The arts also show children at an important time in their lives that they have a voice inside of them, and that the world wants to hear this voice—that they can demonstrate their individual thoughts, feelings, concerns, in a positive way through the arts: in singing, movement, painting, writing, pottery making, and all that their imaginations can conjure. The socialization that can arise from such experiences provides a foundation for interaction with others in the workplace, and in one’s private relationships, for a lifetime.
It is this mission that drives the school for the arts that bears my name in my hometown. Founded by the wonderful Rachel Longstreet Foundation and its primary voices, Dr. Linda Scales and Professor Ellis Johnson, we are excited to serve talented children who would otherwise not be able to avail themselves of private arts tutelage. And while we face daunting financial challenges, I am thrilled to say that we are now in our eleventh academic year. We are supported by personal and corporate donors from all over the nation, and sometimes even from foreign countries. The county board of education provides school buses that both bring the children from their regular schools to us each afternoon and return them to their schools to be picked up by their parents and guardians.
The children are such an inspiration. They have to audition in order to be admitted, and each day they recite a creed that says in part, “I am a part of something that is greater than myself.” We have agreements with the parents and guardians of all the children that state that whatever the child is studying, she or he will also practice at home. We have amazing relationships with the parents of these children, because they see the difference in their sons and daughters after just a few weeks of being with us. The children can arrive for their first days of study at the school a little nervous and a little timid, and yet, by Christmastime, they walk with assurance, their shoulders back and their heads held high.
One of our students came to us having demonstrated a wonderful gift for graphic art. He had no idea that he could dance. He happened to have passed a dance class one afternoon, thought that it looked really interesting and athletic, and decided he would give it a try. It can be difficult for a boy at age eleven to relay to his friends that he is actually interested in classical ballet. Luckily, he had the courage of his desires and now, at age fifteen, he is studying with a professional company, the Augusta Ballet, where in 2011 he performed small roles in the company’s presentation of The Nutcracker. During the summer, he also studies with the Atlanta Ballet. He is so good, so beautiful to watch, that I can hardly see him perform without becoming misty-eyed. And to think he might have lived his life without knowing that he had this gift inside of him. When he extends his limbs, he always seems to know what his fingers are doing. The stretch is complete. Any choreographer will tell you how important it is to dance with every millimeter of one’s body, and Justin does exactly that. And it is hard not to be overwhelmed by his dedication and confidence and that of the other children. You will not hear them say “I want to be a dancer.” But rather “I am a dancer.” If that coming out of the mouth of an eleven-year-old does not bring joy to the heart I do not know what will. There is such talent, but also purity of thought, kindness to one another, determination to succeed, and enjoyment that one sees on every face.
We are blessed with a dedicated staff and marvelous teachers. They are with us because of their love for the children; it is easy to see as they extend themselves so beautifully in all that they offer to their students. We are not trying to form little Marian Andersons or a new Ossie Davis; most will doubtless go on to careers outside the arts. Our hope is to assist these children in becoming complete people. Creativity equals self-knowledge. This knowledge can lead to wisdom, and wisdom to the understanding of others, which undoubtedly leads to tolerance. The guiding principle of the school is that if children are able and encouraged to engage in artistic expression, they will be better qualified to lead and heal the world. They will see the light in themselves and deduce that this light must also exist in everyone else. I express a simplistic view of the world—because love and loving are simple acts.
ALTHOUGH WE HAVE made great strides since the 1950s, we cannot pretend that racism is no longer a huge problem in the United States and in the world. Just two weeks or so before graduation ceremonies at Howard University in 1967, the centenary year of this lauded institution, I would learn that racism could be so ingrained in our society as be present in the mind of practically anyone at all. There, in the pulpit of Andrew Rankin Chapel, a sacred place at that school where all manner of religious, political, and academic leaders have offered speeches, calls to action, and homilies over many decades, the National Teacher of the Year arrived to give a speech.
The problem arose when he made mention of having “an Afro-American friend,” a friend who enjoyed a drink once in a while, he said. He carried on to show us how his friend would “entertain” when intoxicated, complete with a bit of “soft-shoe,” with head swinging and arms flailing about in the air. All this in the pulpit of Rankin Chapel!
I was beside myself with frustration and shock, and it showed. I felt that I could not just leave the choir stall, as I wished to do nothing to compromise my own impending graduation. The concert choir, as always, was seated in our normal place in the chapel, behind the speaker. I stood with the rest of the choir when it was time for our presentation, but could not utter a note. The thoughtlessness and disrespect displayed by this man had been more than my spirit could manage.
A faculty member who noticed my difficulty came to my aid after the event and suggested that I not attend afternoon classes, but take a walk around the reservoir to clear my mind and my heart of my extreme distress. Dr. Doris McGinty, the first American to have received a doctorate in Musicology at Oxford University, was that faculty member. We remained friends and in touch until her passing in 2005.
WE HAVE OUR FIRST African American President, but racism exists all over this planet. Discrimination due to the color of one’s skin, religious affiliation, belief, creed, or sexual orientation—all the reasons that we use to separate ourselves one from another—pervades our world. Although I travel all over the world and count presidents, prime ministers, other heads of state, and some of the most fascinating, accomplished, intelligent people of this great earth among my audiences, I am not immune to racism’s sting. Take, for instance, a few short years ago, when I had an encounter with a security guard while exercising in the swimming pool at the Casa Del Mar Hotel in Santa Monica, California. It was about 7:00 P.M.; I had waited until well after the sunbathers had left the area so that I could work out in peace and quiet, minus the less-than-interesting conversation that inevitably comes when a group of people are relaxing around a swimming pool. About forty minutes into my water aerobics routine, just as I was telling myself, You have fifteen more minutes—keep going, kid, I noticed a pair of shoes at the pool’s edge; I looked up, and filling those shoes was a young-looking man who appeared to be addressing me. I had earplugs in my ears so I couldn’t hear him, and since the last thing I wanted to do was stop my routine, I kept exercising in the hopes that he would simply leave. He did not. Exasperated, I took out one earplug. “Can I help you?” I asked.
“Are you a guest of the hotel?” he asked confrontationally.
By that time, I’d been a guest of the hotel for five days. “Who are you?” I asked.
“Security.”
“Well,” I said with as little emotion as I could muster. “How do you think I would have gotten through the lobby dressed in a wet suit and wearing plastic and foam exercise boots, not to mention holding these handheld weights, if I were not a guest of the hotel? Obviously, I am a guest of the hotel.”
Think of this: a first-generation American, as demonstrated by his manner of speech, was comfortable in confronting and questioning a fourteenth-generation American as to her right to be in a hotel’s swimming pool!
In the end, I asked his name, completed my workout, and returned to my accommodations before e
ngaging the general manager of the hotel in conversation by phone. I explained that I had not been pleased with that security guard’s questioning, and suggested that in order that the matter not escalate into something that would be even further distressing, perhaps he would consider making a contribution to a charitable organization of my choice. The contribution was made; the Casa Del Mar and I parted company forever.
Maybe there is just something about the nature of hotels, because that was not my only experience with racism in one. Such was the case when I was invited, sometime in the mid-1990s, to leave the cold, dark-too-soon-in-the-day February climes of the Northeast to give a series of recitals in Florida. One visit was to Naples, a city that, at the time, had a thriving chamber music series. As is always the case, I allowed time in my schedule for the adjustment to a change in climate, arriving three days prior to my first performance date. I checked in to the Ritz-Carlton Hotel and did my usual ritual of unpacking: always the performance clothing first, so that any creases from the travel might fall away without any further attention required, and then the rest of my things. I do not tend to rush such matters, but it was the middle of the afternoon and I could hardly wait to take a walk on the beach. My gym shoes were at the ready, as was my Miyake two-piece outfit. And off we went.
The interior garden of the hotel was quite large, so it was a bit of a walk to find an exit that would take me to the beach. I came upon an open-air restaurant—“pretend rustic,” I call such places—and spotted a table at which a group of people sat, dressed for a winter conference in New York rather than a walk on a Florida beach. They were the sole table of guests there. I smiled to myself, thinking that I was the only one dressed for the premises.
No sooner had I begun to make my way around this restaurant and out toward a boardwalk to the beach than the skies changed suddenly. Rain looked imminent. Five or six others were standing in the same place, probably reconsidering their own beach-walking plans. I had been waiting only a few minutes when I noticed one of the wait staff pointing in our direction as she spoke with a man dressed in some sort of uniform. I did not pay close attention to this, as I was far more concerned with the rapid changes taking place in the sky. Moments later, this uniformed man came over to me, past the other people standing in the same place, and asked if I were a guest of the hotel. My response, apparently, was not good enough for him; he demanded that I show him my room key.
This was more than I was prepared to accept.
I asked to speak with the hotel manager, and soon found myself in the office of a Mr. Conway (or something similar), to whom I related my story. He insisted that there were no bad intentions on the part of the staff and that he was “sorry for the inconvenience.”
Inconvenience!
Seeking to make other accommodations in Naples for the remainder of my stay, I contacted the performance organizer. “You would not be happy with the other hotels in the area,” she insisted, adding that “hearing such things” had made her “sad.” And that seemed to be that, from her point of view.
Later that afternoon, an African American employee of the hotel was dispatched to my accommodations in an effort to “soothe things.” She wished me to understand that she “enjoyed” her job in the press office of the hotel and that there was surely no racism at the Ritz-Carlton. I thanked her for her visit and, as I really felt uncomfortable on her behalf, gave her permission to leave. I did not care to discuss the matter further, and surely not to hear explanations of the goodness of her employers.
I performed my recital in Naples that week. But I have never stayed in another Ritz-Carlton Hotel, other than the Hotel Arts Barcelona, which joined the Ritz-Carlton chain long after I had been staying there for years. I have a long relationship with that particular hotel, not to mention a long-standing love affair with Barcelona.
Racism is so pervasive in this country and in the world at large that it has, in many instances, become unconscious. It can slip into the daily discourse and go unrecognized, even by people who clearly ought to know better. Consider that in February 2013, a public school teacher in the South was so insensitive to racism and its painful past, she assigned her students “slave mathematics” questions: “A slave was whipped five times per day. How many times was the slave whipped in a month?” It is hard to believe that someone could be so oblivious to the effect of such misguided thinking, but such was the case. I have faced it myself in the course of my professional life.
Early in my performing life, I found myself in a situation that to this day astounds me on those rare occasions when it is recalled. In a piano rehearsal for an opera with a conductor and several other singers, the conductor complimented me on my Italian pronunciation. I responded that I had enjoyed performing in Italy that year at the Maggio Musicale in Florence, and took pleasure in listening to the Italian spoken around me, so much so that, while there, I had joined into conversation with much more confidence in my skill in the language. I had studied Italian, of course, but the visit to Florence had been only my fourth trip to Italy.
“Is your family from somewhere other than the United States?” the conductor went on to ask.
I told him that we were descendants of Africans, with, as is very often the case, some Native American blood. Without missing a beat, he responded: “I was sure you were no ordinary Negro.”
I excused myself from the rehearsal, citing its proximity to the orchestral rehearsal slot and reasoning that perhaps it would be wiser for me to rest my voice for an hour or two. My voice needed no rest, but my spirit most assuredly did. Pervasive racism sears.
Still another conductor would have a similarly inappropriate thing to say to me, this time during a discussion about the efficiency of the stagehands who were working on the very quick scene changes needed during one particular act of the opera in which I was performing. The conductor stated with glee: “Oh, those boys are working like blacks!”
On neither occasion did either of these supposedly educated, experienced “men of the world” apologize for their remarks. The racism was indeed unconscious.
Yet another example of this came a few years ago when I was invited to sing for the Queen’s birthday in England. Those responsible for planning the festivities programmed some of the music of Scott Joplin, the African American composer who helped create ragtime—a decision that surprised me. I was to lead the chorus of the Royal Opera House in singing “God Save the Queen,” as well as a rarer melody, “I Dreamt I Dwelt in Marble Halls.” I recognized that the Queen Mother’s birth (the mother of Queen Elizabeth II) would have overlapped with the musical career of Scott Joplin and that perhaps the organizers were making that connection, along with the obvious upbeat quality and spirit of the piece. Joplin’s “Marching Onward” from his opera Treemonisha would be performed. The evening would be guided by a well-known English conductor.
Our piano rehearsal went well until we happened upon the Joplin. The piece is composed in what is called a slow drag, a style with two beats to the bar. The conductor had obviously not spent much time reviewing this score, and was conducting it in four, while the rehearsal pianist struggled to accompany his beat and my singing. I could see how he could make the mistake. So after we rehearsed it in the wrong meter and after people cleared for their break and so as not to embarrass him—because there is never a reason, ever, to do that—I went up to the podium and, in confidence and with the utmost respect, said, “Excuse me, but a slow drag is in two.”
Instead of saying, “Oh my goodness, thank you very much,” he snapped: “Well, it’s your music. You must know.”
The insult was clear. I wasted no time stating, “I can also talk to you about the second movement of Schubert’s C Major Symphony, when you have time. Because I always prefer the second movement a little bit slower than conductors are doing it these days.”
For the rehearsal with the orchestra, the conductor found the correct meter for the Joplin and we proceeded in the performance as professionals should.
C
ertainly, this kind of insulting behavior is not reserved for the stage. I face a fair share of bad behavior, too, in just the normal course of business—behavior that reminds me that racism, more than anything, is about ignorance and misunderstanding. Consider that a major network thought it a fine idea to invite me to play a role in a sitcom pilot about three maids who take the bus to work in the suburbs of Chicago. It is important to note that at that moment, my stage work consisted of roles where the lead was that of a queen of a country, as Alceste, Dido, Jocasta, and so forth. The person who sent me this prospect surmised that “the hook that would spark my interest” would be that my character had a love interest, and that this “unusual relationship” would be the center of the story from time to time. Utter foolishness! And it’s the kind that never seems to end. More recently, I was asked to consider playing a maid in a Civil War–era stage play written for Broadway. I made it very clear that this would be a consideration only if the play would depict the Civil War from the point of view of the maid. This, as it turned out, was not the plan. Pervasive racism.
Some years ago I attended a holiday party only to find that the hostess, a record-company executive at the time, had invited music critics to the same gathering. I have never thought it sensible to fraternize with those whose jobs require them to judge the work of others, and I have therefore endeavored always to avoid such situations. One does not wish to give the impression of favoritism by social interaction with critics, or to present one’s self as being open to their ideas or influence. In any case, I was in the midst of a busy season and so my stay at this party was going to be relatively brief. After discovering that these particular guests were in attendance, I decided to take my leave even sooner than planned.
Stand Up Straight and Sing! Page 12