "Asleep in the Deep" at church, he tucked his chin into his chest and shook his head from side to side, squeezing out those low notes. He used to sing in the Metropolitan Opera Chorus, he was quick to tell people. He was full of the stories that musicians tell: the time the obese soprano dramatically flung herself off a parapet supposedly to her death, but landed on a trampoline type affair offstage, only to bounce back up into full view of the audience. Or when the chorus members got lost and sang obscene lyrics in Italian to one another on stage. Or how the tenor couldn't sing a note and someone sang it for him from offstage. I used to listen to Mr. Barton talk about his days of glory and take notice of the wistfulness and regret on his face. "Oh, but a Christian can't stay in that field for very long," he'd tell me. "It was all so awful. You have to sleep your way to the top. There are so few really good singers that that's what you can expect to have to do." I didn't like the sound of that. But I didn't believe him, either. He sounded like such a martyr as he poured cold water on my dreams. Mr. Barton pointed out several opera singers who used to be fine Christians: Shirley Verrett, Thomas Hampson, and Kathleen Battle. "They gave up their godly lives to live out of a suitcase and sing on a stage. You need to be careful that this doesn't happen to you." He didn't have any advice, just a steady diet of futility and fatalism. A has-been, that's what he is. I don't want to ever be a has-been.

I note on Shirley Verrett's autobiography cover, she mentions how she "over came the fundamentalism" of her own family. Hmmm.

To hear this kind of commentary from Mr. Barton as well as from my own father, and to be led to believe that singers inevitably become power hungry, vain, dissolute divas, was the most discouraging thing any young singer could hear. It was as though my voice had been a cosmic joke: Here--see what singing is all about, but don't you dare do anything with it or else you'll be forever spiritually lost. It shocked me that I had been given something I didn't ask for, that I couldn't safely pursue or develop, that belonged to someone else, that others would receive accolades for (parents), and that was a danger to my eternal life. What had I done to deserve this? It was a double, triple, quadruple bind. I began to pray that my voice would go away.

Be careful what you pray for.

In the Big House

Grove Plantation House found here

During the days before the Civil War, slaves were bought and kept in little hovel-type shacks away from the Big House--the name the slaves gave their owner's home. The land owner needed domestic servants, so there were times when a slave's child who looked the part would be taken up to live in the Big House. While their parents slept on a mud floor, suffered in their back breaking work in the fields and survived the elements, their child was sleeping in a bed of her own up in a warm, dry house. Because her owners did not want her appearance to speak poorly of them, the household servants were taught how to interact with their White owners, how to polish silver, what to wear, and in general, conduct themselves according to what was expected.
When the time came for the servants to visit their parents out in the shacks on the back forty, they were awkward and felt out of place. In their parents homes, they sat on log benches or on the ground. Their parents and friends handled them carefully so as not to ruin their clothes, which compared to what the parents were given, were lovely. Children tried to converse with their parents, but their worlds were so different. There was a vast gulf between parents and child: even though the child was in their space, she did not belong there. The child spoke differently and used different expressions, spoke of different situations than any that the parents had experienced. As she watched her parents talk, she heard the idioms of her parents through the ears of those who had taught her to express herself in a different way, and she hung back from her parents. The parents could not go up to the Big House because they had not been schooled in the expected behavior, nor did they have clothes, or feel at home in such big homes. It was not that the parents didn't want to have homes of their own, or that they were content with the horrendous living conditions that they endured. It was not that they were not happy that their children were doing better than they were. It was that they could not enter that world, nor could they understand the experience of their children--pulled between two worlds but part of neither. When they saw their children hang back or behave awkwardly, they attributed this to their child feeling superior. But in fact, the children felt lost. They could visit their parents but the parents could not go to the Big House. One is not better than the other--both reached for the once known solace of each other only to find that both suffered because something significant had changed and nothing felt entirely comfortable for either party. This is a loss and a grief to anyone who has ever lived in the Big House, or who has lost another to the Big House.

The first day of class after I returned from Europe, my English teacher announced, "Barbara has come back from Europe after singing for the President." She looked over her glasses at the class. "Maybe if we're nice, she'd sing for us, too." I don't know if Mrs. Nelson meant ill by this or not, but it struck me as catty and unkind, and I shrunk down into my seat, horrified to be singled out in that way.
The same thing happened when I went to choir practice for the first time. Miss Olaf made some sort of comment that clearly did not celebrate my recent experience. I was mortified, but determined to prove that I wasn't big headed, and was the same as they were, even though I'd done something different from the others at my school.
But I wasn't the same.
Looking around at the choir members, it was hard not to compare the pimply-faced, sophomore tenors with the tenor opera singer from Vienna who had become quite encouraging of me. Or my tenor voice teacher with whom I had lain on the floor under the piano in his studio, laughing at the cartoons he had pasted on the underside of the piano.
Singing such uninspiring music as Miss Olaf chose, I could not help but recall singing Bach at the top of my lungs in front of an enthusiastically playing string orchestra. Or the tall granite buttresses of so many cathedrals across Poland, and the sound of our music echoing through them.
I had been surrounded by extremely gifted young musicians--some who had won young musician competitions for years, or who had made recordings, or had been taught by famous string players. Our conversations had been about things like which composer we preferred and why; or the performer we had heard play Chopin's Ballade No. 1 with such force that the piano had moved across the stage; or how the bowing should be for the slow movement of the Tchaikovsky violin concerto. They had actually been interested to hear me talk about the Italian songs I loved, and why I loved to sing certain notes--yes, other teenage kids actually wanted to know which note I liked to sing best!
There had been a freedom and level of understanding that I had never dreamed I could have.

Other kids actually understood what it was like to step out on the stage and give birth to Music in front of people who sat mesmerized, with tears in their eyes. Our youthful idealism and love for what we created kept us striving to give more to the people who heard us. It was a love that I have never seen or felt anyplace else, so unique, spontaneous, and strong it was.

So, as I walked through the halls at school, was approached by immature boys, or tried to join in conversations with girls about what color nail polish they preferred, my heart was very far away. I longed for the Big House. Even though I would be alone there now, at least it was a place where I knew I belonged.

Now, as a 48 year-old woman, I have lived in a couple Big Houses. One of them--where I live most of the time--is the Big House of being a therapist. People who study to become therapists need to learn that there are losses of every kind when they decide to live in a place where others can't come--even if you want them to. We look at our families in different ways. We think about our spouses differently. We have opinions about the children of our friends--all based on what we have learned, seen, and known from clinical experience. We are told things by friends that clearly states trouble, but that we are not at liberty to point out to anyone.
Fortunately, I've found that there are places where I can meet my friends and husband, where we both fit and belong and where I can turn off the voices in the Big House.

When you're a teenager, trying to figure out who you are in the first place, the longing voices coming from our parents often make us very lonely up up in the Big House.

Singer

When summer came, off I went to New England for a week of rehearsals with the youth orchestra. Then off to Poland. I'd never flown in an airplane before, never left North America, never been away from home for more than a few days. Here we were flying over the Atlantic for what seemed an eternity. Carl had smuggled on a mango and wondered if I'd like to taste one. That was another first. As we lurched and bobbed up and down in the sky during landing, that mango made me as sick as a mule.
We landed in what was then a communist country. From growing up in the US during the 60s, I was well aware that the communists were the ones who were the Big Threat. Russia was purportedly going to bomb us with an atom bomb, prompting all those air raid drills at school. Poland wasn't far away from Russia, I reminded myself.
There were a whole bunch of us kids, traveling with enormous instrument cases, full of horns--the bells of which were packed with our clothing. We had made use of every square inch of space: the harp case housed all our performance gowns, hanging upright. Unsmiling customs agents searched every bag, every suitcase and instrument. People in line behind us stared at the contents of our bags, lying out on the table for everyone to see.
There was an atmosphere of depression and gloom. I did not like how it felt to be there. We had been told that we would be watched, that quite possibly one of our interpreters was an agent of the State, sent to spy on us. Very intimidating.

Our first stop was a large public restroom in the city square. Our 13-year old concertmaster had to go to the bathroom. He disappeared down the stairs of a cinder block structure, in a real hurry. Momentarily, he came running out the door, aghast with concern. Behind him charged a squarish woman, shaking a chair leg in the air over his head. The bus driver intercepted her as she rushed up the steps into the bus. Apparently, every bathroom had a woman whose job it was to keep toilet paper stocked and the facilities clean. She was usually an older, matronly woman, sitting in a straight-back chair inside the bathroom, a small collection basket in her lap. I thought that I'd better watch my step in this country.

I've written about what happened during our first concert that day. I learned to soar without wings. When I entered that first ancient cathedral--my first cathedral--I was a nervous 15-year old girl. When I left, I had experienced magic. The power of music had become something that I had to have, over and over. It had been such a thrill to be capable of singing the beautiful music that echoed from one end of the cathedral to the other. It was marvelous to have as large a voice as I had, that would completely fill all the space in the building. People liked it, too.

We traveled to Auschwitz one dreary, drizzly day. I stood where a faithful Catholic priest gave his life at the firing post, and died in place of the man with seven children waiting at home. I stood in the barracks, touched the ovens, saw the bins of human hair and eye glasses. The horror of it stays with me to this day. That evening, while the orchestra played Samuel Barber's Adagio for Strings, there were tears in many of the player's eyes. The ascending chords and intensity of the piece seemed to pull us back to the despair and hideousness of humanity's worst hour.

We went to the famous Polish salt mines, where there was an underground chapel complete with salt chandeliers. We sang several songs down there, much to the delight of the other visitors.
Because we were guests of the State, we were given some marvelous meals. It was the first time I ever ate chicken (I grew up in a mostly vegetarian household). Our breakfast breads were delicious, full-bodied, and slathered with real butter and currant jelly. We had sliced hard boiled eggs, cucumbers and tomatoes for breakfast with big mugs of black tea. We also had some foods that should not be given to adolescents: Rhubarb-noodle soup. Milk over there was not refrigerated. It was not pasteurized, so when it got old, it merely separated. Yup--that was the soup base with big curds, clumps of rhubarb (which most of us loathed, I found out), and thick noodles. But no one can hold a candle to Polish ice cream. There is nothing like it.

Midway through our month concert tour, we hopped over to Vienna for what in my church, is called General Conference: a meeting of church leaders and delegates from the entire world church. It lasted for a week or so and ended with a gala concert by us. We were to perform Beethoven's Choral Fantasy, as well as a couple original works for solo quartet and orchestra. Our rehearsals for this event were quite interesting to me. We sang against an enormous festival chorus, composed of singers from around the world. As I walked past the German singers, I didn't know how to say, "Excuse me" so I repeated what I'd heard my father say: "Bitte..." I got "Bitte" in return that sounded like, "You bet, baby!" I'd never been spoken to in that way before, and I liked it.
When the conductor called for the soloists to come to the podium to rehearse our numbers, I walked to the front and took my place next to people who were old enough to be my parents. There was a tenor from the Vienna Opera, a French professional recital baritone, a tenor from Iceland, two sopranos from our tour group and me. The Icelandic man was warm and seemed attracted to me somehow--he kept hugging me to him. I wasn't so sure about that. But the other two professional singers would hardly look at me. They seemed insulted by my presence or something. But the orchestra began to play the introduction to the first number and off we went. By the end of that first number, they were looking at me in an admiring way. I was a bit embarrassed, since I didn't know how to respond to them. But it was also very nice--validating. I began to understand that I had an incredible voice that fit in with professional adult singers' voices. I could do this.

I was now a singer.

The last night in Poland, we were slated to perform for the leader of the Polish people. At the last moment, we learned that Gerald Ford would be present. We were carefully coached on how to behave, not to make sudden moves, to do our best, and to be polite. It was a fairly small hall in a beautiful palace in Warsaw--the name of which escapes me just now. As we sat silently waiting, we heard footsteps coming down the hall and men's voices. In came the Polish premier, Gerald Ford, Henry Kissinger, and about 20 other people whom I did not recognize. We burst into applause. After a few comments, we played and sang for them. I was taken aback by Henry Kissinger belching loudly during our performance. And I kept staring at the president. Our Mr. President.
When the concert was finished, President Ford stood, thanked us all, and exited along with the other dignitaries. We again applauded as they left. Then the rush was on to get downstairs, change into travel clothes, pack up the instruments, and race over the airport where our plane had been held up 30 minutes for us. As I was pulling my dress off over my head, the cry was heard, "The President is back! He wants to see us!" We pulled on our clothes again and rushed upstairs to the concert hall. There stood Gerald Ford, without Secret Service, hugging and shaking hands with the couple orchestra members who were present. We descended on him. He was so gracious and warm. I got to shake his hand, as he systematically reached forward to greet every single orchestra member. We were with him about 10 minutes. Suddenly the doors to the room burst open and the Secret Service rushed in, surrounding the President. "It's okay boys," he said. "These are our finest." I reached past one agent and met his concerned glare with a smile. As we stepped back from him, Mr. Ford motioned for silence. He said something to this effect: "I want to thank you for representing the United States tonight. No one could have done it better than you did. You made me proud and I want to thank you for that." We again burst into furious applause as the Secret Service herded him out the door.
We found out later that he had gone upstairs after our concert but said to Betty, "I want to go see those kids downstairs." So he found the back stairs and came back to see us. He had evaded the Secret Service for 20 minutes. No wonder they were worked up!

As we boarded the airplane, I was leaving a different person than when I landed there four weeks earlier. I had sung in factories, concert halls, cathedrals. I had received standing ovations, armfuls of flowers from children and adults. I had been respected, supported, and approved by other outstanding musicians who were my very own age and who were also "different" in the way I was. I was not alone any longer, even though I didn't know anyone like them or me back where I grew up.

My parents came to Boston to pick me up at the airport. They were excited for me, as I regaled them with stories all the way back home. I also got quite a scolding: I'd never written home while I was gone, I'd been so consumed with everything that I was getting to see, hear, and experience.

I looked the same as I had before I left. But very little inside my head was the same. I'd seen something different--that fit me.

Vog

What I write in this post is about my family. Today, I dearly love my parents and siblings. I owe the world to my parents for giving us more than either of them ever received as children. It is important to me that anyone who reads this realizes that we are all--every one of us--broken, sinful people. It is quite true that we pay for the sins of the fathers of the third and fourth generation. This is how I account for what happened to me. I write without malice but not without pain.

As I fell asleep that night after my first solo, I had a mix of feelings: excitement that perhaps I could be a musician like my father, whom I adored. I also felt scared--I didn't know how to be a singer and thought that they knew how to act and be gracious in all situations. I was a naive country girl who didn't like to be around people I didn't know, and I knew that I was decidedly not gracious. But most of all, I was confused by what my father had said to me. It seemed a double bind somehow, to do all that I was supposed to do with my singing. It didn't seem fun anymore, especially when my voice wasn't for me--it was for God. Of course, I was glad that I could do something for God, but there was something wrong with the awful weight of thinking that I couldn't sing just for me. So I lay in bed and wondered about this thing that had come out of nowhere and that had everyone on campus talking.

A few days later, I was walking down the hall of the girl's dormitory and hear the familiar strains of someone playing a recording of the Vivaldi Gloria. I wanted to hear how the singer on the record sang the numbers I had performed on Friday evening. The recording artist had a loud, mature voice that had a full, operatic sound to it. I popped my head around the corner of the door to find three of the choir members listening to a cassette recording. "Who's that?" I asked.

Gales of laughter. "Come on, Barbara. Don't give us that."

I was confused. "No, really. Who is that?"

It was me and they thought I should know that.

I have never been so shocked in my life. Since I'd never heard my voice on a recording, I didn't recognize myself. It was a horrifying and jolting experience all at once. If that was truly me, then I couldn't be a shy, naive teenager. What was worse was that if anyone else knew that I sang like "an old lady" that I'd not have any friends and boys wouldn't like me. After all, the big music rage was David Cassidy singing, "I think I love you." I'd never be able to sing along with that, no matter how hard I'd try, with that operatic voice of a much older woman. My social life seemed doomed: I sounded like Two-Ton-Tillie.

For several weeks I could hardly see the light of day. My entire world had been upset by what had happened. My view of myself had changed so drastically that I couldn't seem to get my balance. This was to me like a curse. I kept thinking about how my life had been before I'd sung. Yes, I'd been very quiet and almost anonymous in school. Writing class had been fun and it was great to hide out in the library, or to simply sing in a choir. But now everyone knew me and I just felt so awkward. There was such hoo-haw about me everywhere I went that I was mortified.

Two weeks after that first performance, a traveling youth orchestra came to the school to give a concert. After sitting through what had been to me, a stunning concert, the conductor asked to hear me sing. She had heard about me through the grapevine, two states away. So I sang the Vivaldi solos for her whilst my parents stood by, eagerly awaiting her pronouncement. I sang the best I could, and got more than a pronouncement. I got an invitation to tour with her orchestra as a soloist that summer for a month in Poland. She was very encouraging and indicated to my parents that she would be looking out for me herself. I left that concert in shock.

My parents were so excited that they could hardly contain themselves. They were full of platitudes and advice about how to conduct myself and what I needed to do in order to prepare for the trip to Poland.

At that point, everything changed in my family. My parents pledged to send me to Poland, which meant that they had to empty their savings of the small amount of money they had in order to send me off for a month. My sister, who was in college at the time, and in need of money, was livid. Why should I, who had never sung a note in her hearing, get that kind of support, when she had performed at school in numerous venues. Why not my brother, who had sung in choir and played several instruments--why had he not gotten that kind of encouragement or support? Why indeed.

It was quite apparent to me, even at that young age, that my parents began to live through me then. If I thought it belonged to God, I was wrong. It belonged to them--theirs to schedule, groom, and to reap the rewards of my accolades. I was merely the medium for them to get strokes and to feel that somehow, their lives were fruitful in the musical world.

Does this sound harsh? Probably. And yet, when gifted children are in the picture, there is often some sort of exploitation that occurs. Particularly when the parents do not have a strong sense of personal agency or identity on their own.

Almost overnight, my parents began to carry around recordings of me singing. They often took them to people's homes to which we were invited, and asked if they would like to hear them. That's like boring people with home movies. Most people don't like operatic sounding vocal music, so I could tell that between my parents' poor manners and the type of music that this was not a good thing. I would skulk back away from everyone, mortified that I was being dragged into something that I would never seek out for myself. It was embarassing to be an object of curiosity like that.

Of course, this had quite an effect on my siblings. Goodness knows what prompted mother to do this, but she told my sister that I suffered from low self-esteem and needed to hear her praise me about my singing a lot. This did not sit well with Dana, who needed to be nurtured herself, not think about what I--the overprivileged younger sister--was getting. She became very cruel in her comments and mockery of my singing. I was the "fat Italian opera singer" whom she parodied with painful frequency.

My brother was pretty good about my singing. He didn't say much about it. But he did tease me about being a fat opera singer. A Wagnerian (that's pronounced, Vahgnerian). Rather than call me a Wagnerian, he called me, "Vog" (Wag). All I was missing was the Valkerie iron bra and horns on my head. What a sickening thought to be compared to an overweight, bellowing, swooning tank of a woman, which my brother caricatured so well.

My father was a classical musician by his training. He was a music teacher from the old school. He had studied at the Westminster Choir College and had very strong ideas about "proper" singing and "proper" church music. When I was asked to sing at church, my mother would not allow me to decline, citing my responsibility to God. My father would then dictate what I was to sing. After all, God did not deserve some haphazard rendition of popular music in church. He should have "the best." So I found myself singing songs like O Divine Redeemer, The Holy City, and Open the Gates of the Temple. I didn't like a one of those songs. I sounded so old singing them that I felt sick having to sing them. But there in the front row would sit my parents, looking expectantly at me. Sitting several rows behind them would be kids my age--who visibly had no interest in what I was singing because it was what old people sang.

"Can't I sing something with a guitar sometime?" What a silly question.

I was absolutely trapped.

The interesting thing is that I loved singing, once I knew the freedom that came with soaring off into the music. I often crept off to the chapel in the girls' dormitory and would sing at the piano through lunch hour--all the classical songs that I was realizing that I could sing flawlessly: Brahms, Mendelsohn, Bach. For that hour every day, I could sing for me and lose myself in the music. It was intoxicating and I couldn't get enough. But then one day when I finished singing something by Purcell, I heard muffled applause on the other side of the wall. I had been found out and my vulnerable freedom was gone. I never sang there again.

Vog. My parents had stopped seeing me and only saw my voice. My siblings resented me. I didn't feel that I fit in with my friends. I was ashamed of how my parents made over me in front of other people. In a word, Barbara, as I had known her, had mostly disappeared.

The Beginning

This is Amy and me at her senior recital in college. She had graciously invited me to sing a couple pieces with her. We ended with my The Flower Song by Delibes. My favorite--quite possibly because in it, I got to sing as full-voiced and loudly as I ever have. Have a listen to it (sung by others) here.
Sam had never heard me sing before and he was stunned with what he heard. He couldn't get down from the balcony fast enough to hug me and look carefully at me. Later he said quietly to me, "I was thinking, that's my wife!"
I hadn't told Sam much about my singing experience before we were married. I wanted him to like me for me--not for my voice, not for the social benefit or any other thing. I wanted him to love me for who I am--how I talk, walk, think, speak, laugh, live. Of course, there are reasons for that.

My father was a high school music teacher. He had always wanted to be a nurse, but a college professor talked him into changing his major to music. He came from a musical family: a violinist father, pianist mother, and brother who both sang and played coronet. Daddy had an excellent ear and was quite talented: he sang and played brass instruments very, very well. He was also a charismatic conductor who was much loved by his students.
My mother used to be quite a gifted young singer. As a child in the inner city, she contracted tuberculosis and was taken to a sanitarium in the mountains. There, she lived for about three years. During that time, some do-gooders from the city would visit "the San," as it was called, and would hold concerts. One was a songwriter who wrote for Dinah Shore. He tried out his songs on the tuberculosis patients. If they liked the song, he would take it down to Dinah to record. My mother was the one who sang the songs first--for the TB patients.
Both parents were frustrated in their attempts to be musicians. Mother thought that if she married a musician, she would have unlimited support and opportunities for her singing. She couldn't read music and desperately wanted to learn how. My father, on the other hand, soon despised having to force his artistic sensibilities in order to make a living. Although his students loved him, he was easily frustrated with his job. He was also a demanding, irritable, and short-tempered teacher to his own family. Every one of us took music lessons from him. I can remember Daddy trying to teach me about tone row when I was only 7 years old. He was irate that I couldn't grasp the concept.
By the time they were 40 years old, Mother and Daddy had stopped dreaming about becoming famous, or living to make music. Life had become rather difficult: four children in private Christian schools, disillusionment with a career, too little money, social isolation. Rough days for all of us.
But even with all of those challenges, there was a good deal of happiness beaming out through the cracks. We used to sing as a family, in four-part harmony. Since there was already mother and sister to sing the soprano and alto lines in the music, I kind of sniveled along, not feeling terribly indispensible. We sang with my cousins when we got together. I was in awe of them because they were both beautiful and excellent musicians. But I hated to be in front of people and was so shy that I didn't like answering the phone, lest I be forced to converse with someone unknown to me. A friend, describing me during those years, referred to me as "a wallflower." I was.

I started attending a Christian high school. Since my older two siblings had always sung in the choir, and since I could read music well, I joined the choir. I'd been in the high school band since sixth grade, but I'd been able to hide behind an instrument. Choir was different. I stood in the back row next to the cool girls who could really sing well, and threw myself into the music. No one cringed when I sang, and I didn't think anyone could really hear me. I loved being in a group with the older students. How I looked up to them! There was JP, Janice, Lori, Kevin, and of course, my brother, who sang bass very well.
That first fall in high school, the music teacher announced that the choir would be performing Vivaldi's Gloria for the Christmas concert. She needed two sopranos and one alto soloist. There was quite a buzz about who would try out. I turned to Linda, who was sitting next to me and said, "I'd like to try out for that." I have no idea why I even entertained such an idea. I'd never sung a solo and would rather be shot than get up in front of anyone. But I had this unshakeable conviction that I could sing those solos, and sing them well. Who knows where that came from. I had never even sung in my bedroom with the door closed, or in the shower. My sister and I had sung together at the piano, but I typically opted just to accompany her and follow her lead. Somewhere inside of me however, I knew I could sing the solos.
Friday of the next week, I went to Miss Olaf's office to audition. I'd practiced these solos in the chapel of the girl's dormitory all week, where no one would hear me, so I knew the music well. As I sang it, Miss Olaf's eyes got bigger and bigger. At the end, she asked me where I'd been hiding my voice. It was a nice thing to say, and a pleasant way to tell me that I'd been given the solos.
On Monday I sang the solos for the choir. People went crazy. Their responses struck me as overkill for a boring Baroque solo that was nearly monotone. The fact that I had sung on pitch might account for some of their enthusiasm, but I ignored it. Mostly, I attributed the choir members' reactions as kind encouragements to me--a shy, self-conscious freshman.

The concert was to be on a Friday evening. We had come home from school and were eating an early dinner. My brother was telling my parents about the concert that evening. I piped up and told my father that I would be singing a solo with the choir that evening. Would he please come? I must have been a real liar as a child, because he thought I was making it all up. My brother vouched for the veracity of my story and urged my father to come. And so, when I stood up to sing that evening, looking into the darkened auditorium, I could see my father and mother sitting half-way back on the right. The solos went off without a hitch and I was relieved to have it over. My only thoughts as the lights came on was that it had truly been fun to sing a solo with the choir behind me, singing antiphonally with me. I intended to do it again someday and hoped Miss Olaf would let me. And I wondered what the boys thought--if it might help my chances of getting a date.

What stood out for me that evening was that my father was crying when he came up to me after the concert. Mother grabbed me and hugged me, and Daddy just kept crying and looking at me. I didn't know what was wrong. The ride home that evening was awkward with Daddy sniffling and mother gushing about the choir and how I had done.

We got home quite late and it took awhile for six people to get ready for bed. I was the last one to kiss Daddy and go up the stairs. He still hadn't said much to me and was sitting off by himself in his chair in the livingroom. "Was it okay, Daddy?" I just had to know.
Daddy started choking up. He apparently couldn't believe that the voice he'd heard had come from me, and was utterly touched, shocked, and delighted. He said three things to me that night that framed my approach to, confusion about, and struggles with my singing for years:
1. You are so great at this that you are really going to go places with your singing. Don't let anyone tell you you're not great.
2. Don't let this go to your head. Be humble.
3. You have an obligation to God to sing for Him. Your voice is not your own. You owe God something with a talent like this.

I went upstairs to bed feeling satisfied that I had sung my best. However, I lay awake for some time, trying to reconcile my father's injunctions and come to terms with this sudden, blinding alteration in my self-perception and experience. Why had Daddy been crying? What was the big deal? Why hadn't he told my other siblings that they had an obligation to God, or that they would be great? What was I supposed to do? How was I to act if I was as great as Daddy said I was, but couldn't let it go to my head, and had to use it for God? How do you do that? Do well, downplay it, and recognize it's neither mine or for me.
This is like sprouting an extra arm that I didn't ask for. There is some agenda for what I'm supposed to do with it, only I don't know what that is.

I was 14 years old.

Music Pedigree

This is Amy, my neice in her "Queen of the Night" costume that she wore for an opera performance a couple years ago. She is a graduate student, getting her master's in vocal performance. Amy is following in my footsteps. Yes, I am an educator in a mental health profession. But I began in a very different field at quite a young age. It is just not something that I talk about very much any more.

I recently read a post on my friend's blog which asked the question, "What's up with classical musicians and The Pedigree?" So much flooded back over me as I read Joyful Woman's comments about her observations and puzzlement about musicians that I have found myself preoccupied remembering many things.

It may be a long, complicated, contorted trail, and it may bore even the likes of Freud. But I would like to reflect here, in the next few posts, both my response to Joyful Woman's question, and my experience in the vortex of this question. I am especially thinking about this as I think about Amy getting ready for her final recital. All of her language is musical language. A great deal of my past, attitudes, experiences, and feelings are visible in her. I left that world for a variety of reasons--some that I could help, and some that I couldn't.

You may wish to skip over the coming rambling, stream of consciousness recollections. It is the story of unrequited love, unutterable joy, confusion, and disappointment.

A Grand Week Away

Sam and I have been out of town for the last week, visiting his parents in another state. Let me give you a rather impressionistic account of our time away.
Papa and Mama were thrilled to have us with them couldn't do enough (from their perspective) to make us feel at home--and pampered. They woke up every morning at 5:30 to shower, tidy up the house, and wait for us to wake up. Being on another time zone, they had some waiting to do--and they did it very patiently. It was delightful to drag out to the kitchen in the morning to find hot German pancakes, scrambled eggs, slices of mango, and orange juice waiting for us at the table. Papa would say the most fervent prayer over our food and then off we'd go, with gusto.

Our first day was spent visiting property the folks have recently purchased in an adjacent state. I was struck by how green and serene it was there, out in the country. Twenty acres of the most flat, but green land, and three little dwellings on it. They hope to build homes there for themselves and two of their sons. There, we met Fred--an obese, good-natured, old dog. He looked part Corgi and part German Shepherd. He also looked like he couldn't get out of his own way. Rumor is that he is vicious, but that was hard to believe, looking down at him resting his chin on my knee and begging for a good scratching behind the ears.

We went into town and ate at a wonderful little restaurant in a bend of the road. The menu items presented a problem for Papa. His Puerto Rican rules of speech dictated that Cajun chicken was pronounced "Cahoon," for which he received much ribbing from all of us.

Papa's Puerto Rican cooking left us flopping happily about in the livingroom--helplessly full and sleepy. His chicken and rice, full of fresh cilantro and sofrito, cooked for several hours. The house smelled absolutely marvelous.

Sam and I slept on a platform air mattress in the study. The folks have a small two-room house, which put us in a very small room. It took us about three nights to adjust to the mattress, letting air out of it so we didn't feel as though we were sleeping on a very slippery, shifting board. If Sam turned over quickly, I could fly up in the air.

Mama and I spent a day shopping through several huge gourmet food and European cooking stores. I loved the freedom to be able to do this. No pager, no calls on the cell phone, no time crunch. We just meandered through the aisles of fresh herbs, cheeses, and freshly baked breads, oohing and ahhing about everything we saw.

I sang at my in-laws' church during the visit. I was to sing twice that morning. The pianist at their church played like the house afire, and we raced through what was to have been a meditative song of preparation for communion.
Why are sound technicians the same, the world over? As the pianist plowed through the introduction, he gestured to me as if to ask whether the monitor in front of the podium was up too loud or not. I motioned for it to be turned down, since I couldn't even hear myself think. I could see him up in the balcony sound box turning a knob before he disappeared from sight into a little back office. He took no interest in me thereafter, even though my microphone at the podium was nearly turned off. How could I know enough to tell him to turn down my mic when in fact I had not yet sung when I motioned to him? There I stood, singing my heart out, not being heard over the piano's broad, crashing chords. It dawned on me that people looked somewhat dismayed, but I thought that they could be deep in reflection about the words I was singing. Later I realized that they couldn't even hear me. I was to have sung during the communion service proper, but the organist hijacked the congregation with a great Bach toccata that took up the entire time. Papa was livid, ready to tear someone's head off for not being more organized, causing me to be preempted. Since according to my time zone, the time I was really singing was at 7:00 a.m., I was grateful to get away with only one strained song.

In reflection, this was the first time I was a guest with Sam's family of origin. I've met his brother and have visited with his parents before. But we never stayed with them. This visit made me feel part of a second family--something I never anticipated, what with being single for so many years. Probably many people take in-laws for granted. I have waited many, many years to have some. Seeing Papa suddenly puff up and start to sing a Spanish love song to Mama in the kitchen; to laugh with Mama about an idiosyncracy shared by our Sams (Jr. and Sr.); to hear Papa tell his friends, "These are my cheelren": this warmed me. To find that I fit in, that they love me dearly, and that I love Sam more after being there--this is the best result of my trip away. We made many good memories. It was grand indeed.

Which is better?

I am always intrigued by people's ideas of what constitutes right or wrong behaviors. Some folks vehemently outline what is acceptable moral behavior using language and sentiments that negates all the goodness of their intentions. Others allow anything but are critical of anyone who behaves in different ways than they do. Still others call on the authority of God to drive home their conceptions of what is right and wrong. Dyed hair--God doesn't like it. That kind of music? God is offended by it. Wierd dress? God thinks it is dishonorable. In fact, God has, in the Bible, said very little about a number of issues that people become combative about. There are only inferences about some issues, and one has to apply principles of godly conduct to them graciously. So many grey areas, so little direct communication about them.
Or, Bible readers select a clear directive--"Thou shalt not kill"--and ignore equally clear, more frequent injunctions in scripture: "Be slow to speak and slow to anger, for you are on earth and God is in heaven."
It is therefore not surprising that every person has his or her notion of what they will allow for themselves and others. No, not allow--privilege. While one may go after another person for using foul language, that same individual might speak in a caustic manner, or behave as though they are without a shred of redemptive feelings toward the offender. Which is better? Who is superior in the final analysis?

One morning, I had breakfast with friends. As Marge poured a cup of coffee for herself, Johnnie, her husband turned to me and said, "I was raised in a household that never drank coffee. It's really bad for your vascular system. I don't like it when Marge drinks it."
Marge looked straight ahead and brought her coffee cup to her lips. "Mmmm. That's good" she murmured.
Johnnie sighed and turned to me again. "You see, I don't force Marge to stop drinking it, but she knows how I feel about it."
Marge looked at me and rolled her eyes. "He doesn't let me forget how he feels about coffee!" she laughed.
Johnnie fell silent, eating his scrambled eggs.
"If this is the worst thing I do, then I'm doin' pretty well, right?" she asked us both.
I understand this concern. Sam drinks coffee and I don't. But then, I eat lots of sugar and Sam doesn't. Which is better?
I should not have been shocked later in the day, when Johnnie and Marge drove off to a winery for wine tasting. I did not approve of that, but then, I'm overweight and eat too much. Which is better? Would it be better for me to have a glass of wine once in awhile and eat more sensibly? How can I point at these friends when I make decisions that are equally as unhelpful to myself or others?
It seems that when we forget that we are uneven in our application of principles, or that we may unwittingly engage in hurtful behavior defending our right to think, feel, or behave in the ways that we privilege, something vital is negated.

On the way to work each week, I pass an abortion clinic. Parked outside is a van with placards of disemboweled babies and fetal fragments--all in disturbing, bloodstained color. One underdeveloped baby's facial expression is burned into my memory. There is usually one or two senior citizens kneeling on the sidewalk in prayer outside of the clinic, whilst girls and their significant others try to walk around them and in the front door.
I am deeply disturbed by this. The clinic in question is what may correctly be called an abortion mill. From reports I have heard, the practitioners do a poor job of offering counseling or alternative services to their patients. But this is not a post about whether or not abortion is a good thing or not. It is of note, that the individuals who are kneeling outside the abortion clinic have partisan slogans and decals written all over their vehicle under the placards. The party they support has cut the vast majority of funding for drug treatment services for women with children. And of course, if women don't have money for drugs, they prostitute themselves, get pregnant and need abortions. If poor women are in need of food and there is a no-gooder who will at least feed her and her children, of course sex enters the mix. So do unwanted pregnancies.
This is not to say that women can't or shouldn't get free birth control at the local public health clinic. They could do that, but don't, for whatever reason.
My point is this: is it better to make a spectacle outside of an abortion clinic, or to do something proactive to actually offer help to the women who come in and out of the doors? Is it better to accuse self-righteously on the one hand, while with the other hand, money is being voted out of programs that could assist these women? And another issue: if these protesters are as pro-life as they state they are, why aren't they doing something about all the living children whose lives are threatened every single day by abuse, poverty, gangs? Why aren't they in East Los Angeles in the barrios? What about pro-life child abuse warriors? What about pro-life elder abuse preventers? What are these people doing to improve life that already exists? Isn't there something that these protesters could do that would be more gracious in some way? I understand shock techniques, but these seldom work to secure longterm changes in people.

Which is better? For me to disdain such praying protesters, to avert my eyes as I drive past their hideous placards, to say nothing, do nothing, have nothing to show for my strong feelings? Or is it better to try to make a difference by impacting families and children in trouble? Is there a better? Who decides?

Hard questions, all.

Conference Tales

I wanted to post a picture here, to illustrate what I've been viewing for the last two days. But actually, no picture can do justice. I was surrounded by people with inquiring minds--whose inquiring minds produce some wonderful research. The problem was that so many were unbelieveably odd. It all began on the bus.

Megan and I were invited to speak at a professional conference. Neither of us are members of the profession that sponsored the event, but both of us have some disciplinary relationship with the research or research methods for which this profession is famous. So we went to present papers, glad for another line on our CVs.

We flew into Oakland airport, then took a bus to the BART station, where we were to take a train to our conference center. As we lumbered onto the bus, dragging our unwieldy luggage, my attention was immediately arrested by a rather large man sitting next to the luggage rack. Some people merely take up a seat (or two). Others take up the whole bus with their presence or attitude. Walking past him, I noticed that his eyebrows were tweezed and penciled into thin arches that made him look perpetually delighted or surprised. His hair was an interesting study. He had perfectly coifed, loopy Mozartesque burls all over his head, excentuating his very round face. Oh, and I forgot to mention that his hair color was somewhere between gray-brown-green-taupe-copper. That alone, was of note.
He was sprawled out over both seats in what struck me as a rather grandiose pose. Across the aisle sat a young male companion who seemed adoring of his mentor almost as much as he was of himself. He caught the eye of Mr. Mozart and jerked his head in Megan's direction.
"Are you going to the conference?" he sang out rather loudly to Megan. And so began a vociferous exchange with Megan and incidentally, audible to all of those in the back and midsection of the bus. "I am Doctor Hickemsnivie from St. James University on the Water" he announced, waiting a moment as he surveyed us all for effect. I was immediately disgusted. But Megan is not one to turn people off. So within moments, she, Dr. Hickemsnivie and his sidekick, were engaged in a loud conversation about Denmark's role in the underground resistance movement during World War II. They debated and held forth all the way to the train station. People standing in the aisle inclined toward the little knot of gesticulating hands and loud voices, trying to see if this guy was for real or not, and what on earth an attractive woman like Megan would see in carrying on this kind of conversation in a public place with such characters. I was glad to be seated back away from them a bit.
As I got off the bus, Megan, who had gotten off before me, was telling her new friends that we would both indeed be presenting our papers at said conference. Turning to me, she introduced me as Dr. --but our peroxide-assisted friend nodded at me, shook my hand and said, "I graduated from Smith-Tyner University." Not, "Pleased to meet you," or "Looks like we're all going the same place." I was so put off that I turned and walked off without comment. There are times when that seems justifiable, I think.
I scurried off to buy our tickets whilst Megan tried to disentangle herself from these two. Fortunately, we left them behind, wrangling with the ticket machines, and went up to the train platform.
I was beginning to wonder about this conference, but of course, every group has a few outliers. We positioned ourselves against a wall and stood enjoying the sunshine as we waited for our train.

"Oh, hello again!" and here came our Pickwickian shadow, ready for more grandstanding. I stepped away to avoid him, just as he launched into an exegesis on characterological components of a religious minority group. His voice could be heard over the din of our surroundings. I was mortified.

As I stood off a way, a rather friendly, robust young woman approached me. I noticed that she did not have on a bra and was as endowed as anyone I've ever seen. Shall we say that not all of her got to where I was standing at the same time.

"Is that the labaris on your lapel?" she asked. I was wearing a silver thistle on my suit. I explained that it was the symbol of the Scots. She told me that it looked like the lesbian labaris and she was delighted to see me wearing it proudly. I have no idea of what that is, so whether or not my pin looks like a labaris, is up for speculation.
"Are you going to the conference, too?" I asked her.
"Oh yes." She smiled. "And I see that you and your friend are going to be presenting something. What?"
"Oh, it's about forgiveness" I replied, not wanting to fall into a loud conversation about theoretical things on the train tracks. Her eyes narrowed and she looked at me intently.
"Are you for it or against it?" she asked in a low voice.
Oh, for the love of Pete...
"I'm just talking about research related to it." She relaxed a little, though I was both amused and curious about this.
"And are you presenting as well?"
"Oh yes. I'm presenting on fat advocacy. I'm in fat studies."
Fortunately, I had heard of this field of study before, but it always takes me off guard. Megan had never heard of it and guffawed when the woman explained her role at the conference a bit later.

Later in the afternoon, Megan and I looked over the conference program, trying to decide which meetings we would attend. Indeed, there was a "fat reading" the next morning. And Dr. Mozart? He was presenting on the inclusion of UFOs, aliens and brainwashing in curricula. Go figure.

I have never seen as many unusual people in one place at one time.
Glad to be home.

Happy Anniversary to Me

This week we celebrated our fourth wedding anniversary. It seems as though we have been married forever, what with the familiarity and comfort we have in each other. On the other hand, I still feel as though I'm having one grand affair (which, for the record, I've never had before) and I can't believe my good fortune in it lasting this long!

On our Big Day, mother called and read me a poem she had found in my father's desk drawer. It had been written years before for one of my siblings, but it had never been shared. Mother thought it would be a terrific gift from Daddy to us. It was.

As today you count your blessings
And your hearts are warm and glad,
May you find this anniversary to be
The best you’ve ever had.

It ain’t a day of mourning
A day to gross about
You both could have been married
To some no-good, rotten lout

But God, His face, He made to shine
Upon you two young lovers
Your mom and dad
Know love is great
Especially ‘neath the covers.

Happy Anniversary to Me!!!