Fifty-five heads of state were in attendance in Paris the week of the celebration, and it happened that a dinner had been organized in their honor the night prior to the big event. President Mitterrand sent word that evening that at the end of our rehearsal, those of us working on the national anthem part of the celebration should join him and the heads of state for dinner at the Musée d’Orsay. We were in summer clothing for rehearsal. No one was dressed for such a dinner invitation. But we were assured our presence was wanted, and after rehearsals were completed, off we went.
We arrived at the Musée d’Orsay well after the other dinner guests had been seated, of course, but were thrilled to be there. My beautiful young brother George and my close friend from Germany were with me. As it turned out, my brother was not seated at the same table as I, and this resulted in a bit of confusion when word spread that he was an African head of state. The organizers were especially sensitive to this issue, as earlier in the week there had been an unfortunate mix-up of the names of two African heads of state, and a mild incident had ensued. Nothing serious, just a small matter that, given the circumstances, grew into something much larger—the confusion of two gentlemen from former French colonies. Feelings were bruised. There was much relief all around when I said, “Oh please do not worry, this is my brother George!” George ended up being seated next to the brother of President Mitterrand, who stated to him, “Yes, I know what it is like to be someone’s brother.” As is always the case with my brother, he had a beautiful evening and was practically on a first-name basis with his fellow table guests by the end of the evening.
The dinner was the stuff of dreams, in one of Paris’s glorious museums. Wonderful.
As it was getting a bit late, I asked to return to my hotel, the performance to come looming in my mind. We made it back safely, but even with the help and direction of the people whose job it was to escort us from place to place, we had difficulty making our way through the crowds—a million or more tourists flooded the streets of Paris for the week’s festivities. A very large crowd had gathered in front of our hotel to catch a glimpse of certain heads of state who were being accommodated there.
All security and police had, I would learn afterward, been instructed to use minimal action in dispersing crowds, wishing to make the entire experience in Paris that week a wonderful one for everyone. I was on the verge of becoming a little desperate when an idea came to me. I looked at my brother George and, in a rather loud voice, stated, “Par ici, Monsieur le Président,” which means, “Come this way, Mr. President.” I promise you, the crowd parted as if by magic to allow George through; they applauded this VIP, having no idea who he was. I followed close behind and we made it inside the hotel.
For years afterward, when George visited me in France, everyone who knew this story called my young brother Monsieur le Président. He loved it.
That glorious day, July 14, 1989, came in no time. I was to sing at what would be the close of the défilé, the parade. I needed to be in place at the Place de la Concorde from the beginning of the evening—around 7:00 P.M.—even though I was not expected to sing live until after 11:00 P.M. or so. My accommodations were stellar: a wonderful space, with electricity and water, mirrors, a makeup table, comfortable chairs, and television monitors, was created for me to serve as a dressing room, all under the stage, which had been built in front of the Luxor Obelisk at the Place de la Concorde. I was charged with singing the first stanza directly in front of the obelisk, descending the few stairs and walking on to what would be a moving platform that would take me into what was actually the middle of this great crossing of the various streets at the Place de la Concorde—with me singing all the while. The conclusion of the song, and therefore the conclusion of the défilé, would take place in the middle of this great crossing.
Mr. De Pavillion was with me in the dressing room, as was Azzedine and a couple of friends. Meanwhile, my brother George and friend from Germany were out there somewhere in the throng. At one point, after we’d watched about an hour or so of this marvelous event via the television monitor, Mr. De Pavillion came to me and very privately asked if I were nervous.
“Mr. De Pavillion,” I replied, “I have gone over the text for this hymn more times than I have seen the sun rise. I promise you, all will be well. I can hardly wait.” I’m not certain that this little bit of cockiness put his mind to rest. But, all was well.
I was thrilled to work with France’s then Minister of Culture, Jack Lang, who, along with his wife, Monique, remains a good friend to this day. It was some years later, when Jack became Minister of Education, that I was asked to allow my performance of “La Marseillaise” to be used in the schools to teach the students their national anthem. It is still used today. I glow with this thought!
A year after the French Bicentennial celebration, with the wonderful events of the evening still ringing in my spirit, I was awarded the Légion d’Honneur at a ceremony held at Paris’s Palais Royal, with all the accoutrements that such an award would dictate. President Mitterrand was again offering me an unimagined gift.
Members of the Orchestre de Paris presented a most cherished concert, and the Minister of Culture, Jack Lang, offered the stunning red ribbons known the world over as the symbol of this privileged recognition. I presented my response in French and thought that I would be able to sing the great Cole Porter song “I Love Paris,” but mostly, I wept; I had been crowned with far too much beauty and emotion to sing properly.
But no one seemed to care at all. The room was filled with friends of long standing who understood my intention and excused readily the results.
These beautiful red ribbons reside next to the green and white ribbons of the Ordre des Arts et des Lettres, which was presented to me upon my tenth year singing in France. (My first performance there had come two and a half years into my professional life.)
Oh, yes, France and I have been together a long time. In 2012, when President Sarkozy elevated my rank in the Légion d’Honneur, I took a deep breath of gratitude and thought of my time with the great Pierre Bernac, who said to me during my days as a student in his master series at the University of Michigan, “I am so glad that you are unafraid of the difficulty some singers find in the French language and you seem to enjoy it so much.”
Yes, monsieur, I enjoy it enormously.
OF COURSE, BEING in the presence of people who have achieved recognition on the world’s stage, whose names we know as well as our own, can be illuminating, reminding us that we all have so much more in common than we realize. They need not be heads of state, just those whose work and ways we happen to enjoy.
I find that those well known in their fields are often more interested in meeting people from other disciplines. Just a few years ago, I had the immense pleasure of sharing a dressing room with the much-admired Kitty Carlisle Hart; we were both reading poems that afternoon as part of the annual poets and poetry celebration in New York.
Meryl Streep was across the corridor; I could not have been happier.
I still laugh out loud at Ms. Hart’s declaration that she could hardly wait to tell her friends at lunch the following day that we had not only shared a dressing room, but that I had gone to find a cup of tea for her! And later, before I could put my gushing sentence together to greet Ms. Streep, it was she who offered that she was such an admirer!
Marvelous! We all have so much more in common than we have that is genuinely different. We are interested, curious, in admiration of those with whom we are fortunate enough to share this planet.
I AM THE PROUD and humble recipient of more than thirty honorary doctorate degrees from colleges, universities, and conservatories around the world, and I have always taken special delight in the fact that the very first school to have invited me to receive such recognition was my very own undergraduate school, Howard University. I could not have been more surprised when in late 1981, only fifteen years after earning my degree, I received the beautiful letter from the university’s presid
ent stating that the board of trustees and others involved in such a selection process had voted to offer me this recognition at the commencement exercises of May 1982. I was thrilled. The occasion was made all the more special when I was presented with the opportunity to gawk at one of the other honorees that year, the great Sarah Vaughan. I cannot say that she was full of conversation, but it was still rather special to be with her.
Only a few years later, it was such a pleasure to find myself in the company of the Duke of Edinburgh in a ceremony on the campus of Cambridge University, where I received an honorary doctorate degree. I was an honorary fellow of two of the colleges, Jesus and Newnham, already, and I was deeply moved to be asked to return to receive such a prestigious honor. I was so very happy to have been invited to spend the evening prior to the day’s celebration on the campus, in the home of the headmaster for Jesus College, Colin Renfrew, and his wife—a night made all the more special by the events of the following morning. The joy-filled day began with my being serenaded awake by a choir of young men from Jesus College, who sang just outside the window of the room in which I slept. It was a complete and captivating surprise, but only the first of the many wonderful ways we honorees would be feted on that glorious, sun-drenched day. The procession was delicious: as we honorees made our way to the extraordinarily beautiful building in which the ceremony would take place, we walked along one of the campus streets, past student housing, only to be celebrated by students playing a catalog of my music through their open windows.
My walking partner and fellow honoree that morning was Javier Pérez de Cuéllar, Secretary-General of the United Nations. Yes, I was having quite a moment!
Then there was the ceremony itself. At Cambridge, the music/arts robing is beautifully distinctive. Rather than a black robe, as at so many schools, this one is white silk brocade. Tremendous! To wit, the arts chairman, whose job it was to do the actual presentation of the degree, used quotes from various ancient poems and prose, all in praise of music. It was a remarkable afternoon.
At the luncheon, attended by all honorees, our guests, and members of the faculty from each of the colleges at the university, I had the pleasure of being seated next to the Duke of Edinburgh, the patron of Cambridge University at the time. He proved to be a marvelous luncheon companion. We talked about all manner of things, including that I was scheduled to take a plane that afternoon to Vienna, where I would sing a recital the following day. I was quite amused when His Highness proceeded to advise me as to which route I should have the driver take from Cambridge to Heathrow Airport in order to join the M25, which was all the rage among drivers, who believed that this new motorway would save travel time in this southern part of Britain. I recall saying something like, “But sir, I cannot imagine that you have ever actually driven yourself anywhere in this country,” whereby he suggested—I am not altogether sure whether in jest—that as long as he took a regular-looking vehicle, he actually enjoyed driving himself from place to place, with the general public unaware of his presence. To this day, I am not absolutely certain that he was not having a little fun with me on that issue. But the conversation certainly ranks high in my memories of honorary-degree experiences.
Of course, there are other unusual opportunities that can arise from this profession. In the early 1980s, I was enjoying a short break doing something that has always been soothing, inspiring, and totally rejuvenating: taking time for walks on the beach. It was October and I was in Falmouth, Massachusetts, when I received a message that I was to return a call from a telephone number in Washington. It turned out to be that of Senator Charles “Mac” Mathias. I was being invited to sing for the coming presidential inauguration in January. Let me say straightaway that as I was certain that Senator Walter Mondale would become our President, I was not hesitant at all in thanking Senator Mathias for his generous invitation and that I would be absolutely delighted to accept the invitation.
When November rolled around and the votes were counted, I was not sure of how I should proceed, having already accepted the invitation for the inauguration. After much thought and consultation with my family and close friends, it was decided that I should move forward, and that it should be made possible for me, in an appropriate forum, to state my political and social beliefs and my affiliation with the party of Senator Mondale, not that of President-elect Ronald Reagan, who had now won his second term in the White House.
Senator Mathias, a Republican of the type that has all but disappeared from our political discourse, was sensitive enough to the situation to arrange an interview in the then-new national newspaper, USA Today. I was grateful for the opportunity to make it clear that I would take enormous pride in singing for the U.S. presidency, and that as a “dyed in the wool” Democrat, I would hope that others would view this participation as I did: as an act of citizenship. All was well.
That period in January 1985 proved to be one of the coldest ever recorded in Washington, and less than forty-eight hours prior to the inauguration, changes had to be made out of health and safety concerns for the parade participants, many of them musical groups from schools around the country, as well as for the spectators. The temperatures were far below freezing.
The inauguration would be moved from the outdoor area of the Capitol Building to the Rotunda, inside the Capitol Building. As a result, marching bands would not be able to take part in the ceremony. Family members and friends who had traveled to Washington would now have to view the event on television, as I would not be offered any tickets for seating in the Rotunda. Members of Congress and the Supreme Court and such would be accommodated in this now much smaller space, but the general public would not be admitted.
I was assigned an assistant for the day and, although well-meaning, she was rather at a loss as to what it was she was meant to do on my behalf. At my request, she accompanied me from the hotel to the Capitol Building that early morning. Upon arriving finally at the correct entrance and presenting ourselves to the bevy of security guards everywhere, I asked her to state that we were there early because I was to sing and had been offered Senator Mathias’s office as a holding space as well as a place where I could manage the preparations for my performance. Because my kind assistant had not the faintest idea of what I meant by this—I had told her that one of the main things I needed to do was to “warm up” my voice, having spent too much time outside this very large building looking for the proper entrance—she stated to security that “I needed to get warm.” General confusion abounded until it was possible for me to explain my predicament. Soon, we were allowed into the building and I thought all would proceed as intended.
At the ceremony, I sang the Shaker hymn “Simple Gifts,” as had been requested by President Reagan. At the close of the event, I stood waiting for the assistant to reappear; she never did. The Rotunda was now completely empty; even the security guards were not in evidence. To this day, I have not the slightest idea what happened to her or why she abandoned her duties with me that day. Perhaps she thought she had completed all that she was charged with doing.
In any case, I found myself wandering around those marbled halls trying to get back to Senator Mathias’s office to retrieve my belongings, and then to find the car that would return me to my hotel and my family. By the time desperation was about to set in, who should bound down a flight of stairs but the Speaker of the House, Thomas “Tip” O’Neill. I was happy to see him and thoroughly amused when he introduced himself to me. I stated: “Mr. Speaker, only a visitor from another planet would not know who you are.” I can still hear his wonderful laughter resounding through those great and grand halls. He was most gracious about my singing and asked where I was headed. I explained my predicament and in true “gentleman of the old school” fashion, he directed me to my intended destination, made sure I had understood the instructions, thanked me again, and continued on his way. A few moments later, I bumped, quite literally, into an actor whom I just adored, Telly Savalas. He was as lost as I had been. Together, we escaped
our confinement, joking about it all as we found our way.
Yet another memorable opportunity arose when I was asked to perform at a state dinner for NATO leaders meeting in Washington. Of course, state dinners are planned many months in advance at the White House, due to the nature of our world, the obligations of our world leaders, and the schedules of all those involved. But with the participants gathered in Washington and the war in Bosnia having taken many devastating turns, President Clinton and our First Lady decided that instead of the long-planned luxurious evening at the White House, the working sessions would conclude with a concert. I agreed readily to the new arrangements.
It is hard to describe adequately the feeling that enveloped me, coming into what had for their time in Washington been the workspace of these nineteen heads of state, who now, for this evening, along with their spouses, were seated in the same semicircle of their workdays, awaiting a musical performance. I felt a privilege beyond expression in words. Dan Saunders, my piano accompanist, and I presented music that we thought would have meaning for these world leaders and to offer some of what music is able to do: soothe, inspire, comfort, and, yes, give pleasure. Our purpose was clear.
The first song was “Somewhere,” from Leonard Bernstein’s West Side Story.
There’s a place for us, somewhere a place for us,
Peace and quiet and open air wait for us somewhere.
The East Room of the White House became an intimate space for sharing music, words so full of hope, so full of meaning, that I was as glad as ever to be a part of this profession. One of the world leaders had lost a member of his family in the recent past and he stated that he had been so shattered by this that he had not been able to grieve properly. That he had not been able to weep—not until, that is, that evening, in the quiet of that space, with those around him who shared the same kind of responsibility in our world, with a small amount of time away from the cares of governance. In that moment, he allowed himself to feel. The President stood by as this personal story was relayed to me, and nothing needed to be said. I broke protocol completely and offered an embrace as my means of saying thank you.
Stand Up Straight and Sing! Page 22