I have forgotten so much of that time, though I eventually made beautiful friends and adjusted as most children are capable of doing. However, everything changed with my introduction to an ill-fated, slightly insane, 16th-century Russian czar. As the leaves began to crumble and the air took on a chill foreshadowing a brutal midwestern winter, our music class boarded a bus bound two hours west for Chicago. I sat staring out the window, wondering if the boy with the unsettlingly blue eyes would like me while a synopsis of Boris Godunov sat forgotten on my lap.
Later that afternoon, I stared wide-eyed at my gilded surroundings from the luxury of my plush red chair as the lights flickered and dimmed at the Lyric Opera of Chicago. As the first strains of the orchestra picked up, all else left my mind, all troubles forgotten. By intermission, I had formed a link of empathy with my poor Boris and before the last notes died away, it was decided that I would be owned by this music.
Three Septembers later, I stood in the office of my new and first voice teacher and I was just as much an imposter as Dmitriy, the nemesis of my Boris. Luck and sheer naivety had gotten me into a university music program armed with only two songs, Caro mio ben and Bernstein’s Simple Song. Perhaps if I had known just a bit more, I would have never thought myself capable, but stupidity brings out the bravest warrior in each of us. I was hungry, I had nowhere to go if I failed and I simply wanted to sing.
The path of my career has certainly been full of unexpected turns and steep drops. I have failed magnificently and I have succeeded quietly. Conceivably, I could have pushed harder and maybe found more of a place onstage, but being the center of attention never truly sat comfortably on my shoulders. Instead, as I became a competent musician, the fear of childhood and of closely avoided outcomes receded. Music made me independent, compassionate and powerful. Present day finds me thousands of miles from home on an island in the Aegean Sea. At times I look up to see a small boy in front of me holding his ukulele in the wrong hand, dirt under his nails, war in his past and his future unwritten. Other times I have an entire class in front of me, but I am drawn to the stubborn adolescent boy who refuses to participate. I watch him subtly until by the end of class I see that the light of interest has entered his eyes and his lips are mutely counting the beats of whole, half and quarter notes. Sometimes I look up to see a whole giggling choir squeezed into a tiny container, filling each molecule of space with their voices as they enthusiastically sing the spiritual I just taught them. And in a courtyard under a tree, a young girl sits, her rattling cough shaking her fingers from the neck of the ukulele while her intelligent eyes calmly absorb all.
I am unapologetically rigid in my methods, expecting organization, respect and continuity. On these things I cannot compromise, because each time a student comes in front of me, I wonder if music and this child will choose each other. And if they do, I must make sure to arm this child with everything I can, so that when her journey begins, she will be stronger than I was.
Why am I here? Because they are.
Side note... for any parents reading this post: please do not take your children to Boris Godunov for their first opera. I was a strange child and the outcome would likely not be the same. Try Mozart instead!
