I’ve also learned that I’m a better mom if I’m good at my job, but my job means nothing to me if I’m not a good mom. And being a good mom to my sons is not going to look the same as you being a good parent to your sons. I have to be present to know what they need, but my being fully present means not bringing my work home with me.
Your definition of being present for the things you truly value will be unique to you. I’ve stopped trying to fit into the priorities that other people would like to impose on me. It’s hard enough to deal with my own guilt without having to preoccupy myself with the pending disappointment of anyone who isn’t inside my head, thinking my thoughts or living my life. Our races are our own to run. Knowing who you are, with all your warts, faults, triumphs and strengths, is sometimes the only thing you have to cling to when the shame of your past wants to impede the hope of your future.
When I lost my babies, I thought I was being punished for cheating on my husband. Satan was trying to convince me that I had to pay my penance before I could be properly rewarded. But the devil is a liar! (John 8:44)
As hard as it is to accept, sometimes God brings us hardships to draw us closer to Him. Knowing that we should lean on His everlasting arms while believing that He can bring us through the fire sometimes isn’t enough when it comes to actually living it. As I look at my bank account and pray my five-year-old computer will survive the birth of this book, He whispers, Do you trust me? I am sometimes called to do just that. Trust.
In no way does that mean we are to give in to stoicism. God doesn’t call us to grin and bear it. Or keep a stiff upper lip. What I’m talking about is humbling yourself to the process and allowing Him to finish the good work He promised He’d be faithful to complete in you. (Philippians 1:6) This is not the book that is going to tell you that all the power is within you, because that’s just not what I believe. I do not lean on my own understanding, because it’s limited and finite and flawed by motivations that are less than pure. I try in all my ways to acknowledge God so that He, and He alone, can direct my path. (Proverbs 3:5–6)
Instead of relying on a strength that has limits, I would encourage you to lean in to your tragedy and let God take it from there. It’s in the darkest moments where God can reveal himself to be the master healer that He is. There is nothing He hasn’t seen and nothing He can’t conquer. Most important, He is empathetic to our pain. He doesn’t sit in judgment, waiting for us to be perfect before we come into His presence. He wants us as the open wounds we all are. I’m so grateful for that, because I don’t know about you, but if I had to wait to be perfect and pretty before I could spend time with God, I certainly wouldn’t make it in this lifetime or the next!
When Shepherd Peter was into his seventh month of growing in my belly, my medical team told me not to do anything out of the ordinary. Good advice. My husband and I were living in Ottawa at the time, having moved there from Chatham, Ontario, while he finished his paramedic studies at Algonquin College. After he finished his school year, we flew to Cincinnati, where I would sing my first Bess in Porgy and Bess, with the Cincinnati Opera. I had been originally scheduled to make my debut in this iconic role at the Styriarte Festival in Austria in 2009 under Nikolaus Harnoncourt, but I’d had to cancel because of my emergency aortic-repair operation.
We opened on June 28, 2012, my thirty-fifth birthday. Porgy would be gorgeously sung by the amazing Kiwi bass-baritone Jonathan Lemalu, the same guy who had sung Porgy in Austria. My father had taught me from an early age that there is no such thing as a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity, and this proved it.
Porgy and Bess might just be the most magnificent-sounding example of racial appropriation, since it’s an opera about poor black people written by two white Jewish boys. For my part, all I’ve ever cared about was the heartbreaking story and the original orchestration that gave the world such musical gems as “Summertime,” “A Woman Is a Sometime Thing,” “I Got Plenty o’ Nuttin’” and “Bess, You Is My Woman Now,” re-imagined by artists like Miles Davis, Ella Fitzgerald, Oscar Peterson, Louis Armstrong, Sarah Vaughan and Billie Holiday.
As an opera, Porgy and Bess offers three strong roles for black women—all soprano roles with wildly different personalities. Given a choice, I usually go for Bess because the opera is called Porgy and Bess—not Porgy and Serena, or Porgy and Clara. I had often been told that Bess was a role I was born to sing, but I didn’t want to play it before I had established myself in the classical music industry. I knew the role would be there, but if I went to it too early, I feared being (stereo)typecast as “the black singer who sings that black opera with all the black people.” But the music and orchestration of Porgy and Bess are singular in their richness and colour, so I was very keen to sing it. Beyond that, Bess is a complex and universal heroine. She is a survivor and a chameleon. George Gershwin manifests this compositionally in her duets with Crown and Porgy. He adapts and endears Bess to her male counterparts by having her take on their melodic language and rhythmic idiosyncrasies. I couldn’t wait to dive in to the process, and under the sure-footed direction of the great Lemuel Wade (may he rest in peace) my highly anticipated debut as Bess was peppered with lots of laughter and great gatherings with my colleagues.
My real-life pregnancy presented a challenge to the wardrobe department, since they had to tailor my costumes to hide my burgeoning belly. Working my pregnancy into the script was briefly considered (I thought it could have been really interesting to have a pregnant Bess), but it was decided my wardrobe would just camouflage my belly. I let it all hang out, so to speak, while not showing my profile to the audience too much.
An opera singer’s voice is a highly sensitive instrument. With my pregnancy, I discovered that the colour of my voice had grown richer, while my range had somewhat compressed itself at the edges—my highest highs came down a bit and my lowest lows went up a bit. I chose alternatives where I could.
This brings up an important debate that exists in the classical world: If you are the temperament, voice type, gender and timbre that a piece (or a role) calls for but said role contains one or two notes that could be “adjusted” to more accurately reflect your vocal strengths, do you opt to make those changes for the greater good? Or do you consider that role out of bounds? I’m talking notes above the staff and below. Because there seems to be a double standard in classical music about changing low notes versus changing high notes. In my experience high notes are regarded as sacred, and if you choose the lower note, you’ve essentially admitted to being a lesser singer than someone who could sing the high note. Forget that the person who sings the high note might not be able to act, is awkward onstage and has horrible rhythm. I’m going to go on the record as saying that I would choose the musicianship and the believability of a performance over the pyrotechnics of high notes. Granted, high notes are kind of why I got into this business, but connecting with my audience and unearthing profound musical moments and developing palpable dramatic experiences are why I’ve stayed.
I think it’s important, young singers out there, to keep a score within your comfort zone (within reason) so that you can deliver every note with everything you’ve got. That means nuance and dynamics and drama. It means that you risk more of what’s important, instead of making the experience all about you and what you can do. We know you can sing, but what are you willing to risk? How much of yourself are you willing to show us, the audience? How theatrically vulnerable are you willing to be? Because people respond to the inclusive spirit of authenticity with much more enthusiasm and loyalty than they do to someone who comes onstage and sings at them.
I am a staunch Keeper of the Grail, so to speak. when it comes to the appropriate reverence that must be shown for classical music, but that doesn’t make the genre untouchable, and while classical music is also meant to be a living expression of thought and feeling, each individual singer must invest with his or her own sense of ownership. I’ve brought myself through the crisis of feeling compromised by the strict definiti
on of “soprano” as determined by a span of notes on the staff. As I’ve grown older in my chosen profession, I know that all those constructs are arbitrary. While there are standards and subcategories that exist under the umbrella of the major classical voice types of bass, tenor, mezzo and soprano, if you’re willing to put in the work and back it up with flawless, believable, electrified execution, I don’t care what voice type you say you are. Labels just make it easier for casting directors to slot you into a given production. But, my young singer, you should be sneaky enough to change your proverbial spots according to your own artistic desires and goals.
Case in point: one Sunday a few of us from the Porgy and Bess cast in Cincinnati went to a nearby church where Jacqueline Echols, the gorgeous singer who played Clara, was the worship-team leader. There she was, leading from the keyboard, singing, while the black choir responded, foot stomping and clapping as if Martin Luther Jr. himself might walk in at any moment. My only contact with American gospel culture had been through The Preacher’s Wife and Sister Act, so to see it live and in the flesh changed me at the molecular level.
This kind of church service doesn’t come with a printed program or a time limit, so maybe there would be an hour of musical praise and worship, all led by our Clara. Even before this latest feat of awesomeness, Jonathan Lemalu and I had heard her sing Puccini and Bellini and Bizet in an outdoor concert with the Cincinnati Pops Orchestra. Jacqueline moved seamlessly from gospel to classical music, and I know a lot of African-American opera singers do it. But the real coup was Jacqueline’s playing and singing and leading and changing it up on the fly with improvised responses and repeats. I can barely chew and walk at the same time, so this was something new and special to behold. Jonathan and I kept looking at each other like, What the? We threw our hands up in the air and bemusedly watched and listened as our Clara rocked out in praise to Jesus, a beacon of hope to all us singers feeling we could only be good at one thing.
Fast-forward to 2017, when I released my album Songs of Freedom. It’s a collection of songs chronicling the soundtrack of my ancestors who were among the handful of black Loyalists who escaped their slave masters during the War of Independence in what would become the United States of America. On penalty of death, they went to fight for the British. In exchange they were granted emancipation from their generational shackles of forced labour.
The album was the soundtrack to a documentary about me—also called Songs of Freedom—directed by Barbara Willis Sweete—which witnessed me on a journey through my genealogy. With Aaron Davis and L. Stu Young, I co-music-directed the soundtrack and produced the album. Prior to the film, through a DNA swab, we discovered that I was a descendant of the Bassa tribe in Cameroon. The film company travelled to Cameroon, where I would meet the Mbombogs, the elders of the Bassa tribe. The Mbombogs would cleanse me of impurities from the injustices of the past and welcome me back to my homeland. This ceremonial homecoming was so much bigger than I could have anticipated.
Bigger, because the film and album involved more than just Singer me. They were a gift to my parents, who throughout their lives had kept their nose to the grindstone to give my siblings and me a different reality than the one they’d grown up with. Additionally, I had always known that I was fiercely Canadian. I have never felt more connected to any other country and, more specifically, to the region from which I hail: the Maritime provinces. I like to think it has something to do with it being the first place my ancestors could live lives of freedom. They had been bought and sold against their will south of the border, but never in Canada: their Promised Land, where they were slaves to no one.
Now that I have children, I understand terms like heritage and birthright. And legacy. I feel a responsibility to either uncover it or contribute to it, and this album, my most personal release to date, was a legacy project. It is a collection of hymns, spirituals and folk songs, all connected to my history in some way. Purposefully, they reflect who I am, and consequently, they reflect my faith.
Touring this album in February and March of 2017 was no fun for me. I started the tour with no voice, and every concert of the eleven-city cross-Canada tour was a struggle. That’s not to say it wasn’t a huge success! Remember what I said about the bigger the payoff, the greater the resistance? There is always some kind of economic, social or political crisis affecting our ability to stay decent to one another. I wanted to do my small part to fight for decency in whatever way I could. I knew that bringing a message of hope and inclusivity into the social climate that emerged out of the end of President Barack Obama’s time in office was going to be an essential contribution to the overall narrative. But I also knew the enemy would do anything to keep any light from shining into the darkness. My job wasn’t to have fun. My job was to make sure we accomplished our mission of spreading grace to all who would receive it.
I had an amazing band that was a fascinating musical mix of whippersnappers and veterans. We collaborated with community choirs in almost every city. The only city where we didn’t have a choir was Saskatoon, Saskatchewan. It ended up being a blessing in disguise because the band and I relished our chance to get even closer as a musical ensemble—to tighten our hive mind, if you will. Aaron Davis, Marty Melanson, Guillermo Subauste, Michael Eckert, Marko Simmonds and Dave Hillier all worked their butts off to be the master of their different contributions to the cause.
For my part, I felt plagued by a weight that without God’s help I would not have been able to carry for the duration of the tour. I gave up alcohol, sugar and carbs in sacrifice to the success of the project. My prayer was that the band would stay healthy, God would make the path clear for our travels through Canada during February, and people with ears to hear or eyes to see would leave better than they came. I easily recognized the heavy weight—or dark cloud—that clung to me as satan’s feeble attempt to rob me of my effectiveness for God’s glory. I also knew that there were so many people praying for me—hoisting me, city after city, onto their shoulders and carrying me victoriously across the finish line.
DATE: WEDNESDAY, JUNE 23, 2010, 8:47AM
FROM: MEASHA BRUEGGERGOSMAN
TO: NEARESTS AND DEARESTS
SUBJECT: RISOR, NORWAY: THE WRAP-UP
Well, my Nearests and Dearests,
I’ve made it safely to Norway, and sang my first concert since Bikram yoga teacher training last night. It was the Schoenberg transcription of Mahler’s Lieder eines fahrenden Gesellen and I’m happy to say it went quite well. To be honest, the voice feels a bit awkward, because during teacher training, I’d only been singing in fits and starts on the weekends, but the voice is relaxed and rested, so that’s good.
So I am now a certified Bikram Yoga Teacher! I wouldn’t dare forget to write my final post so that you can relive the moment like you were there. And yes, I’m still there. I even created a Facebook profile so that I can stalk all the studio owners in the hope of getting some classes whenever I can. Me! But PRETTY PLEASE do not go on Facebook and request me to be your friend. If you’re getting this email, you’re already my friend.
So, I’ve left the “yoga bubble” but have landed in the tiny Norwegian seaside town of Risor and am collaborating with piano giants Leif Ove Andsnes and fellow Canuck Marc-André Hamelin. I couldn’t have prayed for a better place to end up right after Las Vegas—or for better musical partners. I’ve gone from one unique experience to another unique experience, so I think how I really feel will come to the surface once I get back to Toronto this Friday.
The graduation ceremony was a wonderful event. We all got dressed up, sat in our assigned seats and waited for the moment of truth. Lots of hugging, picture taking, some tears and lots of laughter. NO surprise, Bikram made a grand entrance with two decked-out Vegas showgirls on each arm (VERY Yoga—eye roll) and that was after we’d been serenaded by an Elvis impersonator. The official ceremony opened with a playing of a recorded speech given in Japan in the ’50s by Bikram’s guru, Bishnu Ghosh, in which he expresses his passio
n for the benefits of yoga and lays out his mandate of bringing enlightenment through yoga to the West. Special awards were given, some senior teachers spoke, and then they started handing out the diplomas! I skipped like a schoolgirl onto the stage to get my diploma, I was so elated. I hugged everyone who would let me. I was almost out of my skin with glee!
And then. I remembered I still had to pack up my room. Although it didn’t steal my joy, it was an ominous task that I’d pretty much avoided for as long as possible. I don’t know if I ever described the sweet, elaborate set-up I had going on in my room. Essentially, I raided Walmart for any small appliance that would make it unnecessary for me to leave the yoga compound: kettle, smoothie blender, slow cooker, coffee grinder, coffee press, dishes and utensils from accumulated room service orders, a foldable knee-height picnic table and a microwave. And then there was all the food and Pedialyte and coconut water and organic instant noodles and cans of tuna and nuts and Emergen-C and produce and, and, AND . . . There was just a TON of stuff.
This brings me to my major point: friends. Oh. My. Goodness. What would I do without friends? You ALL have supported me with your letters and emails and phone calls, but a few of you actually jumped on a plane and made your way down here. It got me through a couple of pretty tough weeks by getting out of the hotel and into some of the most gorgeous natural settings I’ve ever seen. But the unforeseen bonus of Jess and Jeff’s visit to be here for my graduation (!!!) was that they wilfully helped me get packed AND they took the majority of my crap back to TO so I wouldn’t be bogged down with all of it in Norway. Thanks to you for suspending your lives and coming to support me in person.
I’ve made a scrapbook of all your letters, cards, poems, comics and well-wishes. I’d written down different verses and encouraging words and taped them wherever there was space in my room, so those have also found their way to the scrapbook that will always be with me when I travel . . .
Something Is Always on Fire Page 21