At the same time, I had an undeniable quest to persevere and excel. I believed in pushing myself beyond my limits, no matter what. Being a perfectionist was intrinsic to my personality. It was also a requirement of performing and competing. If you wanted to win, you had to be perfect. No flaws. I didn’t question it then. Later in life, when I gained perspective, I saw that being a perfectionist was not such a good thing. Sometimes I thought of it as my demon. I didn’t want to raise my children to think they had to be perfect, and it worried me when I saw signs that my daughter seemed to be wired that way. If she colored outside the lines, she’d throw the paper away and start over. If she got 97 instead of 100 on a test, she’d lie on the couch sobbing. I’ve spent a lot of time trying to make sure she understands that she doesn’t have to be perfect. The drive may be intrinsic, but I’m aware that I can make it better or worse, depending on the messages I send. It’s a delicate balance for parents to encourage their children to be the best they can be without burdening them with expectations that crush their individuality and creativity.
When I was younger I had dreamed of being a great soloist—traveling the world to play with orchestras everywhere, just like Itzhak Perlman, who had been one of Miss DeLay’s prize pupils. There had been a time when I would have done anything to get there. In those days it was rare for women to be soloists, and that had always been my ambition. But something was happening inside me. I began to question whether being a soloist was any longer my dream.
In one respect my angst was the normal teenage desire to break free. Unfortunately, in my case breaking free had adult-sized consequences. If only I could separate my love of playing from the demands of a future career! But the two were one and the same, because success in the future demanded so much of me as a young girl. I was told repeatedly at Aspen that if I let up even a little, I might be left behind. The internal conflict was agonizing, but I wanted so much to be myself, to find myself wholly, so even as music filled my life, I tried to carve out places where I could just be me.
During the school year I did everything I could to get involved in non-violin activities. In tenth grade Molly and I both auditioned for the high school performance of Oklahoma! Molly got picked for the chorus, but I was not picked at all. My mom critiqued the audition and told me bluntly I didn’t get a part because I was too fat and “jiggly.”
I was getting tired of being considered fat. For a long time I had used my weight as a way of masking my accomplishments. I didn’t want to be known as Little Miss Perfect. As long as I stayed chubby, people wouldn’t hate me that much, because I had a flaw. That defense was starting to get old. There were several moments of insight—or, I should say, humiliation. One came the first time I was trying on bras. I was conscious of the woman in the dressing room poking at my breasts, and then she went out and called loudly, so that everyone in the store could hear, “I need a bigger size for the chubby girl in the dressing room.” I almost died of embarrassment.
But the real turning point came because of a boy. In tenth grade I was interested in a popular basketball player at school, and I was hoping he’d ask me out. Then I overheard him tell a friend, “Gretchen has a great personality, but she’s too fat to date.” Was I crushed? Probably. But what I remember is a sense of resolve to make a change. Starting that very day I put myself on a diet, and was as obsessed about it as I was about everything else in my life. Within three months I’d lost thirty pounds. When I tell this story, people always ask whether or not I went out with the basketball player once I’d slimmed down. I tell them with some pride that I was no longer interested. The way I saw it, now I could do the choosing. And by the way, in eleventh grade I won the role of Chava in Fiddler on the Roof, and in twelfth grade I had the lead as Nellie in South Pacific.
Weight has continued to be a challenge for me, and to this day I have to watch my weight every single day. Sometimes people don’t believe me when I say I was a chubby kid and still struggle with my weight. But I do, and it pains me to see how weight is such an esteem-crushing issue for girls, even in an era when we talk so much about empowerment.
Recalling my shame as a girl, I am serious about communicating to young women the message that they don’t have to be obsessed with weight. I confess that when I was so intent on losing all that weight in high school, I was dangerously close to going too far. My self-imposed diet was all about eating almost nothing. Balance and health did not enter into it. I ate one graham cracker for breakfast, which I nibbled tiny bite by tiny bite. I did not eat lunch at school, except for an occasional small piece of garlic toast from the lunchroom menu. So the weight dropped off.
I remember standing in choir and hearing people behind me whispering, “Oh my God. She’s getting too thin.” I liked hearing that. I liked that people thought I was too thin in my skinny jeans. At one point my mom even expressed concern that I was losing too much weight. It was a slippery slope.
I’m grateful I didn’t develop an eating disorder, but I might have. Looking back and remembering my feelings, I can see how easy it is for young girls to become dangerously obsessed with their weight. I think what saved me was that early on I had developed self-esteem from the inside instead of relying on my appearance. It’s a lesson I believe in and pass on to young girls and young women whenever I have the chance. Building self-esteem from the inside is even more important today with the emphasis on being thin that pervades Hollywood and the media. That pressure makes its way into our schools and communities, where girls as young as six complain about their weight and worry about being fat. How can we expect them to feel good about themselves when we present impossible ideals? It’s a no-win situation. Remember, one of the judges at the Miss America Pageant referred to me throughout his entire book as “Miss Piggy.” I was 108 pounds. Today, around my kids, I am very conscious of how sensitive the issue can be, so I never talk about my weight or being on a diet. At dinner I don’t have a “clean your plate” rule. Instead, I focus on delivering a message about how important it is to eat healthfully to build a strong body and mind.
For me, there’s ultimately only one way to combat the struggle with body image: to know in your heart that your body does not define you. I’ve lived with that belief through all my own body changes. Plump or thin, I always pursued my goals with single-minded resolve. And while I worked hard to lose weight at various times in my life, I always did it for me, not for others.
• • •
The summer I was sixteen was a major turning point. Every summer there were two large concerto competitions for Miss DeLay’s students. Participation was optional, but it was expected. If you won one of Miss DeLay’s competitions it was a very big deal. You were practically guaranteed a solo career. I’d hung back for years, but I finally decided I was ready to enter.
We were each given a predetermined piece to play, and mine was Mozart’s Concerto no. 5 in A major. It wasn’t a particularly hard piece, but it wasn’t my style. I preferred Romantic pieces, like Brahms and Tchaikovsky, pieces that allowed more room for interpretation—where I didn’t feel boxed in and I could pour my heart into it.
My practice sessions with the pianist didn’t go well, and for the first time I felt insecure about my performance. As the competition grew closer, I worked feverishly, but it just wasn’t clicking. I didn’t want to disappoint my family, who were all coming to the competition. I didn’t want to disappoint Miss DeLay. And I didn’t want to disappoint myself. I was always very competitive and I played to win, but I found myself dreading a competition.
I was also going through an emotional time personally, because my beloved grandma Hyllengren had recently died of cancer. She had always been there for me, attending every performance, standing up for me and letting me pour out my feelings. And now she wouldn’t be around to see what I would become. It broke my heart. The whole family suffered from her loss, Grandpa most of all. Her absence made it more clear how essential her quiet, steady presence had be
en. The church commissioned a beautiful stained glass window dedicated to Grandma, in the front of the sanctuary by the altar. I’d sit in church and gaze at the window, talking to her in my mind. I always felt at peace when I looked at that window, just the way I felt when I was around my grandma.
But my uneasy feeling about the competition was confirmed the night of the show. I didn’t even place in the top three, and the experience had a sobering effect on me. It wasn’t so much that I was upset about failing. It was more the understanding—and the fear—that if I were going to step up to the next level I would have to set aside everything else in my life I enjoyed and concentrate solely on my craft. Was I willing to do that?
My parents were concerned about it and they thought maybe I’d outgrown Mary West. They told her that I would be changing teachers and signed me up to study with Lea Foli, who was the concertmaster with the Minnesota Orchestra and an elite teacher. I had my driver’s license by that time, so I went alone to lessons at the University of Minnesota campus. I missed Mary, and I didn’t click with Foli, although he was a great teacher. The problem was me, not him. During the time I was with Foli, I became increasingly disenchanted with the restrictions that music placed on my life. Part of it was that I had lost Mary, and in a sense I had also lost my mother, because she no longer was a constant supervisor. But that wasn’t the real reason. The real reason was that I wanted more in life than music.
And that summer at Aspen what I wanted most was a certain boy. He was older than me by several years, and I was thrilled when he said he wanted to date me.
I don’t know how Miss DeLay caught wind of it, but her eyes were everywhere. I remember one occasion shortly after we had started dating. It was a Sunday afternoon and I was on the stage in the big tent with Ellen Payne, playing Vivaldi’s Four Seasons, which was written for two solo violins. Miss DeLay was sitting in the chair at the top of the tent near the entrance where she always sat during performances. And sitting right next to her was my new boyfriend. I noticed her speaking to him, but only found out later what she said: “You have a relationship with Gretchen.” When he admitted it, Miss DeLay said, “Do you understand that she’s jailbait?”
She seriously disapproved, and she was very protective of her underage students. She needn’t have worried. Our relationship never got to the jailbait stage.
But I was smitten. When the summer ended I made up a lie to my parents about needing to stay at Aspen longer than nine weeks, but the real reason was that I wanted to hang out with my boyfriend.
The very first day the phone rang in his room. He handed it to me. “It’s your mother,” he said flatly.
Oh, no. Busted!
My mother’s furious voice yelled over the phone, “I don’t know where you are or who you’re with, but you’re coming home today.” I’d never heard her so mad. She added, “I’m not picking you up at the airport, so you can figure out how to get home on your own.”
I was upset about getting caught, and of course I felt guilty. How had she found out? It was rare for me to step off the straight and narrow, and I couldn’t even get away with it. I tried not to be resentful, but I was chafing at my rigid, structured life. By the end of the summer of my sixteenth year, I was asking myself some big questions. Who was I really? Did I have a place outside of music? For the first time I was thinking about my identity, what I wanted, and what choices I had to make.
Chapter 3
Seize the Day
One of my high school English teachers, Jack Nabedrick, was an intense person, a tough grader but also something of a rebel. He was famous in our school for refusing to stand when the king and queen were presented each year at the Homecoming rally. He always made sure to sit in the front row so everyone would see that he was not standing. I suppose he didn’t think the frivolous event merited his recognition.
Everyone in school was afraid of him, and I was no exception. I was worried about being in his class, concerned less with being able to handle the material than with how his grading might affect my straight-A average. If I was going to be valedictorian—and that was my goal—I couldn’t make a single mistake. I had to achieve a 4.0.
In the beginning I was convinced that Mr. Nabedrick wouldn’t like me, because although I was extremely studious, I was afraid he would spot my focus on grades above all else. I realize now that he did spot it and was determined to teach me an important lesson.
The first paper Mr. Nabedrick assigned was on Chaucer’s Canterbury Tales. As usual, I worked very hard on the paper and made sure to cross every t and dot every i. After I turned it in, I waited nervously to see what grade I would get. I thought I deserved an A, and with any other teacher I would have expected it.
When he handed my paper back, Mr. Nabedrick didn’t let on that there was anything unusual going on. But I immediately saw that there was no grade. Instead, there were two words written in a language I didn’t understand. I was completely flummoxed. What was going on? Where was my grade?
After class I approached Mr. Nabedrick’s desk. He was busy reading some papers. “There’s no grade on this paper,” I said, trying to hide how upset I was.
He glanced up. “I know,” he said, and went back to his work.
I stood there frozen. “But why?” I asked.
He looked up again. “You’ll have to figure it out,” he said.
So I went to the library to look up the two words he’d written—Carpe diem. Then I went back to see him.
“It means ‘seize the day,’” I said. “Where’s my grade?”
He gave me a knowing look, and answered as before. “You’ll have to figure it out.”
By now I was pretty worried. I had to have a grade. What did he want me to do? I’m sure he knew that it was going to drive me bonkers, but he must have also trusted that I would somehow figure it out. I thought long and hard about what those words—“seize the day”—meant, and why he had written them on my paper. I finally realized that he wanted to make me think out of the box instead of just always expecting a perfect grade. He was challenging me to open myself to opportunities.
The words “seize the day” felt as if they were meant just for me in that moment. Tentatively I asked myself if this meant I should leave music and seize the chance to be something different.
I did get an A in his class—and also achieved my goal of a perfect 4.0 and being valedictorian. Mr. Nabedrick and his family became good friends of our family because his son was a top tennis player and my mom met them at tennis tournaments. Jack became my lifelong friend and is to this day. He often wrote me letters to encourage me. He was the first mentor I had who was not a member of my family or involved with music. Later, I invited Jack and his wife to the Miss Minnesota pageant in Austin. And when I won, he stood up and cheered. Wow! That’s when I understood that maybe I had taught him something too—about being part of the moment and respecting accomplishments he hadn’t deemed worthy before.
Jack gave me my motto in life: “Seize the day.” Somehow he’d known that I needed to hear it and guessed that I would never have come up with it on my own. The words have permeated the way I live my life, and I keep the motto with me every single day in some shape or form.
Back in my junior year, though, I didn’t really know how to make a change. Even though my passion for music was slipping, I was still committed to practicing and performing. My schedule on the weekends was strict. I was supposed to practice for four hours before I could do anything else. I wanted to get the practicing out of the way as early as possible, so I’d usually get up at six in the morning and go down to the basement. I wasn’t always motivated. One day I hit upon what I thought was a brilliant idea. I had an old cassette player, and I taped myself playing. If I didn’t want to practice, I’d turn on the tape and just relax, knowing the sound was wafting upstairs. I never got caught at that deception.
On the weekends I was only allowed to go out o
ne night—Friday or Saturday. During the football season, I chose to go out Fridays so I could attend the Anoka High School football games. Molly and I would go together. We had a good time, and I was a very sociable person. But sitting home Saturday nights was hard. I became an expert on The Love Boat and Fantasy Island, which aired on Saturdays. My fantasy was to be out having fun! Still, I understood the restriction. My parents believed they were doing what was right for me. If I wanted to be the best I had to make sacrifices. And I never really missed out on anything. Being home on Saturday nights just made me appreciate it more when I did go out. And I wouldn’t change any of it now! I was always telling my parents that I just wanted to be normal. But the truth was I appreciated the benefits of being unique and exceptional.
I adored my mother, but I had become quite strategic and inventive in dealing with her. I was always trying to figure out how to get around her discipline. Looking back now, I see that I was just being a normal kid, pushing the limits. Psychologists even say that it’s unhealthy when kids don’t rebel at all in their teenage years, because that’s when they’re finding out who they are as individuals. In that respect I engaged in some pretty normal teenage exploits, but at least I learned my lesson. To this day I’ve never touched beer, after one disastrous evening. I drank two beers and threw up all over the outside of a friend’s new car. Somehow I ended up at Molly’s house, which was a good thing. We called my mom and invented a story about my wanting to sleep over and I was sick long into the night. Molly had a waterbed, which didn’t help my upset stomach.
Getting Real Page 6