Stand Up Straight and Sing! (5 page)

It is said often that the world might be a more loving and kinder place if there were more women at the head of governments. I surely feel that a more equitable presence for women in governing bodies worldwide would make a difference. Sexism plays out in different ways in different parts of the world, due in large part to a lack of understanding of history, and the way women of old moved and molded their world. I recall a conversation with a terrific woman president of an American university who stated that at the time that she was being interviewed by the school’s board of trustees, one member stated that she, being a woman, would most surely not require the services of a full-time cook, although such a provision had always been offered by this very institution to all of her predecessors, all of whom had been men. Sexism is still very much a part of our culture, to say nothing of sexual and domestic violence against women and the current backlash against long-fought-for and hard-won civil liberties for women. Oh yes, a great deal has been accomplished, but much work remains.

It is remarkable that still today, there are so few female orchestral conductors, and that I have worked, astonishingly, with only two: Jane Glover and Rachael Worby. Jane Glover and I presented a celebration of women in history as a Great Performers from Lincoln Center production in the mid-’90s. Not only did we have Jane as conductor, but our first violinist, always referred to as “the concertmaster,” was also female. The repertoire chosen for the production reviewed legendary women characters and roles: Delilah, Berenice, Dido, Carmen, and many more. It was an undertaking that has not been repeated, to my knowledge, in which a singer offered a performance with orchestra, singing every single piece of music on the program. I remain very proud of this and the tremendous ease and pleasure with which we all worked together.

With Rachael Worby, I have performed a very varied repertoire, combining the music of George Gershwin and Duke Ellington in the same programming as Mozart and Saint-Saëns, for example. Our work in Europe, Africa, the Middle East, and Asia has provided a magnificent opportunity for many to experience a female conductor for the very first time and we find that orchestras and audience members alike are delighted to have such an experience. At her home base with the orchestra, MUSE/IQUE in Pasadena, California, it is wonderful to witness the fun that they all have together. The mutual respect and the joyful music-making are evident in every moment of preparation and result in performances that remain in the spirit for a long time.

I am blessed not to have had a thought of allowing myself to be held back, no matter my color or gender. I have simply become an adult version of that budding teenager who was more interested in cabinetmaking than in cooking. I do not take a simple path in my professional life. I was cautioned early on that I would have an easier time of it were I to follow the unwritten rule of African American female opera singers—and we do not comprise a very long list—in concentrating my stage life on the works of Italian composers rather than pursuing my interests in the music of the French, Germans, and Austrians. Still, I follow my own path, one that is filled with challenges, which I meet and accept, sometimes joyfully, sometimes reluctantly, but which I confront nonetheless.

For instance, it seems that society in general and the media in particular take great pleasure in holding women to almost impossible standards of physical attractiveness, then using that meager yardstick to assess intelligence, worth, and capabilities. I have not been spared this foolishness. One of the most egregious instances of it in my own life came during a
60 Minutes
interview with Morley Safer.

Now, preparing for this particular national television show was no mean feat, considering that I was then in the midst of a demanding schedule, appearing in Robert Wilson’s production of Gluck’s masterpiece
Alceste
at the Chicago Lyric Opera. The day of the interview, I woke and nourished myself, did my hair and makeup, arranged my clothing, and prepared to be interviewed by a person who was completely new to me, all while recovering from a performance the evening before. As it turned out, I arrived for the interview uncharacteristically late. (I had tried to have the interview moved to an hour more suitable to my obligations of the moment, but this was to no avail. Morley Safer had scheduled it at this particular hour so that he would be able to return to New York that evening.)

In agreeing to do the interview, I had only one stipulation which was brought forward by Philips, the recording company that had made the arrangements with CBS and accepted, I was told, by the
60 Minutes
team. I wanted the piece to be centered around my performing, rather than my personal life. I did not want cameras invading my middle school, high school, churches, or other places in Augusta, Georgia, inventing an idea of my past. I had seen interviews of this type previously and found them rather painful, if not completely embarrassing for all involved. I was assured that my wishes would be honored.

I should have known that the
60 Minutes
interview would be a challenge when Morley Safer skipped my performance the previous evening. While speaking with him as we prepared to shoot, with microphones being arranged and camera positions and lighting tested, I could see that he would be guided by questions written on three- by five-inch index cards, none of which had been offered to me as a courtesy beforehand. (Neither was I given access to the edited product prior to its being telecast in the early part of 1991.)

Imagine my utter surprise, then, when I gathered with my friends in a hotel suite in the city, where we thought we would make a party of watching the telecast, only to find a portrait marked by incomplete thoughts, misleading editing, and, much to my dismay, footage of Augusta. Against my stated wishes,
60 Minutes
had visited my hometown. They had filmed at Mount Calvary Baptist Church, where our family worshipped, describing my smart-as-a-whip sister, Elaine, as the choir director, without bothering to add that she also has an MBA and was then a student at the Medical College of Georgia School of Nursing, with intentions of becoming a nursing supervisor, the profession she practices to this day. Surprises like this one kept coming, with the biggest of all eliciting a concerted gasp from my pals and stunned silence from me when Safer announced that the opera
Carmen
was my favorite role. “Jessye Norman’s majestic proportions,” Safer intoned in a voice-over during footage of me singing the role in question, “have kept her from performing on the opera stage the role she may love most.” I have to admit, I am not sure what he said after that, because the room erupted in indignation: “What on earth is he talking about, Jessye?” my friends demanded. “When would you have said such a thing?”

The answer to this question is very simple: Morley Safer never posed the question of my favorite role; he had asked me nothing about my performing in
Carmen.
Had he bothered to ask, I would have responded in the way that I always do: I sing only the roles that I love, and my favorite opera role is the one that I am singing at the moment. If I’d had the opportunity, I would also have informed him that I am not one to equate dress size and artistic performance.

As it happens, I had only recently declined an invitation to appear in a new production of
Carmen
in a leading European house. I was very pleased to have received this invitation, and the conductor had even offered me the opportunity to discuss with him the question of who would direct the production. I explained at the time that whereas several of my colleagues, two or three of them African American, were singing this fabulous opera, not one American and surely not one of my race was engaged in the female leading roles of Wagner, the operas on which I was concentrating my performance life during that period. My dress size did not influence my choice or my opportunities to perform onstage.

What is clear is that Morley Safer steered clear of engaging me in a discussion about body mass, and that more than likely his statement about
Carmen
was included in the segment by a producer as a way of addressing “the issue” without eliciting any commentary from me. Not that he would have gotten it had he asked: I am comfortable speaking about myself when the conversation is conducted with respect and the understanding that I consider my health a personal matter and not a social issue. When I happened to have run into Mike Wallace later that year, I did not feel the need to pretend that I had been pleased with the segment. Because he was a professional and this was surely not the first time he had come across a “dissatisfied customer,” he did not seem to take any offense at my statement of unhappiness. We soon found ourselves in conversation about other things, including the sheer beauty of Martha’s Vineyard.

I, like too many other women, have also experienced financial shenanigans due to gender. Such was the case in one of my favorite European cities. It is a very old custom practiced in a number of theaters in Europe to offer performing artists their payment in cash, in small envelopes doled out by a member of the staff, most often during the intermission of a performance. This is not something that I enjoy, as I am often less than careful with my handbag, and most of my friends will tell you readily that I hardly ever carry cash. On this particular occasion, the person responsible for these payments appeared dutifully backstage and began his job of handing out the pay packets to the soloists. Mercifully, he had waited until the completion of the performance of the great
Requiem
of Giuseppe Verdi.

No sooner had I begun to peek inside the envelope he’d offered me than this man circled back to say, “Oh, I made a mistake. I gave you the tenor’s large fee.” And with that, he pulled the fat envelope out of my hand and pushed a second, thinner envelope in my direction. “This is yours.”

Rather surprised, I mustered, “I beg your pardon?”

Confusion flooded his face. It was clear that he did not understand my question. Even though I did not raise my voice or furrow my brow, I made it plain that I perceived an injustice. I have no idea how much more the tenor was being paid, and I had not been unhappy with my own fee. What I cared about was that this organization had offered a male performer a larger fee and felt this to be proper behavior. Need I state that I have never performed with this organization again?

My sense of self was inspired and nurtured by Janie Norman, her mother, her sisters, and the women who came before them—the people of whom I am fearlessly and wonderfully made. They taught me to speak out when necessary and to act, always. That is the “get on with it” that is steeped deep in my soul. It is my legacy as a “Little Norman”—a legacy of strength. A reverence for honesty and a will to speak to inequity when it rears its head, even in the form of a thinner envelope.

Ave Maria
 • F
RANZ
S
CHUBERT
 • Holy Mother

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