Stand Up Straight and Sing! (15 page)

MY SIBLINGS AND I
, except for Elaine and George, attended segregated schools. I would say that this experience, being taught by African American teachers who were totally devoted to the outcome that they sought, which was our success, was in many ways a blessing. We were not lost in great big schools where no one knew our names, where no one paid any attention to what was happening with us, but rather had teachers who, should we have had the courage (or the poor sense) to do something against the regulations, were on the phone personally to our parents. Those teachers gave us extra work because they knew that we had to learn to handle extra work. They gave us their time, even after school hours, because they wanted to—because they deemed us important and worth the effort.

There were hundreds of students in my elementary school, spanning the first to the eighth grades. Yet we were addressed by our names, because the teachers knew us. I received a first-rate education, one that made me stand out as an undergraduate student when taking those early examinations at Howard University. For example, due to the extraordinary English teachers I had all through school, I did not have to take freshman English. And it was because of one of my favorite teachers, Mrs. Viola Evans, who insisted in her eleventh-grade English class that we learn and recite a new poem every week that I had such good practice with memorization, which would serve me so well, later.

One of the people I met my second day at Howard had come from a high school in Little Rock; when she told me this, I just hugged her and we had a good cry. I knew what had happened at Little Rock; I sympathized, I empathized, and we became friends forever.

My parents expected the best from us, and this was no less true for our friends.

I knew instinctively which boys would be welcomed at home and which ones would probably not be. It was easy to see this from watching my father. He really did reveal the utmost dignity, respect, and manhood in his interactions with my mother. By watching this and many other such niceties, I learned how men of a certain generation wished to deport themselves in the presence of the women in their lives; providing such care and support seemed to come to them as naturally as breathing. On the odd occasions when the car door was opened for me as a child, I would sit up properly in the seat, feeling and looking more grown-up, since that was how I was being treated.

I learned, too, about the ways of men through fascinating conversations with my older brother’s friends. I suppose I was more than a little flattered that they would sit still for a conversation with me. I was interested, genuinely, in what they were doing in high school, in the high school band, and on their travels with the band! I wished to know all, and I was so very happy that Charlie and Ronnie seemed to enjoy our little chats; it did not matter that maybe they were just being polite out of respect for their pal, my brother Silas. But those fascinating conversations, and my relationship with my father, made it so that, even to this day, I have the ability to have uncomplicated relationships with boys and men.

Of course, this knowledge did not come without its missteps when I was younger.

I knew, for instance, that a boy who was, like me, in the college prep track at school would be well received at home, and I usually adhered to those expectations. Except for when it came time for the senior prom. I worried for two weeks before telling my parents that my date was a budding basketball player who was not exactly a stellar student. I offered the news one evening over dinner, but only after my mother prompted me by asking, “Has anyone invited you to the prom?”

“Yes,” I answered nervously.

“Oh, well, that’s nice,” she said. Understand: Mama said “that’s nice” about most things. “Is it that nice boy that was over here studying with you that time?”

“Oh, no,” I said. “It’s not that boy.”

“Oh, but I thought you liked him,” she said.

“I like him fine, but he is not the one who invited me to the prom.” And so I blurted out the boy’s name and silently hoped for the best.

My mother gave me a quizzical look. “I don’t think I know him.”

I summoned my courage and out it all came—who he was, that he played basketball, that he was the cousin of my best friend, Ernestine. I had hoped that this detail would make him an acceptable date for the prom. My parents did not say much at that dinner, but I knew that I would need to coach this young man—let’s call him “John,” to preserve his privacy, poor darling—about how to behave when he came to my home to pick me up for the prom. He could not afford to get it wrong—not with my parents. I told him at least a thousand times: “You must bring a corsage in a little box and you will hand it to my mother so that she can pin it on my dress,” I insisted. “Now, if you want to make sure we never get out of the house, just start toward my chest with that corsage in your hands. Don’t even think about it.”

John was fifteen minutes late picking me up, which earned a stern “Why are you late, young man?” from my mother before he could even get into the living room. He managed the matter of the corsage very well, but he missed the mark when my father asked him an extremely important question—a question my father reserved for anybody who was more than ten years old: “Young man, what are your plans?” Now, if you were going to be in Silas and Janie Norman’s house, you needed to have a good answer to that question. Saying “I hope to have a job over at Kelly’s filling station for the summer,” as John did, was not really a plan. Not for my parents. A plan was that you would be working hard all summer because you were starting college in September and you needed to save your money for books and fees. Needless to say, John did not stand a chance. He was probably not at all distressed that our friendship did not stand the test of time, which in high school is about three weeks.

These standards, set so long ago, influence my life today: be conscious of one’s choices, resolute in one’s beliefs, and always maintain integrity and a work ethic that demands concentration and focus. To this day, my parents’ charge inspires me to “get on with it.”

This is one of the many reasons that I do not sing in a language that I do not speak or that I have not studied. Not just the pronunciation of words, but the actual language, its verbs and modifiers and subjunctive case. In preparing new compositions for my repertoire, it is important that I know how I feel about a new piece of music, and have become well acquainted with it prior to rehearsals with my piano accompanist or with the conductor. This time spent on my own facilitates a real collaboration.

I am also inspired by the community in which I grew up and from the examples of the adults in that community, including my own parents, to lend a hand in service to others, particularly children interested in the arts. When I was a youngster, arts education was simply part of public school education. In recent years, though, we have allowed this to fall out of the public education curriculum, which is unfair to children and reflects a lack of understanding of the value of the arts in the growth of our young people. Every study of the rewards of arts education shows that regardless of the socioeconomic standing of the family, a child with arts education as a part of their studies performs better in all other subjects. One of the reasons for this is that through the arts, children learn a very basic tenet, a vital thing: the benefit of repetition. Whether you are learning the capital of every state, or the C major scale on the piano, if you practice over and over again, you become better at it.

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.