Category: Archived Posts

It’s Like You’re Only in it for the Money

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I sent an email to my private voice studio today detailing how we will move forward with learning during social distancing. It’s the third blanket email I’ve sent to my students and their parents since school closings began in my district. Not that it’s done any good at all, because I know that even though they all sign a form saying they understand our primary form of communication is email, half of these people don’t read a damn thing I write to them.

It’s why their children come to school without their sheet music, without having practiced, unaware of looming deadlines and concert dates, all things I take care to mention every time I see them. But most of all, it’s why they don’t pay me.

To explain what I do, again, because it’s confusing, I’m a private voice instructor at Allen ISD, the school district in a large, affluent, Dallas suburb. The school district does not pay me. Ever. For anything. Because, as they are so fond of reminding me, I am not an employee. I am a contractor. The students I work with each week pay me directly, and I have to report the income on a 1099 form every year. Or rather, my accountant, Eddie, reports my income on a 1099 form every year.

You can imagine how difficult book keeping becomes when you have 48 students, many of whom fail to notify me of their absences, and insist on refunds anyway, despite having signed my studio rules sheet which informs them that no such thing will happen. My absence policy is, in my own opinion, generous. According to the school district, I am not obligated to make up a lesson missed by a student if I don’t have notice. My policy is that students must notify me 24 hours before their lesson if they will be absent, or they forfeit the fee. I’m often lenient with this policy. Sometimes you don’t know if you’re going to be sick, or students don’t realize they are being pulled from class early to go to the orthodontist. Truly, if they text me an hour ahead of time, I usually just swap their lesson time with a classmate later in the week. My rules are there for ease of scheduling, but what they’re really about are respect for other people’s time. The joke is apparently on me, because I failed to account for a global pandemic in my absence policy.

My school district moved to online learning on March 23rd. Students were notified of this ahead of time by many people. My boss, one of the high school choir directors, even emailed students and their parents on March 16th that it is expected that students who can will continue voice lessons online, and to look for an email from their private instructor.

Not keen on the thought of losing even more income, I slotted 50 lesson times over the course of the week of March 16th, and toggled my teaching website’s settings so students could sign up for their own lesson times, as I do not know what their new online class schedule looks like. I sent an email instructing students how to sign up, and asked them to please follow up with their videoconference platform of choice. I even said that if a family can’t continue lessons at this time, to please just let me know. Two parents responded that their kids will resume lessons when school resumes. Great, thanks for telling me. Zero out the account and move on.

Eleven kids signed up. That’s 22%.

I was extremely disappointed, but I guess I understand. At that point, school had only been cancelled for a single week, and I am sure that most families just assumed they would get a refund. But here’s the thing- their teachers and I both told them that lessons were continuing online and they chose not to take advantage of that opportunity, or even let me know that they would have to stop lessons until school resumes. I have delivery receipts turned on, I know they all received my notice. If I’m that lenient on absences, surely I can be trusted to understand someone’s need to take a pandemic related hiatus.

Then came the announcement that school would be closed for another two weeks. On the 23rd of March, I sent another email, reminding students that according to the lesson contract they signed at the beginning of the year, lessons are a part of class, and like class, they would be taking place online. This week 22 signed up. I was relieved.

We are now at the end of the month. I typically send invoices for a given month a week before the 1st. For example, I would normally have invoiced April on March 23rd. However, since the world is currently the way that it is, I held off, trying to get as many kids as possible to sign up for lessons so that I wouldn’t have to go through every individual account and manually adjust balances to reflect credits. After deliberating for most of the week, I decided since Allen’s official statement is still that we will return to school this coming Monday, I would invoice April under the assumption that we will be in school.

Anticipating a series of complaints from parents regarding the balances on their bill, I sent a preemptive email. I stated that I would be invoicing April as planned, that families would receive one credit for the first week school was cancelled, but if they chose not to sign up for their online lesson the following week without telling me, they would be charged.

I sent the email.

I’m not kidding, ten minutes later I had four emails from angry parents, demanding that I refund their money.

I was told by one parent that it’s completely inappropriate to send an invoice for April, as Allen will clearly be extending the school cancellation. I don’t know what to tell her, as I was told to operate business as normal unless instructed otherwise. How do I respond to this? I mean, school will probably still be online. So lessons will also be online, and with her $80 charge she is entitled to four lesson slots. Just because we aren’t in a building doesn’t mean that school isn’t happening.

Another said that she demanded a refund, as it was not her fault she didn’t read my previous emails. ????? Yes it is????? It is literally your own fault that you saw my email and chose not to open it? Actions and inactions have consequences, if you receive an email from a real person, you should freaking open it. They probably sent it because they need written record of important communication.

My favorite, though, is the parent that responded that I had no compassion for families stuck at home in isolation. She said it was as if I were only in this for the money.

Folks, I really don’t even know where to start dissecting this. I guess the first thing to share is that I know the parent who sent this message. She is kind, cheerful, warm, and bubbly, and to receive such a note from her brought me to tears. I have no idea how to advocate for myself in this situation. In it for the money.

 I’m still teary eyed and stuffy nosed as I write this, but I have to say that from one perspective, that is absolutely laughable. I make about $40k each year as a graduate level professional in my field, and convincing people to pay me on time, or sometimes at all, is nearly impossible in the first place. I had to practically harass my last orchestra director before he mailed me a replacement check after trying to undercut my fee. I have parents who literally will not pay me until I call them on the phone and make them answer the PayPal request. In it for the money.

I know $20 for a half hour lesson sounds like $40 an hour, but really, it’s $20 multiplied by 48 students for each week they are in school, which this year was supposed to have been 35. That’s $33,600 from teaching private lessons in one school year, if there are no absences. My other income comes from my church job, and any paid gigs I happen to take. The front desk secretary at the middle school makes more money than I do, even though I am overqualified and underpaid. I wonder what this parent would say if I told her that my private rate is $30 for 30 minutes? I would argue that in the DFW metroplex, that’s a bargain. I’m good at what I do. I’m not arrogant, I know my worth, and I deserve to be paid on time and in full. In it for the money.

From another perspective though, the arts are a very difficult industry. Very few earn all of their income performing, and most supplement with teaching. For many musicians I know, the majority of their income arrives via their students. Even most successful performers I know in their 40’s and 50’s hold professorships at a nearby university. If only a doctorate were free, I’d study the hell out of that, add DMA to my MM and BA, and level up to a salary and benefits. Teaching is how I make rent, pay my bills, keep my paltry insurance coverage. Up until quite recently, I’ve counted myself amongst the few lucky and successful musicians in my demographic. Late 20’s, performs frequently, has a financial safety net because of her teaching studio, makes all of her money doing jobs and activities directly related to her degree. I have enough saved to last me about two months. Success in the classical music industry does not always equate to fame. Sometimes it equates to earning a stable living.

I am absolutely in teaching for the money, and that does not make be a bad person, or a bad teacher, or sellout performer. My students are awarded Outstanding Soloist at district competitions, gain admittance into magnet schools for the arts, sing leads in both school musicals and outside productions, participate in the Dallas Children’s choir. They place in talent shows and participate in family friendly open mic nights. They sing in barber shop quartets and church praise bands. I’ve sent students to UNT for Music Ed, and my biologist at Northwestern sings in the choir. I have a junior who desperately wants to attend OU for an undergraduate in voice, and she is going to get in. I love them all fiercely, and I miss them so much, whether they want to grow up into performers, or engineers, or nutritionists, or doctors. But I am in this for the money, and I am worth every single penny.

I understand that we are all stressed out. I know I am not the only one financially and emotionally struggling, scared for the future, or acutely aware of the fact that the world is changing as we are all stuck in isolation, that when we come out into the shining sun, it will be a very different kind of summer than the ones we’ve known before. I don’t think any of us have any idea how to deal with the uncertainty in our environments. But that is absolutely not an excuse to treat others like garbage. It doesn’t matter that I’m a grown person, these emails brought me to tears. I know those parents sent me their nasty notes because they feel safe behind their computer screens, typing to an imaginary young woman they believe they can bully, simply because we aren’t face to face. Because their taxes don’t pay me, they do. They’re looking for something in their lives that they can control, and they’re hoping it’s me.

Your words have a tangible effect on the people who receive them. I shouldn’t have to tell people to be kind, they should just be kind. Especially people twice my age with children. Children who love music, and want to find beauty in the world.

I guess in a way, the last parent was right.

I’m in it for the money.

But more importantly, I’m in it for the music.

Battle of the Bidet

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It’s been a really weird couple of weeks. First the supermarkets ran out of toilet paper. Then school districts cancelled class. My cat, Maeve, learned how to open doors.

The most concerning to me was obviously the closure of schools (see last two posts). The most immediately pressing, however, was the toilet paper shortage.

Like most people I know, I buy my toilet paper one giant package at a time, and as my luck would have it, the supply was beginning to dwindle around the time the social isolation band wagon took off. I had heard of shortages in Australia, but this is Texas, people. Three weeks ago, I walked past shelves full of Charmin, and convinced myself that Americans as a whole are not dumb enough to buy out toilet paper. It’s pretty easy math, really. Say you have a family of four, and you buy two 36 pack of TP, with the intention of surviving a possible two-week lock down. That’s 72 rolls, divided by four people, which is 18 rolls per person. For. Two. Weeks. That’s more than a roll per day. What are these people eating that is wreaking such havoc on their digestive systems? Do they understand the daily recommended fiber intake amount? Are they the same people who bought out all of the bottled water instead of getting a Britta filter? They must be, as the need to use 1.3 rolls of TP EACH DAY sounds like dehydrating work. How wrong I was in my assessment of the average American, Dear Reader. Apparently 3rd grade math is beyond comprehension.

Obviously, in my blind optimism, I did not buy a package of Charmin, Cottonelle, or even Quilted Northern, thinking they would be waiting for me to make my selections on my next weekly shopping trip. The hard reality that has dumped on me is that I have not even seen toilet paper for purchase since March 1st. Gastrointestinal distress isn’t even a symptom of Corona Virus! The only connection I can possibly draw is that canned goods aisles are out of beans.

I was distressed. My fiancé and I were down to two rolls. There are just the two of us, we have two bathrooms, and we both consume vegetables. Those two rolls would last us around a week, a little more if we were careful. But I was sure that once we reached the cardboard tube, we would be up a very particular creek.

Think, Bri, I thought. Think a whole awful lot.

Do you want to walk around dirty or not?

That simply isn’t an option, so hey-

Why don’t we order ourselves a bidet?

Smarter. Not harder.

I was so pleased with myself. I knew I couldn’t be the only person with the idea, so I expected price hikes when I logged on to Amazon. Surprisingly, there were a plethora of affordable options. I browsed the available models and marveled at the selection available to me. It was certainly more than I expected, as America is not a country where one typically encounters that kind of bathroom luxury. The buttons. The hoses. The dials. The hot/cold options. I was dazzled. I assessed my situation. There were already rumors circulating that my school district would not be resuming after Spring Break, and I knew my income was likely to take an enormous hit. I sighed, bidding farewell to Amazon’s best seller, the Achiotely Handheld Bidet Toilet Sprayer. That just wasn’t $89.91 that I was willing to part with. I settled for the Luxe Bidet Neo 110, which is now sold out online. If my calculations were correct, it would arrive two days before we ran out of paper.

I placed the order.

It was an anxious three days, my friends, but it arrived earlier than expected. Charl was at work when I received the package notice, and I had been home doing nothing in particular for a little too long. I stared at the box, convincing myself that I was handy enough to install it. I read the instructions pamphlet. I laid out the pieces. I dug out my bright pink tool bag. I found a pair of rubber gloves, because even the cleanest of toilets can’t be trusted. And I got to work.

Step One: Turn off the water. This was easier than I had anticipated. Just the turn of a little knob right where the piping comes out of the wall.

Step Two: Flush tank till empty. Self-explanatory.

Step Three: Place a towel and/or bucket beneath the bits of plumbing to catch any water that was not flushed out of the tank. I opted for both.

Step Four: Disconnect water supply hose from the toilet tank. That sucker was on there tight. I rummaged around my tool bag until I found a wrench that would fit. I would tell you what kind it was, but the truth is I have no idea. It was the one that fit. I prayed that I wasn’t about to break the toilet in my rented apartment. I finally got it disconnected, and congratulated myself for having the foresight to employ both a towel, and a bucket, as the residual water was more a stream than a trickle.

Step Five: Attach the T-adapter to the toilet tank. This splits the water supply into toilet water and bidet water. It was difficult to screw it on, presumably because my upper body and torso were wedged very uncomfortably against the tub, and the cat would not stand for her exclusion. I screwed it on as tight as I could. When it could go no further, I figured, good enough.

Step Six: Attach water supply hose to T-adapter. Easy. I could have been a plumber.

 Step Seven: Remove toilet seat and place bidet attachment. I did so, sure to align each hole so that the screws would be easy to put back in. It was a quick success.

Step Eight: Attach bidet water supply hose to T-adapter.

This whole process had taken me perhaps 25 minutes. I made sure the bidet dial was turned to the off position, and slowly, slowly, turned the water supply back on.

Disaster.

The T-Adapter was leaking. Profusely. The cat had been a little too curious, and was now very annoyed to be a casualty in the spray. I turned the water off, and puzzled to myself over what could have gone wrong. I tried Reddit plumbing forums. YouTube installation tutorials. Both said that you just have to be sure that the T-Adapter is screwed onto the tank as tight as you can possibly get it. Trust me when I say, that thing wouldn’t budge. I Googled the phrase, “Am I just dumb?”

I turned the water on again, even slower than before, trying to identify where the water was actually coming from. It was coming from right underneath where a rubber seal was supposed to be doing its job, i.e. sealing the pipe from leaks. Another Google search. Ah hah. The rubber seal must be faulty. Problem, since it did not come with a replacement. I crawled away from my porcelain problem and slowly stood, weighing my options. I could email the company for a new part. No, that would take days. I could order one on Amazon. No, there would still be a 48-hour period where we were down a toilet, and that was not an option. Trust me, one of the secrets to a happy relationship is having two bathrooms.

That left a single option—the hardware store. Off I went. I found myself in the plumbing aisle looking at all the tiny parts and pieces, realizing that I absolutely could not be a plumber. I must have seemed dazed when an associate approached me.

“Miss, do you need help?” Firstly, I was very flattered to be called “Miss” instead of “Ma’am.” It’s been a couple of years since that was a guarantee, I had just spent the better part of an hour underneath a toilet, and I wasn’t wearing makeup. I knew how I looked.

I held up the T-Adapter, which I had disconnected and brought along for reference. “The rubber seal on this piece is broken and I need to buy a replacement. Am I just missing something?”

The mustachioed gentlemen took the part from my hands to examine it. He was befuddled. He glanced at me over his spectacles and asked, “Is this to split the water supply for a bidet?”

Obviously, and shouldn’t you be telling me? You’re the one who works here. Your name tag even says Plumbing/Appliances.

“Yes… Could you point towards a replacement? And maybe some Teflon tape?”

“Miss, I’m sorry to say that we don’t actually carry bidet parts in store. You can order it online though and it will ship to you in three days.”

I felt like a Slytherin 7th year in the Sorcerer’s Stone when Dumbledore announced that some snot nosed, bratty eleven-year-old and his friends had broken a bunch of rules and had been rewarded for their shenanigans with enough points to steal the house cup. I thanked him politely as I could and left.

Back home I again browsed Amazon. I couldn’t pay for expedited shipping, they had already reserved that for essential items only. Fine. I ordered a replacement and fumed, having been beaten by the bidet. For now.

I will say that Amazon has truly spoiled us all, and despite the disclaimer that my part would arrive three days after I placed the order, it arrived the next evening. I must live close to a distribution center.

Determined to succeed, I again gathered my supplies. I covered the toilet tank extension with Teflon tape, and was delighted to see that this T-adapter had both a pressure valve, and a replacement seal, just in case. I screwed that puppy on as tight as I could get it, and then retrieved the wrench to screw it on some more. The porcelain creaked and moaned, but I persisted. I would not fail. When I was convinced it could go no further, I checked all the other connections to make sure there was no room for error.

Tentatively, I again turned on the water. I heard the pipes clank and rumble, refilling after two days sitting empty. No leak. I turned up the pressure just a tiny bit. Still no leak. A little more, and we were still dry—I turned the water all the way on, and rejoiced as water filled the toilet tank instead of the leak bucket below.

There was only one thing left to do. I stood back, and opened the door wide to accommodate Maeve’s continuous crying at the sight of a door anything other than wide open. I gently nudged her out of my way, her collar tinkling in vexation as she huffed away from me. This was it. I once again checked the connections, making sure everything was on nice and tight. I reached for the dial, but realized that it was likely set to full pressure. I turned the pressure valve all the way down. I set the bidet to one, and out came a pitiful stream of water, like the broken drinking fountain in the gym that none of the students are thirsty enough to use. I left the setting at one, and slowly released the pressure valve. To my great delight, in a moment we went from a sad little bubbler to the Trevi fountain. It had momentum. And it was glorious. Was the Hallelujah chorus playing in the background? Did a heavenly light shine down upon me? Would there be streamers?

Alas, only in my heart.

A few days later, we received a text from my in-laws that they had found toilet paper for sale early one morning at their local Kroger. It is now in our possession, but I am happy to say that for the two days we had none, our bums were squeaky clean.

On the Third Day, She Tried Not to Panic

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Thursday afternoon, while standing in line to buy groceries at a Kroger, I got the text message that school was cancelled at Allen ISD for a week after Spring Break. I started having a panic attack. Not metaphorically, either, shortness of breath, sweating, racing pulse, a sense that the air was closing in around me, the knowledge that literally everything is outside of my control. I managed to keep it mostly together until we had paid for everything and loaded up the car. When my Fiancé returned the cart to the corral, I got into the car and let it loose. I couldn’t stop crying. It took most of the car ride home and some very deep breathing to pull myself together.

Friday, I spent the day trying to figure out what in the world I can do to salvage even a small part of my income. Fielded phone calls from friends all asking the same thing, “are you going to be okay?” and giving the same ominous “I don’t know yet” in response. After some deliberation, and discussing with a friend who also happens to teach in my district, I decided to move lessons online and teach via Skype and Facetime. I even offered to let students who did not travel over break come to my home for lessons. One family is bringing both their students to my apartment on Sunday afternoon, another has opted for a Skype lesson, and two have asked for their money back. Out of fifty kids, that’s only five accounted for. Lesson income is looking bleak indeed, and I am seriously considering whether or not I should return to the school district next year to teach. I only make money when the kids are in school anyway, so realistically I only have income for nine months out of the year. With all of the crap that’s happened this year, that will end up being closer to eight. I minored in Communication Studies, I type 50 wpm, I have years of experience in face to face interactions, and I’m good at apologizing for things that aren’t my fault, so if you have a job opening, let me know.

The only tiny ray of hope here is my church gig. Shortly after I received the notice that Allen had cancelled school, I got the notification that the Methodist church where I work as a paid singer had cancelled all events until March 21st. I make $150 each week singing in the choir at First United Methodist. This is my emergency cushion, ringing in at $600/month. If I can come up with $100 on top of that, I have enough to cover rent, so the news that services and rehearsal were cancelled was horrible. I spent a good part of the morning in shock.

I finally messaged some of the other section leaders (there are eight of us in total) and asked if they thought we could still sing. Every Sunday, the 10am service is livestreamed, and the preacher had already decided that he would give his sermon to an empty church so that it could be broadcast online. The eight of us singers are young, healthy, likely virus free people, and there’s enough room in the choir loft that our small group could stand a good distance apart. We already learned the anthem, after all, and I argued that if the eight of us were in the loft to sing the hymns, choral response, anthem, doxology, and benediction, it would make it feel more as if an actual church service were being streamed, instead of just a prayer and a sermon. One of the tenors felt the same, so we drafted emails, edited for one another, and sent them to our director. To my shock and delight, we had a response a few hours later agreeing to the idea! We usually sing four services on Sunday, but at least singing for one means I won’t have to settle for nothing.

I’m still really nervous about what the future will bring. I’ve been so proud of myself for the past three years, making most of my income from music jobs that were directly related to my degrees. This situation is serious enough that I might actually consider a change in my career. The thought of tying myself to a desk job is awful, but the thought of a stable income sounds heavenly. Let the creative problem solving continue.

How Coronavirus is Affecting this Freelance Musician

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My job at Allen ISD sounds like a pretty cushy gig. Show up, teach kids to sing, get paid, go home. The problem is that my position is classified as contractor. So on top of paying 30% of my income back to the government at tax time every year, I am in charge of collecting my own fees, chasing down late accounts, and reconciling the books if I’ve been sick, or a student has missed their lesson. The school district pays me nothing to do this job; rather, it allows my small business to operate within the entity of Allen Independent School District. Essentially, if I teach 50 lessons in a week at $20 per lesson, I earn $1000 each week.

 But only if the lesson actually happens.

I’m always apprehensive during the month of March because I know for a fact it is a “short month.” This means that I only get paid for three weeks of work, instead of my usual four, due to Spring Break. When 25% of your income is out of town on vacation, it makes it hard to save, and taking a trip is simply out of the question. Now that COVID-19 has been declared pandemic, Allen has extended Spring Break by a week, which means that I am now out 100 lessons worth of cash this month. On top of that, I’m still recouping the losses from the week in February that I had to take off due to the flu. 150 missed lessons this year. $3000 somewhere that’s not my bank account. I’m in two weddings this summer, getting married myself in the Fall, trying to save for a down payment on a house so that Fiance and I have room for a dog, and maybe eventually a kid. I would love to be a responsible small business owner and be able to pay my taxes quarterly. None of these things are looking like options as of now. Just like the toilet paper aisle this afternoon at Kroger, the present and immediate future are looking bleak indeed.

I’ve been reasonably concerned recently about Coronavirus. I check the news for reports every morning. I wash my hands, I Clorox piano keys when I enter a room, I leave a liter of hand sanitizer out where students have access. I try to be proactive, in the winter especially, because I care about people’s health and well-being. And let’s be honest, middle schoolers are not the best at making sure their hands are washed and their faces untouched.

I have, however, this very afternoon gone from reasonably concerned to very scared. This pandemic has the potential to bankrupt freelance workers of every kind, especially young musicians like myself, still working to create and grow our brands. If my church gig falls through this month, which it very well could, I’ll be out another $600. If you’ve been keeping track, that would be $3600. That is a ridiculous amount of money when you only make about $40k each year.

The reason for me writing this post is not necessarily to complain, but to remind people how important containment and hygienic behavior continues to be. I’m very concerned about what my bank statements will look like at the end of April, but if Allen hadn’t cancelled class, I understand that things could be much worse. I know parents send sick kids to school all the time. Students come in to their lessons with me and cough in my eyeballs. I know, logically, the most reasonable thing to do is cancel school so that the virus can’t spread. Schools are hotbeds for contagions.

So what would you do if you were in my shoes?

My current plan is to invite students to my private studio in my apartment to continue lessons as usual. If about half of my kids take me up on the offer, that will at least do damage control for my finances. I will also be offering lessons via facetime and Skype. While I sit at home, I will likely also be applying for summer jobs to make up for what was lost this Spring. A crying shame, right after I worked up the savings and courage to quit my previous part time job. I will post an update sharing how well that goes.

As always during corona, cold, and flu season:

DO:

  • Wash hands frequently with soap and warm water for at least 20 seconds.
  • Cough into your elbow.
  • Avoid close contact with people who are ill, and maintain three feet of distance from other people if the virus begins to spread in your neighborhood.
  • Wear a facemask if you are sick and must go out.
  • Clean and disinfect frequently touched surfaces daily.
  • If you think you have Coronavirus, CALL your doctor on the phone.

DON’T

  • Touch your face.
  • Horde necessities such as hand sanitizer and toilet paper.
  • Go out if you have symptoms of being ill, such as fever or cough.
  • Panic.

For more information, please visit www.cdc.gov/coronavirus/2019-ncov

To New Beginnings

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I started the year by quitting my job. Don’t worry- I have three of them, and for a long time I’ve needed all three of them to stay afloat. My typical schedule looks a bit like this:

You’d think that with all the hours spent working, I would have a nice little nest squirrelled away for myself at the bank, but really I work three low paying jobs and have absolutely no free time, resulting in one of the worst work/life balances I have ever had. Combine that with the fact that I was referred to an accountant last year who screwed up my taxes so badly that they weren’t properly filed, and I’ve had just about my most miserable year on record. Imagine trying to keep all of this straight with only an hour each day to do it. Luckily I have a very sweet and supportive Fiancé who makes sure that I eat enough and offers some healthy outside perspectives.

So I’ve decided that rather than keep a crappy job for a small amount of extra cash, I would rather use that time to answer the call I hear coming from my study, where my Graduate Degree sits on a shelf, gathering dust next to the piano that I can’t afford to tune until February. (It’s ok about the piano, I tell my students it’s post-modern tuning.)

I love opera so much that I chose to earn not one, but two degrees in singing, and I’m good at it. Good enough to get hired teaching voice at the biggest public high school in Texas. My students go to All-Region, sing the leads in musicals both at school and with outside companies, perform in cabaret nights, barber shop quartets, church choirs, independent talent shows, you name it. I help them prepare audition and performance material, I teach them how they should actually pronounce French, and I offer advice based on how I would handle certain auditions and performances, which is rich, considering that I did not book a single paying opera gig in 2019.

I felt the pangs of hypocrisy more and more as the year wore on, and blamed myself because I had no desire to even try to make new audition videos or email local conductors. I cancelled my YAPTracker subscription because I think it’s stupid to expect graduate level professionals to pay someone else to allow them to sing a role, thus missing out on opportunities that might have actually helped me. I spent less time on local audition websites and expected opportunities to somehow land in my lap. Thank the Lord for a friend in the area who cast me as Madame de la Grande Bouche (The Wardrobe) in Beauty and the Beast. I didn’t get paid for it, but at least I got to add a role to the resume which is relevant to my professional goals. And it’s not like I haven’t done anything at all- I’ve performed all year. Bells are Ringing, Mama Mia, Beauty and the Beast, It’s a Wonderful Life, various Opera on Tap performances. So I have auditioned, and I have been cast, just not for anything related to opera (and not for anything that paid). I had so much fun in music theatre this year that I could almost tune out the sound of my previous operatic aspirations.

However, much like Queen Elsa in Frozen Two, the siren has become so persistent that I have to address it.  My Fiancé left for the nightshift just before six, and after a kiss goodbye, I sat at the kitchen counter updating an excel document with our wedding details. Our cat, Maeve, looked on with interest for three whole minutes before walking straight across my keyboard, hopping off of the island, and pawing at the sliding doors to my study. Usually she does this when she’s gotten a toy wedged under the door. I opened the offensive thing for her, and no toy immediately visible, I turned on the light. There it was. Her favorite cat nipped stuffed gingerbread shaped Christmas toy. Maeve loped in and immediately batted it into my bookshelf full of scores. I probably stared at them for ten full seconds while her mews of distress floated across the room. I went back out to the kitchen, and saved the excel sheet before closing my laptop.

After retrieving Catnip-Man, I spent this evening delving into the scores on my bookshelf, thinking how great it was that I even have a night off to do this, and recalling the last thing I had that resembled a five aria package. Considering the last good package I had is from when I finished grad school, I decided to toss the whole damn thing. I am 27 years old, and I am finally vocally secure enough to sing larger rep and not get laughed at. At least… I’m pretty sure. I know for certain that the arias that fit best when I was 24 are no longer my best selections. Haven’t had a voice lesson in two years, so hopefully we’ll be clearing that up shortly. Goodbye, Cherubino, Siebel, and Dorabella. Recently, I’ve been revisiting Charlotte, getting to know Delilah and Amneris, and I’m wiping the Carmen slate clean to learn it from the ground up. I even sent emails to schedule voice lessons, a task that has paralyzed me with fear for almost a year and a half. I updated my linked in profile. I googled ensembles in my area that might be open to receiving audition materials from a mezzo soprano, and made a list of what to send to each of them. I checked the Dallas Opera page for chorus auditions- I was too early. I almost cried tears of joy; I haven’t been early for anything, in any definition of the word, in nearly two years. I set a reminder to check again in a month.

I put my scores in a pile on my piano bench with the Verdi on top, because I do finally have another paying gig. I’m singing Amneris in scenes from Verdi’s Aida on February 14th with Diversitá Opera, and who doesn’t want to portray an Egyptian Princess? Good news, my preliminary run throughs have felt great in my voice! I apologized to the piano for not tuning it, begging it to hold on to the middle octave until February, and went to find a dusting cloth. I took my degrees off of the shelf, and made a dramatic show of wiping them off so that the cat would know I was serious. I put them on top of the piano where I can see them. I put tabs in my Aida score, and placed a pencil and highlighter within reach. I might not know what the rest of 2020 will bring, but February will see me contracted to perform Verdi for a check, and I have a feeling that if I reinvest the time I spent at that retail job into my singing, there will be more to come.

The Met Hates my Pants.

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This past weekend, I competed in the Tulsa District Metropolitan Opera National Council Auditions. For those of you who aren’t familiar, this is a nation wide competition open to individuals between the ages of 20 and 30. You pay $30 to apply, and if they like your resume, and have room for you, you get to show up with five arias and compete. You pick your first piece, the judges pick a second from a list you provide. After they have heard everyone, sometimes up to 40 singers, they announce three winners, and assign two encouragement awards. The winners move on to the next round of the competition. After the awards ceremony, you get to speak with the judges and receive feedback about your performance.

Team, I am not going to lie to you. I may not have moved on this past weekend at the Met Council Auditions, but I nailed that performance. I sang Nobles Seigneurs, Salut! from Meyerbeer’s opera, Les Huguenots. My coloratura was spotless, in the center of the pitch, well connected, and sassy. Except for N’eutant de gloire ni de bonheur, which I butchered by taking a breath too shallow to support the melismas. In the heat of performance, all you can do is think, “well, Self, that just happened. Remember to breathe this time.” I made a quick recovery, delightfully portraying a young page boy drunk with his first dose of power. My character, Urbain, peacocks about as he lauds his knowledge of very valuable information in front a large group of knights and lords. I like to imagine he has a big feather on his hat. Perhaps his jacket is a little too loud.

I like singing pants roles. I didn’t always, but I do now. I love when women get to portray men and boys on stage because it always sparks interesting conversation about character dynamics, and in my opinion, trouser mezzos get to sing some of the best music. Cherubino, Siebel, Nicklausse, and Sesto, to name a few, may be secondary characters, but their music absolutely steals shows. Best of all, these characters don’t have to walk around corseted, coiffed, and stuffed into a period style dress. Don’t get me wrong, I love elaborate costumes, but it is always a relief to know that you’ll get to do the show in flats and pants.

When I decided weeks ago that I would begin with Nobles Seigneurs, I also decided that I would be wearing trousers to my audition. Most women in opera show up in a jewel toned wrap dress. Usually a sheath or pencil skirt fit, occasionally A-line. Most women in opera are sopranos. They sing prima donnas, heroines, damsels, and love interests. I myself, happen to be a mezzo. I play the best friend, the younger sister, the scary aunt, or the young male. Since mezzos frequently perform in pants, we are allowed to audition in pants, and kids, the outfit I picked was a stunner. Straight-leg-cropped-above-the-ankle black trousers, strappy yet closed toe stilettos, and a pink champagne silk blouse. Made sure my belt matched. Made sure my jewelry was tasteful and understated. Natural makeup. Hair styled down, because although I’d be portraying a young boy, I still wanted to appear feminine. Trust me, a lot of thought went into this outfit. I wanted to look the part so that they would remember not my appearance, but my singing.

So you can imagine my utter despair when, upon sitting down with the male judge to discuss my musical performance, the first thing he said to me was,

“I see what you’re trying to do with the pants look, but it just doesn’t work. Leggings are not generally appropriate for auditions at this level. I could see your breathe mechanism working, and honestly it was distracting.”

First. My pants were absolutely no where near tight enough to be mistaken for leggings by any reasonable person. These pants in particular are indeed fitted, but let’s pause and consider the origin of the pants role. In the 1780’s, one never, ever, saw a respectable woman in public wearing anything besides skirts and petticoats. The entire reason composers began writing male characters for female voices is because the public wanted a place to see a cute girl’s legs without being shamed for it. If the girl wearing breeches was on stage, that didn’t make you a creep. I happen to be a solid 8/10, so you are welcome for the literal and metaphorical respects I am paying the root of pants roles with my outfit.

Second. I am not an idiot. I would literally never dream of wearing LEGGINGS to the Met Council. I’m bold, but certainly not that bold. The truth is, it was 23 degrees and windy outside. I regret nothing. Except for my butchered melisma, which has nothing to do with the way I was dressed.

Third. This man was in his late 50’s. Very successful in the industry, but he doesn’t even remember my name. To take it a step further, he doesn’t even remember my contestant number. (It was 17). His phrase, “I see what you are trying to do” insinuates several things, primarily that he doesn’t think I have the body type to wear what I wore. It also implies that my appearance is more important that my performance, since this was the very first thing he chose to say to me. My body type is none of your business, Sir. I look professional and I feel great in this outfit, so this was an opinion better kept to yourself.

Lastly. The notion that one should not be able to see a singer breathe is absurd, ludicrous, and baffling. All of opera is focused around maximizing the efficiency of air flow while creating an ideal space for resonance to occur. This is how singers are able to reach the back of a 1,000 seat house over a full orchestra, with no amplification. My trousers were mid-rise. I’m sure one probably could see my tummy moving around a little bit as I inhaled enough air to sing a ~*flawless*~ high C. One could probably see it collapse as I used the air. The judge probably saw it expand the next time I inhaled. But he was sitting half way back in a house of 500 seats. I was on a black stage wearing black pants. I’m an acceptable weight for my frame, which means that this judge had to actively seek this area of my body out to comment on it.

Perhaps this judge was truly trying to be helpful. I would absolutely have received this comment differently coming from a woman, but in the end, the opera world still has a long way to go. I paid $30, spent six years in school, and drove four hours from Texas to compete in one of the most prestigious singing competitions in the country, not a beauty pageant. Next time I compete at the Met Council, I will probably still wear pants. I hope whoever is judging next year will feel that my singing is important enough to warrant their first comment, because while appearances still matter in the opera world, I would really like to have known how to control my breath on that particular melisma.