For the past five years, at least, every time the subject of same sex marriage has come up, it has made me terribly uncomfortable. So what does that mean? Am I a right-winger from another era who thinks marriage should only be between one man and one woman? No. Do I think marriage is an antiquated institution? For the most part, yes. Marriage is about children and about money, and if you don't have either, well then....
In the 1980s, I was a college student majoring in Women's Studies. (I was in my 30s, in case anyone thinks they can't add.) In Women's Studies 101, which was for the most part full of straight women looking to define themselves outside the context of marriage and nuclear family building (or realizing that there was more to life than those things) we were told from the getgo: A marriage contract is the only contract in which the state tells you what the terms of the contract are. If you want to go into business with someone, for example, you can set the terms yourselves, as long as they are not illegal. In the 1980s many women were re-thinking marriage, monogamy, and the nuclear family. Those who had left all that actually looked up to Lesbians, because we had something different. We had a community. Romances came and went, cohabiting situations soured, but community remained. And often love - or at least friendship - remained. A woman could have a lifelong "significant other" (often a former lover) by which was meant everything from a healthcare proxy to the person you spent holidays with to the one person you knew you would want to save first if there was a Tsunami; but perhaps have another lover (or more than one), and yet a third person with whom she shared living quarters (not necessarily a dearly beloved, or even a particularly compatible friend, just someone who fell more or less at the same point she did on the neatness/not neatness scale).
This seemed to be the direction things were moving in, so.....
Yes, there were problems. If you wanted to have children (or if you already had them) there were legal issues if you couldn't marry. And if you had a lot of money, particularly if the person with the money was older and wanted to pass it along, tax-free, to her life partner, there were problems. And there was the pesky little problem of wanting to include your partner on your health insurance (never mind that this is a nonissue in countries with a single payer national health system). But there are many people to whom these things are simply not relevant.
I used to feel sorry for my single straight friends, who, as they aged, felt more and more like failures if they were into their 30s and hadn't yet found "the one". And of course "the one" had to be the perfect mix of sexually attractive and socially, intellectually, morally, and spiritually compatible, not to mention that you had to have the same taste in furniture, the same tolerance for noise, and the same limit for how long dirty dishes can stay in the sink. I felt blessed that I just didn't have to worry about those things. I could have a life rich in love and friendship, which included a small studio apartment that I could always bolt back to, lock the door, and be free of other people's opinions about how I should live in it when that's where I wanted to be.
Single straight women felt marginalized. As a quasi-coupled, quasi-single gay woman I did not.
So now of course, I am forced to revisit many things:
1. How did I end up with a significant other who never made a decent living and couldn't keep her surroundings clean?
2. If I had had any self-esteem wouldn't I have dumped her long ago and done the "Jane Austen" thing and found someone more, well, "marriageable"?
3. Is there something seriously wrong with me that I never could figure out how to "set up housekeeping" with someone? (I never thought there was anything wrong with me that I didn't want children, at least.)
Is the world really better now that all the shades of gray (sorry for the bad pun) have been removed from our spectrum of how to have relationships and love someone?
Obviously I can't wish we could turn back the clock on this whole marriage thing. (And I am truly, truly happy for the man who wanted to be listed as a "surviving spouse" in a way that I never was about Edie Windsor's half million.)
So I suppose it's really that there's a difference between being able to do something, and saying that's what people should be doing. In a free society, there are many things that people should be able to do, that it's still OK not to want to do. And that there's more to self-esteem than the perfect nuclear family.
ETA: I was feeling quite alone with this all day yesterday. Am feeling much better after seeing this article in today's TIMES.
Friday, June 26, 2015
Wednesday, June 10, 2015
My Fun Home
A few months ago, my partner's visiting nurse, who has become a friend, took us to see Fun Home the musical.
We loved every minute of it and not just the subject matter. It was a moving story, the music was original (and melodic, not to be taken for granted in this era of generic scream-belting), the text was witty, and the performances, particularly 11 year old Sydney Lucas, were stellar.
Yesterday, in looking for a clip of this song to send to someone, I stumbled upon this clip of Beth Malone and it got me musing about my life as bisexual woman (for years exclusively a Lesbian), about transgender issues (which are in the news a great deal these days), and about my struggles to make sense, years ago, of what it meant to be a Lesbian singing opera.
The first thing I was struck by watching the musical, was that Alison seemed to be at least as much transgender as Lesbian. Her first inklings of being Lesbian seemed to be all intertwined with not feeling comfortable in a girly party dress. I think I was aware of attractions to women when I was quite young (always older women in positions of power), but I also was happiest in a pink party dress. In fact I was probably more cis-gender (the current term) than most girls who grew up to be straight. I loved dresses, dolls, and fairy tales, and hated sports.
One of the highlights of the show (referenced above) is the song "Ring of Keys" about young Alison's first encounter with a butch woman, seeing her from a distance. I smiled listening to the song because the first time I saw a woman who looked like that I was transfixed as well (I think I was much older - in high school) but in a completely different way. Recently I imagined what it would be like to sing that song (I would probably need permission) somewhere and I realized that I would have to change one line. The issue for me wasn't "I think we're alike in a certain way" but "I think we would fit in a perfect way". A perfect yin and yang. The first time I saw a woman who looked like that yes, I could see immediately that I would have a lot more fun "under" someone like that than I had had with clueless, fumbling high school boys, or even the slightly older college men I had dated.
I was actually quite shocked to hear Beth Malone speaking about her experiences. She referred to herself, playing straight women onstage as "being in drag". Isn't that transgender? I don't hear gay men in the theater referring to themselves as being in drag when they wear trousers and play a romantic lead. If you're acting you're not yourself. And chances are if you're acting the person you're playing a love scene with isn't someone you're madly attracted to, regardless of the person's gender. I know that over the years it seemed that about 90% of the Lesbians I knew had a visceral negative reaction to putting on a skirt. To me that seemed so "other". And what especially confused me was that these very women would be outraged if I referred to them as "butch" or expected them to behave in such a manner with me. And they didn't even particularly want me. They wanted someone who looked like them. I just never got it. Yes, there was the feminist take on skirts, which I certainly understood when I was working in low paying jobs. If you wear skirts, you need pantyhose (unless you have gorgeous tanned, slim, legs, or don't care if you look utterly drippy) and pantyhose run at the drop of a hat and are expensive. So pants make more sense. But pants are functional (which is fine at work, because work is functional) and feeling romantic and full of desire (which I don't feel in pants) is something else.
I remember when I tried to explain to someone on the Forum about my experiences playing Laura in La Gioconda, and about my feeling that I "shouldn't" want to be onstage playing a woman in a dress (even though I loved every minute of it) someone told me I was being "ridiculous" and that the women telling me these things couldn't be Lesbian, they must be transgender (and this happened to be a gay man).
In any event, I am happy to be shed of all that orthodoxy. It has only taken me 40 years. Whom I want to sleep with (the Mentor excepted, of course) is one thing. What I like to wear is something else. They are not synonymous and no I don't feel like I'm in drag wearing a dress I feel like a million dollars. And I would have to act just as much kissing Enzo if I had a husband at home as I would if I had a "butch beau" at home (I will never have a wife; if there's any wife in the equation it would be me). And I hate very short hair. It looks God-awful on most women unless they have perfect cheekbones and a slim body like Beth Malone. Even most butches.
The first thing I was struck by watching the musical, was that Alison seemed to be at least as much transgender as Lesbian. Her first inklings of being Lesbian seemed to be all intertwined with not feeling comfortable in a girly party dress. I think I was aware of attractions to women when I was quite young (always older women in positions of power), but I also was happiest in a pink party dress. In fact I was probably more cis-gender (the current term) than most girls who grew up to be straight. I loved dresses, dolls, and fairy tales, and hated sports.
One of the highlights of the show (referenced above) is the song "Ring of Keys" about young Alison's first encounter with a butch woman, seeing her from a distance. I smiled listening to the song because the first time I saw a woman who looked like that I was transfixed as well (I think I was much older - in high school) but in a completely different way. Recently I imagined what it would be like to sing that song (I would probably need permission) somewhere and I realized that I would have to change one line. The issue for me wasn't "I think we're alike in a certain way" but "I think we would fit in a perfect way". A perfect yin and yang. The first time I saw a woman who looked like that yes, I could see immediately that I would have a lot more fun "under" someone like that than I had had with clueless, fumbling high school boys, or even the slightly older college men I had dated.
I was actually quite shocked to hear Beth Malone speaking about her experiences. She referred to herself, playing straight women onstage as "being in drag". Isn't that transgender? I don't hear gay men in the theater referring to themselves as being in drag when they wear trousers and play a romantic lead. If you're acting you're not yourself. And chances are if you're acting the person you're playing a love scene with isn't someone you're madly attracted to, regardless of the person's gender. I know that over the years it seemed that about 90% of the Lesbians I knew had a visceral negative reaction to putting on a skirt. To me that seemed so "other". And what especially confused me was that these very women would be outraged if I referred to them as "butch" or expected them to behave in such a manner with me. And they didn't even particularly want me. They wanted someone who looked like them. I just never got it. Yes, there was the feminist take on skirts, which I certainly understood when I was working in low paying jobs. If you wear skirts, you need pantyhose (unless you have gorgeous tanned, slim, legs, or don't care if you look utterly drippy) and pantyhose run at the drop of a hat and are expensive. So pants make more sense. But pants are functional (which is fine at work, because work is functional) and feeling romantic and full of desire (which I don't feel in pants) is something else.
I remember when I tried to explain to someone on the Forum about my experiences playing Laura in La Gioconda, and about my feeling that I "shouldn't" want to be onstage playing a woman in a dress (even though I loved every minute of it) someone told me I was being "ridiculous" and that the women telling me these things couldn't be Lesbian, they must be transgender (and this happened to be a gay man).
In any event, I am happy to be shed of all that orthodoxy. It has only taken me 40 years. Whom I want to sleep with (the Mentor excepted, of course) is one thing. What I like to wear is something else. They are not synonymous and no I don't feel like I'm in drag wearing a dress I feel like a million dollars. And I would have to act just as much kissing Enzo if I had a husband at home as I would if I had a "butch beau" at home (I will never have a wife; if there's any wife in the equation it would be me). And I hate very short hair. It looks God-awful on most women unless they have perfect cheekbones and a slim body like Beth Malone. Even most butches.
Saturday, June 6, 2015
A Dream Deferred Whose Hour Has Come
So many good things are happening to my voice it is like an avalanche that I can't stop. Just as I spent years trying to pick apart what was wrong, why things were stalled, why I was struggling, now I am, in a way, amid all the excitement, trying to make sense of what has been going right. Why now? I am a month away from my 65th birthday and when I am not singing, copyediting, or taking care of my partner, I am taking care of the business of getting old: getting a Medicare card, filling out forms to get my reduced fare Metrocard. Looking forward to my next birthday when I can start getting an extra $2000 a month and really can just work 25 hours a week without pillaging my savings.
So the question is "why now"? I still have the same teacher, whom at some points a few years ago people had wondered if I should leave, and who, himself, was frustrated with me. He only gave me one new suggestion really: to begin all my vocalizing with a slightly aspirated "h" sound. Am I reaping the benefits of having used the Neti pot every day? Were so many of my problems not the result of years of smoking, or of being a New Yorker who spoke only in chest voice (my speaking voice has not changed), but of liberating my head resonators which had been clogged up for decades?
Every day I hear improvements, My voice soars up into a head space I never knew I had. The ascending scales in the Amneris/Radames duet require little effort. And when I returned to the sections of the role that I had sung well, but with hard work (the feeling of girding my loins and making that extra biiiiiig effort to push out those A flats and A naturals) they were so easy. My teacher was, actually, quite astonished as he has heard me struggle with those B flats for a good five years or more. (This was actually the second time in a year that he has had that reaction: the first was after I read through the Giovanna/Enrico duet a number of months ago.)
It is hard to believe that this is really me. That this is my voice.
Of course part of me says so what? Who cares?
I just finished reading this article and thought about dreams. My dreams, going back fifty years now.
I didn't stay with them. Too many things intervened. My excitement over my instrument "caught fire" three times before that fateful Valentine's Day in 2004, but something always put the fire out.
The first time I was only 15 and a friend of my mother's, a high school music teacher, got really excited at what she heard when I opened my mouth to sing. I had spent my childhood imitating Julie Andrews and by my teen years I could sing all the soprano solos from all the Gilbert and Sullivan operettas. But weeks went by, and to me it was more important to smoke to stay thin (I was built like Kim Novak and yearned to look like Twiggy - it was 1964) and anyhow, singing classical music wasn't cool (interestingly, it never occurred to me to sing anything else; if I wasn't going to sing classical music, I would smoke and write instead).
More years went by, I continued to smoke (and drink) and had a sometimes (not often) paying gig singing as a Gilbert and Sullivan contralto (yes, a real whiskey contralto, but still singing in the classical style). It was through someone I sang with that I met the voice teacher I have referred to as Mr. B.. He got me to sing "O Don Fatale", which was rather amazing considering that I was still smoking and drinking. But the more I smoked and drank, and sang 8 shows a week (mostly in the chorus except on days when the official lead contralto had other commitments or was ill), the worse I sounded. So the fire fizzled out.
I had one last chance. After I stopped drinking and smoking, I dusted off the dream and found the teacher I am studying with now. (I think I had been offered a small role in one of the no pay opera companies - which in those days really were for amateurs - by a former G&S colleague.) My voice was about one third the size it is now and I never could really sing above a high A although I somehow managed to squeak my way up to that B at the end of the "Seguidilla" to sing at auditions. And in my persona as Amazon Dyke Warrior I could be typecast in trouser roles. After five years, I really was sounding good and even finally had a usable B flat. I even got cast as Laura in La Gioconda. But the time was not right. The was opera before Patricia Racette and as an un-closeted Lesbian with a passion for singing opera (including big dramatic mezzo roles where I had to play "straight") I simply didn't know what to do with myself.
At 54 I got another chance. I knew that the magic I had felt on that fateful Valentine's Day could not be for nothing. That I had to see this journey through to the end. I suffered a lot (as you have read in these pages; the entries are too numerous to link back to). I struggled with my upper register. I felt like The Ugly Dachshund at choir rehearsals. My partner didn't want me to sing (other than in church) because it reminded her of my obsession with The Mentor. I was rejected by all 10 of the opera companies in the city that don't pay people, by some less than kindly.
And now I'm even older. I really do think I am now on the cusp of sounding like the semi-professionals who sing at those companies but so what? I still have nothing on my resume to speak of and am even less mobile (I seriously doubt that I could perform in any opera involving staging, even as an "old lady" character.) And I really look old. And really. Maybe if I opened my mouth for someone tomorrow and was even, well, 40! someone (with some clout) might be excited by how I sound, but not now.
So I guess I just have to be excited all by myself. Or with my teacher.
But yes, there is a future. Maybe not one involving internship programs, but one involving Carmen. I said that program had "legs" and I just put in a bid to perform it at the LGBT center where my partner gets social services. They have a huge room with a piano where they provide entertainment. The accompanist who played for Carmen and for my latest concert said that he put on a concert of opera scenes there with a group of students. So we will see.
And I am going to sing "O Rest in the Lord" next Sunday when the choir is singing an excerpt from Elijah. (Ever the zwischen there, I will be singing in that piece in the soprano section.) The way things are going I am sure I can still be singing oratorio solos when I'm 80.
So the question is "why now"? I still have the same teacher, whom at some points a few years ago people had wondered if I should leave, and who, himself, was frustrated with me. He only gave me one new suggestion really: to begin all my vocalizing with a slightly aspirated "h" sound. Am I reaping the benefits of having used the Neti pot every day? Were so many of my problems not the result of years of smoking, or of being a New Yorker who spoke only in chest voice (my speaking voice has not changed), but of liberating my head resonators which had been clogged up for decades?
Every day I hear improvements, My voice soars up into a head space I never knew I had. The ascending scales in the Amneris/Radames duet require little effort. And when I returned to the sections of the role that I had sung well, but with hard work (the feeling of girding my loins and making that extra biiiiiig effort to push out those A flats and A naturals) they were so easy. My teacher was, actually, quite astonished as he has heard me struggle with those B flats for a good five years or more. (This was actually the second time in a year that he has had that reaction: the first was after I read through the Giovanna/Enrico duet a number of months ago.)
It is hard to believe that this is really me. That this is my voice.
Of course part of me says so what? Who cares?
I just finished reading this article and thought about dreams. My dreams, going back fifty years now.
I didn't stay with them. Too many things intervened. My excitement over my instrument "caught fire" three times before that fateful Valentine's Day in 2004, but something always put the fire out.
The first time I was only 15 and a friend of my mother's, a high school music teacher, got really excited at what she heard when I opened my mouth to sing. I had spent my childhood imitating Julie Andrews and by my teen years I could sing all the soprano solos from all the Gilbert and Sullivan operettas. But weeks went by, and to me it was more important to smoke to stay thin (I was built like Kim Novak and yearned to look like Twiggy - it was 1964) and anyhow, singing classical music wasn't cool (interestingly, it never occurred to me to sing anything else; if I wasn't going to sing classical music, I would smoke and write instead).
More years went by, I continued to smoke (and drink) and had a sometimes (not often) paying gig singing as a Gilbert and Sullivan contralto (yes, a real whiskey contralto, but still singing in the classical style). It was through someone I sang with that I met the voice teacher I have referred to as Mr. B.. He got me to sing "O Don Fatale", which was rather amazing considering that I was still smoking and drinking. But the more I smoked and drank, and sang 8 shows a week (mostly in the chorus except on days when the official lead contralto had other commitments or was ill), the worse I sounded. So the fire fizzled out.
I had one last chance. After I stopped drinking and smoking, I dusted off the dream and found the teacher I am studying with now. (I think I had been offered a small role in one of the no pay opera companies - which in those days really were for amateurs - by a former G&S colleague.) My voice was about one third the size it is now and I never could really sing above a high A although I somehow managed to squeak my way up to that B at the end of the "Seguidilla" to sing at auditions. And in my persona as Amazon Dyke Warrior I could be typecast in trouser roles. After five years, I really was sounding good and even finally had a usable B flat. I even got cast as Laura in La Gioconda. But the time was not right. The was opera before Patricia Racette and as an un-closeted Lesbian with a passion for singing opera (including big dramatic mezzo roles where I had to play "straight") I simply didn't know what to do with myself.
At 54 I got another chance. I knew that the magic I had felt on that fateful Valentine's Day could not be for nothing. That I had to see this journey through to the end. I suffered a lot (as you have read in these pages; the entries are too numerous to link back to). I struggled with my upper register. I felt like The Ugly Dachshund at choir rehearsals. My partner didn't want me to sing (other than in church) because it reminded her of my obsession with The Mentor. I was rejected by all 10 of the opera companies in the city that don't pay people, by some less than kindly.
And now I'm even older. I really do think I am now on the cusp of sounding like the semi-professionals who sing at those companies but so what? I still have nothing on my resume to speak of and am even less mobile (I seriously doubt that I could perform in any opera involving staging, even as an "old lady" character.) And I really look old. And really. Maybe if I opened my mouth for someone tomorrow and was even, well, 40! someone (with some clout) might be excited by how I sound, but not now.
So I guess I just have to be excited all by myself. Or with my teacher.
But yes, there is a future. Maybe not one involving internship programs, but one involving Carmen. I said that program had "legs" and I just put in a bid to perform it at the LGBT center where my partner gets social services. They have a huge room with a piano where they provide entertainment. The accompanist who played for Carmen and for my latest concert said that he put on a concert of opera scenes there with a group of students. So we will see.
And I am going to sing "O Rest in the Lord" next Sunday when the choir is singing an excerpt from Elijah. (Ever the zwischen there, I will be singing in that piece in the soprano section.) The way things are going I am sure I can still be singing oratorio solos when I'm 80.
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