Though I’ve sometimes been cited as a champion for natural black hair, my choice was based on comfort and convenience. That’s the choice I routinely make regarding personal style. I have a similar lack of interest in high heels, tight clothing and makeup, meaning that I put up with these only in the context of having fun and creating a style that’s useful for me based on the impression I want to give. The big lesson I learned from my Beatrice braids is that black hair—like so much in life—is only as stressful as I allow it to be.
It’s worth noting that during this time in the late nineties, though I was still putting on weight, I didn’t create the kind of vibe, either onstage or off, that let anyone dismiss or judge me because of my size. If anything, my hidden insecurity might have injected an element of overcompensation, making me strive all the harder. I was hell-bent—as I always would be—to avoid the humiliation of being the weakest link in the production. For any reason. I prayed that everyone would have the performance of a lifetime, when I knew my real heart’s desire was to be the best in the show, the standout, the person everyone remembers.
Beatrice Chancy premiered in June 1998 at Toronto’s Music Gallery in the old Richmond Street location—a bare-bones theatre in no man’s land for a bare-bones production. Though I was familiar with having my picture taken for newspapers, the publicity shoot for Beatrice was a big step up from any point-and-snap process I’d known. The photographer wanted my head to float out of a black background—a young girl, no makeup, with a neutral expression, who might be about to laugh or to cry. I remember how hard he worked, how he wanted me to breathe and exhale in time to the snap of the shutter, and how he asked me to place my tongue against the top of my mouth—all these tricks to create a certain striking effect. Do I ever wish I could remember the name of that photographer so that I could immortalize him here, because he was a true artist.
I felt nervously proud to be part of something so significant. I also felt ready. I knew the music; I knew where and when to move. My biggest problem was in making myself fully present so that I could fearlessly execute what everyone seemed to believe was within me. I wanted to be in the moment, enjoying it. I didn’t want to be fretting about the audience’s reaction, because there was nothing I could do about it anyway. The tickets—probably about 150 of them—sold out before they even went on sale. It was before Twitter or Facebook, so rumour and word of mouth sold that first round.
Our stage was a runway, with the audience seated on the cement floor to either side. If you looked right and left from that runway, you could see everybody. My parents knew Beatrice Chancy was about slavery and murder, but I doubt they were prepared for how deeply tragic it would be. In Michael Cavanagh’s staging, the plantation house was at one end of the runway, with the community and the fields and the gallows where Beatrice (and everybody else) would be hanged at the other. When Beatrice’s slave-owning father, played by Greg Dahl, intended to rape Beatrice, he dragged her all the way down the runway from the field to his house. Though I, as Beatrice, screamed, kicked and thrashed, there was an inevitability to how this one-sided power dance was going to end. At his house, the father forced Beatrice under a table, then stood up and unfastened his belt and undid his zipper before disappearing under the table to rape his daughter.
For me this whole scene was motion over emotion, because I had to get where I needed to go, sing what I needed to sing and be where I needed to be. When Greg slapped me for the first time, my head spun sharply right, with sweat flying off my face—right onto my mother! I could see tears streaming down her cheeks, and it was horrifying to know how she was suffering, while my father, beside her, had turned pale. During the rape, which was hidden as I’ve said under the table, I was focused on slowing my breathing after such a physical scene because eventually I had to stagger back into view, dishevelled, with clothes torn, to sing an anguished aria about what had just happened to my character.
By then my mother’s hand was over her mouth and my dad’s hands were clenched. Other people were equally shocked and motionless. But they weren’t my parents.
Later in the opera, during my satisfaction of slitting my rapist’s throat, my mother’s shoulders were up around her ears, her brow was furrowed, and she did a tiny, single, inaudible clap of her hands: a vindictive exclamation of triumphant revenge.
After the play my mother had a hard time looking at Greg Dahl, my character’s rapist, even though she knew him well. My dad said, “Son, you played that part . . . ” which was all he could manage.
Greg, who’s a Mennonite and a real teddy bear, was mortified. He kept apologizing to my parents. “I’m so, sooo sorry,” he would say over and over.
Of course, after Mom and Dad had attended the production five more times they came to understand the larger purpose of Beatrice Chancy: that it dramatized our ancestral history as former slaves, and the history of Canadian society. They were genuinely proud of their youngest daughter and have always maintained a deep respect for my craft and the people who allow me to use it.
I can’t remember the reviews for Beatrice Chancy, and since that was before I stopped reading reviews altogether, they must have been good, or I would have remembered them (since we only ever remember the bad ones). Most important, I was pleased with the process and I knew that Mary was pleased with my performance. Our production was a success and it had several incarnations—it was remounted the following year in Toronto, then in Edmonton and Halifax, and later it became a CBC-TV special.
Beatrice came along when I was trying to figure out how this whole opera thing might fit into my life, since I’d mostly been singing recital and chamber music and loving it. As the hardest material in my repertoire, it taught me that I was capable of more than I had imagined. It was also such a big, juicy, salacious role—jealousy, lust, slavery, power, gender, racism—that it gave me a career-long resentment of crappy opera (of which there is plenty). When you add the journey of discovery and growth that came with it, it encapsulated all that I could want then, and now.
I contextualize this early operatic experience as an intersection of so many versions of myself. It forced me to grapple with many parameters that were up in the air personally and professionally: being hand-picked for as-yet-to-be-written repertoire, giving over to the process of creation, having my input desired and valued, responding to direction with enthusiasm, changing my physical self for a character I’m playing, the pressure of embodying a title role, and having the people closest to me support me on the journey.
For me, nothing has changed. Whatever it is that we do for money, I think we have to be able to create experiences along the way where everything coalesces in the opportunity to explore our own living methodology. To examine who we want others to see when they look at us, the authenticity of our output, the superficial choices we make about appearance, how we’re perceived by the meaningful people in our lives, and the power we have to change everything whenever we want. It’s important to put into focus all the different roles we play, because no man or woman is one thing, and there is nothing wrong with acknowledging, or monetizing, that. In fact, I think it’s essential. It’s what makes a lifestyle a career instead of a means to an end. We play many roles and fuel countless desires that exist and coexist simultaneously. These roles nip at our heels, spur us on and jockey for supremacy in our lives. Simultaneously living and believing concurrent, coinciding and conflicting ideas at any given moment in our ever-changing lives and bodies is one of the most satisfying and challenging parts of being human. Every day we commit to the survival and/or nurture of these roles in us, whether we acknowledge it consciously or not. Distinguishing all that makes you “you” is an exacting exercise in self-reflection (it can also be fun). So, to get the ball rolling, allow me to introduce you to the starring cast of MEASHA:
Musician Measha: Dear God, let me be the best thing that has ever happened to these people. I’ve got this. You? Relax. Music IS the food of love, and if you unwrap that candy, I’m going to pun
ch you square in the throat. Putting your child in the front row is always a bad idea. Lashes or no lashes? No time for lashes! Solid intonation, Brueggergosman, but next time, why don’t we try actually singing the right vowel and having a bit of fun? Where’s the humidifier? Whew! Made it. Let’s eat.
Cosmo Measha: She who will not be tamed. I have platinum status on my frequent flyer card, and flying coach is my compromise. I can read a menu in several languages and don’t shy away from ordering for the table. My illicit night about town is a menu de dégustation for one, with wine pairings, and I will be going to the after-party with the strangers at tables 6 through 10. I never go to the third location. I have an international taxi app and a XXXL rape whistle.
Female Measha: Mighty Aphrodite. She who is coaxed, cajoled and entertained by her own fearless femininity, as well as the likely, and unlikely, consequences born of it. She desires to relinquish the traditional trappings of the “power struggle” and give over to a partner who offers her an all-consuming, unwavering love while asking for nothing in return. If such a man exists, then please, come right this way. I have some land in Atlantis I’d like to sell you.
Male Measha: I’m not sure what you mean. I don’t remember you saying that. I’m certain her name will come to me. Who said yes to this? I’m more of a lone wolf, actually. I’m willing to take the time to hear what you have to say, so long as we do what I want in the end. Are you sure this is a Ribera del Duero? I will not be going onstage until the money is in my account, like you promised it would be. No, please. Let me get it. Your money’s no good here! It’s not you—it’s me.
Christian Measha: There are no mistakes. My sense of humour is God-breathed and born from tragedy. You don’t need to rob me—I’ll give you all I have. Pain is both fear leaving the body and proof of life. Apathy is the bedfellow of genocide. It is impossible to hate something you understand. It is impossible to die of embarrassment. When I get out of bed in the morning, the devil says, “Oh crap! She’s up.” I may not be right . . . but what if I am?
Mama Measha: If I say I’ll be there, I’ll be there. If I say it’s not happening, it’s not happening. If I say I’ll pay for it, I’ll pay for it. If I say you can do it, you can do it. I won’t give up on you, even if you give up on me. I’m the adult; you’re the child. You’re the best decision I ever made. You’re your own person, but you’re my responsibility. I will lead by example and fail miserably. You’re the best thing that ever happened to me.
PART 2
WHAT DO I WANT AND HOW DO I GET IT?
DATE: SUNDAY, MAY 16, 2010, 2:37 PM
FROM: MEASHA BRUEGGERGOSMAN
TO: NEARESTS AND DEARESTS
SUBJECT: HUMMING ALONG
Hi Wonderful Peeps,
End of the fourth week and I’m feeling pretty okay. I’VE BEEN HERE FOR A MONTH! I can’t believe that. As difficult as this experience has been for me, I honestly can’t believe it’s gone by so fast. I’m starting to think I might actually be enjoying myself . . . :-)) That’s when time flies, isn’t it? This week wasn’t nearly as emotional for me as last week. The body is starting to tighten up—which is just what happens. We were told to expect it, so I think it just means that I’m building more muscle, and my joints and cartilage are getting tense from all the activity. So far, I’ve practised 44 classes. The first sign of that fact is my left hip, and sympathetic to that is my right lumbar. I just have to be patient. I’ve committed to getting massages every Saturday, but believe me, they’re not relaxing. But it means I hit the reset button on the weekend and can actually continue to go deeper into my practice during the week—that’s the idea anyway . . .
This week also saw the beginning of ramped-up posture clinics. Senior teachers volunteer their time and come to teacher training to help us aspiring teachers get through the class dialogue. We take turns reciting the dialogue (hopefully memorized verbatim) while our colleagues do the postures. Each posture is about half a page to a page of dialogue, and of course everything has to go in the right order and with the right words or else the posture doesn’t make any sense to the students. This yoga IS the dialogue and how you deliver it. I think I’m getting progressively better, but it’s a lot to cram in, and sometimes I’m a bit discouraged that there’s not enough time to really get the presentation of the dialogue as good as I’d like it to be. I’m still very much concentrated on remembering the words. I spent most of the weekend memorizing dialogue, just trying to stay ahead so that I can get better. If I have a prayer request, it would be that over the next two weeks, I’ll be able to get the dialogue solid enough in my head and in my mouth (verbatim) that I’ll actually be able to work on its presentation so that I can take full advantage of the advice I get in posture clinic.
It’s all part of the process. There was an amazing teacher this week who was so warm and strict and funny and disciplined. She ended the class by playing Bob Dylan’s “Forever Young,” and everyone who wasn’t singing along at the top of their voice was getting a reeeally good cry.
So, when Bikram gets back, that also means the return of the late-night lecture and Chinese water torture–esque post-midnight Bollywood filmfests. This week we saw circa 1960s video footage of Bikram and his guru’s amazing feats of yogic prowess, as captured by the TV show That’s Incredible (do you remember that show?), along with other interviews. We also continued on with Mahabharat, the 92-episode low-budget Indian saga recounting the life of the young Krishna. I gotta say, although I’m not drinking the Kool-Aid, I do find these films quite entertaining in a kitschy kind of way. I mean, what alternative do I have? Heh. I know the whole idea of this “process” is to break us (or have us die to the self, so to speak) so that we can rebuild ourselves from scratch. The challenge is in trying not to plan and create expectations and/or to think you know what’s going to happen or how you’re going to feel. But I think (and I’m not sure about anything, mind you) the key is to just hear the words, and move accordingly. Anything else and you’re just going to frustrate yourself and poison those around you.
That’s all you can do. You do your best and that’s what leads to improvement. We’re only human, but we’re constantly underestimating ourselves—starting with our bodies. And it’s the mind that tells the body it’s not good enough . . . OR that it is. So is it the mind or the body that’s most important? Without the body, there is no mind, but the mind controls the body. Or does it? Too deep. Moving on.
I am truly grateful to those of you who have sent me mail. And regardless of whether you’ve been able to write, I know you continue to surround me with your thoughts and prayers, and it honestly helps me to focus my mind. I feel ALL of your thoughts and prayers, and my goal for this week is to let whatever is in store for us yogis in week 5 (!!!) just happen. Wow. Week 5. I mean, there are no guarantees that I won’t let my “Zen and the art of yogic torture” philosophy fall by the wayside the minute that Bollywood film comes on the screen, or after my third day in a row on 3 hours of sleep. So please just think of me in those moments cuz I want to learn to do more than the “right thing.”
Now I’m going to read a chapter from Proverbs and hopefully set my mind up right for the week.
Stay blessed and know you’re constantly in my thoughts. As a wonderful, loyal and dear friend of mine wrote to me, “There’s nothing more valuable than your peace of mind.”
Namaste,
Measha
I do believe you can have it all. But it requires patience and forgiveness. Patience for the time it takes for your hard work to be made manifest; for the words to crystallize; for the action you’ve learned to become second nature, to recognize, organize and seize the opportunities that add to your village and skill set. To wait for the gap in traffic before switching lanes. And forgiveness? Well, that’s for yourself. For the times you didn’t make it, you couldn’t be there; when you missed this, or couldn’t take advantage of that, or just plain needed to sleep or get over a cold or rebook a flight.
I’ve giv
en up my dream of being cloned. But it was hard.
And because I want to dream big but also be patient enough to be thorough, and persistent enough to be successful (dear GOD, don’t let me give up too soon!), I like to have a solid plan. This way, if people ask me what I’m up to, I can have an answer in case they have some insight into or influence over how I might get closer to my goal. From my early education on the East Coast of Canada to my studies at the University of Toronto to completing my voice studies in Germany, I’ve always had some kind of five-year plan. Not to be confused with the seven-year itch I mentioned earlier, a five-year-plan is a hypothesis with a time limit. Goals attached to a best-before date. A bet you make with yourself. I’m not sure why five years, exactly. But it worked for me in my younger years—likely a measurement from a junior high guidance counsellor. For the goals I’m talking about, four years seems unreasonably short and six years seems too long. It’s always had a way of working out: I dated my husband for four years, married by five. I competed in international singing competitions over a very crucial five-year period in my early twenties, perhaps a bit longer. I lived and studied in Germany for four years and moved to Toronto in the fifth. It might be that a proclivity for five years runs in my family, as all the children are five years apart, but whatever the target, I believe it can be mastered in five years or less: weight loss, home ownership, a busy performance calendar, making or adopting a baby, or my current focus—debt freedom.
While it’s all fine and good to attach a realistic time limit to pursuits, a crucial ingredient in the art of knowing what you want is facing up to your mistakes. I’ve learned this the hard way more often than I’d like to admit, but my first career-damaging mistake woke me up fast: I had one week between finishing my degree at U of T and singing my first Verdi Requiem. I decided that, during that week, in lieu of going to my graduation or practising for my performance I would get married, instead. So after four years of emails, international flights and scraping together every penny we had to see each other whenever we could, Markus and I had a perfect wedding and an enthusiastic wedding night. There was just this little Requiem for me to sing and then we could leave for Spain on our honeymoon.
Something Is Always on Fire Page 7