New Year’s Resolutions Versus Actionable Goals

Why set myself up to fail when I can enable myself to succeed?

Herbie’s new year’s resolution for 2023 is to drive me crazy while I try to work!

The level of cortisol that floods my body in the last week of December feels increasingly uncomfortable every year. Those days between Christmas and New Year’s Day fluctuate between profound laziness and rigorous goal setting. Not only do we spend half of the month stuffing ourselves with delicious treats and socializing far more than usual, but our culture expects us to come out the other side with a laundry list of goals for the following year. It’s almost too much for my little brain to handle.

“What’s your new year’s resolution?”

I’m naturally goal-oriented, but sometimes I fall into the trap of setting goals so vague or huge that I automatically set myself up for failure. I’m trying this year to set smaller monthly goals that will contribute to my overall progress. Maybe this is something you’ve heard before, but I call them actionable goals.

Goal-setting is good for us—our motivation, focus, and productivity increase when we set actionable goals. Even if we don’t achieve the targets we set for ourselves, pursuing a goal engages our brains and encourages perseverance. That’s pretty cool.

We often set new year’s resolutions that require a massive lifestyle upheaval. Most people abandon their half-hearted attempts to save more money, lose weight, or change careers within two weeks. Interestingly, around 43% of folks who make a new year’s resolution expect to fail by February. Imagine if we change our mindsets to believe we could achieve our goals! 

This year, I’m trying something different to manage expectations and eliminate that pesky failing-by-February factor. If I set month-by-month goals, I am less likely to give up by February– doing something for a month is far less daunting than taking it on for the year.

Herbie’s second resolution is to take more naps.

Most people quit their new year’s resolutions by February because they lose motivation. If you know me well, you’ve already heard my thoughts on motivation, but if you haven’t, I’ll lay it out here. Before I get into trouble, I’d just like to say this mindset is effective for me (most of the time), but that doesn’t mean it’s the right way of thinking for everybody. Do what works for you– I’m just sharing a trick I use.

Ok, so here it is: motivation doesn’t really matter. Rarely am I motivated to do the things I do. I hardly ever feel like working out, but I do that almost daily. I am seldom inspired to practice singing and work on my rep, but I do that, too. I didn’t feel motivated to write this blog post today. I’m not motivated to write lengthy grant statements or edit clickbait articles for the freelance writing training I’m going through. However, it doesn’t matter if I’m motivated– if it’s on the schedule for today, I just do it. Within 5-10 minutes of initiating the task I set out to do, I no longer dread it. 

So, regardless of my motivation, my actionable goals for January are listed below. I was scared to share them with you, but I think it will help me stay accountable.

Victoria’s January Goals:

• Attend one lesson and one coaching weekly
  • Now that my voice is improving, I need to stay accountable with my repertoire preparation and technical goals alongside professionals who know my voice and have a good ear.
• Practice 20 minutes per day 5x weekly
  • I’m surprised at how much I can accomplish in 20 minutes, but I haven’t gotten into the habit of regular practice since the polyp. If my voice continues to improve, I hope to up this to 30 minutes in February! Musicians will know this is hardly anything, but I need to remain vigilant in my vocal use and not over-practice, which was part of my problem leading up to the polyp diagnosis.
• Implement feedback received at Met Competition
  • I almost bowed out of the Metropolitan Opera’s yearly competition (again) but decided that since this was my last year to compete, I would go. I want to take my feedback to my teacher and coach and make it a technical and artistic focus over the next couple of months. It’ll be an excellent way to jump-start my performing for the year and receive feedback in the business.
• Learn two brand new arias after the Met Competition with a focus on competition arias
  • I’m done auditioning for YAPs, but I’d like to be competition ready by next season. Nobody has gotten my fach entirely correct, so I want to pick pieces that I like to sing and aren’t too heavy for my voice (this, I believe, was another issue contributing to the polyp– over-darkening my voice to fit into bigger repertoire.) No better time than January to begin anew! 
• Apply for three grants for artists
  • Applying for grants is a new skill for me and takes time and effort. However, it is an excellent way for artists to receive funding for creative endeavors.
• Publish two blog posts per week
  • As I introduce more singing into my life, I don’t want to lose building my writing skills and platform here with you all. I’m continuing with two posts per week despite increasing responsibilities elsewhere!
• Dry January
  • I’m joining many of you on this one for my vocal and physical health. I’m not worried about this since I eliminated alcohol in October and most of November.

As you all can tell, I’m definitely not quitting singing. My monthly goals are actionable and reasonable yet push me in the new direction I’m headed. I feel a little intimidated by this list, but not completely overwhelmed. If I had simply listed the following:

• Schedule coachings and lessons
• Practice more
• Learn new arias
• Apply for grants
• Keep blogging
• Don’t drink alcohol for a while

I would have been setting myself up for failure because these goals are neither specific nor actionable.

Herbie’s last actionable goal is to render our shower unusable.

I want to share a final thought on my monthly resolutions or goals–it fills my soul to do stuff like this. I would feel like a lost sheep if I didn’t force myself to improve or achieve something. However, I get it if you can’t wait for this first week of January to be over so people will shut up about this crap. 

If you’re like me, and you want to set those resolutions but are worried about failing or holding yourself accountable, I encourage you to make monthly goals alongside me. I’d love to hear about them– it will keep me going too. 

Unlike last week, I’m excited about my trajectory this month instead of scared. I can stick to these goals this month and set 2023 up to be the best year yet, or at least better than last year, which shouldn’t be too hard.

Set some goals, enjoy the journey, screw motivation, and forgive yourself if you fail. It’s all just an experiment, anyway.

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2022: Parting Thoughts

The view that changed my mindset. Mantasoa Lodge, Madagascar, June 2022.

Rarely do we notice the trajectory of our lives change in an instant except in retrospect. I had one of those moments in 2022, but it took me months to internalize it. Staring out into Lake Mantasoa with a cup of Malagasy coffee in my right hand, I listened passively as two creative colleagues discussed future projects and grant applications, only half listening. After all, I planned to keep studying with my teacher for a few months until I was magically the desire of every young artist program and agent in the country. As I zipped up my pink raincoat to brace myself against the morning breeze, their attention turned toward me.

“Victoria, if you could design any artistic project for yourself, what would it be?”

Flustered, I said, “I’m not really a creative person. I just want to have a traditional career.” I will never forget my reply.

Years ago, I should’ve figured out that a “traditional” music career would never happen for me. 2022 is the year I finally started to embrace that.

By the end of the trip, I had resolved to apply for two prestigious grants and felt like a genuine performing artist for the first time in over two years. Everyone there viewed me as a colleague–not a technically deficient student, but a fellow musician. I lost that feeling somewhere in the endless rejection and criticism. Sometimes, you just have to go to a different continent to gain perspective, I guess.

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Fast forward a few months, and I’m nervously retooling my definition of being a working artist. I have a pesky tendency to plow through my life full speed ahead without acknowledging my growth and setbacks, never satisfied with my progress or trajectory. What better time to look at myself than the end of an especially precarious year?

I’d be lying to you if I said this year was easy. I was able to hide my failures behind the walls of the pandemic, but after two years of a career-imploding tornado, this was the year I finally had to clean up the mess left behind. I’m still picking up what’s left and figuring out what I can do with them. I sort of feel like a puzzle missing a few essential pieces.

When I look back on this year, I will remember sleepless nights with a new puppy that my old voice teacher told me not to get because she would “be a distraction.” I’ll remember almost backing out of the Madagascar contract, which was professionally and personally life-changing. I’ll remember mourning the end of a toxic relationship and healing other connections that had endured damage for one reason or another. I’ll recall running my voice into the ground and planting the seeds for vocal rebirth. Either I’ll look back and think this year was when I was able to shift my singing career in a way that would change my life for the better or was the beginning of the end of my musical goals. I don’t know that part yet.

Ready to giddy up into 2023 sans polyp with my doggo- October 2022.

Looking forward to 2023, I’m uncertain but optimistic. Singing is taking me abroad at least twice next year. I’ve developed new goals and project ideas with mentors and collaborators, so stay tuned there, too.

I came as close as I ever have to quitting singing in 2022, which caused me to think deeply about the things I like about being a musician. I like being challenged, problem-solving, working with others, self-motivation, attention to detail, being in front of people, and having a flexible schedule. There are careers outside of singing where I could have those things. Unfortunately for me, the things I love most are music, singing, and the arts. So, here I am– not quitting a career that seems to want to abandon me consistently and figuring out where I can meaningfully and realistically fit into this incredibly cutthroat industry. I’m open to widening what that means.

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The last thing I want to say this year is thank you. Writing this blog kept me focused when I was at one of the lowest points of my life. I have a paid freelancing gig that I’m starting in the new year because you all empowered me to keep writing– I finally felt good at something. Every time you reached out to me to say you enjoyed a post, that my honesty spoke to you or that I made you laugh kept me going and allowed me to open up my interests and skills to another medium outside of music. I honestly can’t thank you all enough for reading my selfish ramblings twice per week. You give me hope.

Happy New Year, everybody.

Victoria

Feminist Fridays: Motherhood as a Choice, Not a Duty

Motherhood is no longer the all-consuming, defining feature of modern women.

This post belongs to a series formerly known as “Frauenbild Fridays”, where I analyze German art song through a contemporary feminist lens. Click here to see the original post.

I have a lot to say about An meinem Herzen, an meiner Brust, the seventh song in Frauenliebe und -leben,  but before I do, I want to be cautious. I am not a mother, and I have never been pregnant. My feelings about having children and watching people I know give birth to babies are complicated by my views on womanhood and resisting the bonds with which biology and culture have chained us.

Listen, I love babies. See? Sheer joy.

Technically, this is the only song in Frauenliebe und -leben that isn’t about a man. It’s about the baby our protagonist produces with her man and how she hadn’t felt joy until she had a child. Honestly, I have heard that it’s an experience unlike any other from both mothers and fathers, so I’m not going to discount that, I swear.

Luckily, we live in a country and time where most women have the freedom to choose whatever path they like, regardless of whether or not having children is involved.

That being said, there is still a cultural stigma against being a childless woman.

Here’s a list of questions and comments young men are simply not receiving:

• When are you getting married?
• Are you going to start having kids soon?
• What do you mean you don’t want kids? I’m sure that will change as you get older.

Don’t forget the judgments if you are pregnant:

• You’re breastfeeding, right?
• What type of birth are you doing? 
• You’re only supposed to gain a certain amount of weight.
• Oh, that’s a very interesting name you’ve chosen.

People seem to forget that childbirth is inherently dangerous. According to the most recent data from the National Center for Health Statistics branch of the CDC, approximately twenty maternal deaths occur in the United States as a direct result of pregnancy and childbirth per 100,000 births. This number is shocking- the USA has by far the highest maternal death rate in the developed world. For example, in Germany, maternal mortality hovers at around five deaths per 100,000 live births. There are various complicated reasons for the disturbingly elevated maternal death rate in the USA. Most are focused on issues of racism and accessibility of prenatal care, complicated by instances of intimate partner violence and the overall health of American women. 

Source: World Health Organization courtesy of Washington Post, 2015. Maternal death rate is currently on the rise in the US, so it’s actually higher than what this graph portrays.

It’s not all doom and gloom today– childbirth would have been much more dangerous for our dear Frauenbild in 1840. According to a study published by the National Institute of Health in London, between 1700 and 1935, approximately 5-29 per 1,000 women died in childbirth. This number was considerably higher in women unassisted by medical professionals. If we convert this back into our modern measurement, before the advent of modern healthcare, anywhere from 500 to 2900 women per 100,000 live births were dying in childbirth in London. Never mind that childrearing was the woman’s sole responsibility and birth control wasn’t an option– women just kept popping out babies until menopause or dying in childbirth. No thanks. Then, women had the heartbreaking experience of watching their kids die from a childhood illness. Thanks to vaccines, we no longer need to worry about this unless people keep neglecting to vaccinate their children. 

Childbirth in developing nations continues to endanger women. According to the World Health Organization, “Women in less developed countries have, on average, many more pregnancies than women in developed countries, and their lifetime risk of death due to pregnancy is higher. A woman’s lifetime risk of maternal death is the probability that a 15-year-old woman will eventually die from a maternal cause. In high-income countries, this is 1 in 5400, versus 1 in 45 in low-income countries.”¹

I applaud and respect women who choose to embark on the fabulous journey of motherhood and hope to be among you someday. However, we need to acknowledge that pregnancy is inherently complex and dangerous and should only be undertaken at the desire of the pregnant person in question. 

I’m grateful that motherhood isn’t the all-consuming, defining feature of modern women. It is no longer a woman’s duty to birth babies, but rather a privilege and choice.

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Some folks might think this tempo is a little frantic, but I think this piece is meant to be VIVACE! It’s just cuter this way. Deal with it. Barbara Bonney soprano | Vladimir Ashkenazy, piano.

Translation courtesy of Google Translate.

The aspect I appreciate most about this piece is its sheer, unadulterated joy. What makes my eyes roll toward the back of my head is the sentiment that motherhood is the only feeling that elicits such joy in women. Maybe if a female poet had written the piece, I would feel differently, but the idea that men were doing women a favor by occupying them with children is an old-fashioned view that I am glad has mostly gone by the wayside.

I find intense happiness when I get a coveted gig for which I auditioned. Elation rushes over my body when I receive positive feedback regarding my writing. I experience a boost in serotonin when friends laugh at my jokes or when my boyfriend tells me how much he loves me. Adrenaline floods through me at the top of a roller coaster and during the high note of a showstopping aria onstage. Love radiates through me as I hold a difficult yoga pose or taste delicious flavors prepared just for me. Joy comes to me in all places and times if I allow it to enter my life.

Many of my friends have started having babies. Meanwhile, I struggle with the inherent unfairness of women who want satisfaction both in career and family because women still bear the brunt of domestic duty, even in the healthiest relationships. Like Liz Lemon, many contemporary women want to “have it all.”

Where are my 30 Rock fans?

I want to enjoy what I have without expectation. That’s my hope for our Frauenbild and all of us.

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Joy is breaking out into song and bathing in the applause. It’s the delight of positive feedback and laughter from a joke. Joy comes to me at the top of a roller coaster, and when I’m alone with the person I love. Happiness is a baby’s laugh or a satisfying workout. It finds me when the smells of my cooking fill the kitchen and when I’m sipping a cup of coffee. Joy is everywhere, it is me, and it is you. I live in happiness as a woman without expectations.

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 ¹World Health Organization. (n.d.). Maternal mortality. World Health Organization. Retrieved December 16, 2022, from https://www.who.int/news-room/fact-sheets/detail/maternal-mortality#:~:text=A%20woman’s%20lifetime%20risk%20of,45%20in%20low%20income%20countries.

What Opera Can Learn From “Beauty and the Beast” at The Ordway

How can opera maintain its vocal tradition while appealing to a broader American audience?

For the first time in what felt like nearly forever, not to reference a different Disney movie, I had the pleasure of attending a live musical, Beauty and the Beast, at the Ordway. The show was the first locally produced musical at the Twin Cities venue since before the pandemic.

I’ve been a little sensitive lately about my level of success in the performing arts, and sometimes seeing musicals or operas makes me sad. My trip to the historic St. Paul theatre on Saturday was part of my birthday present, and at first, I was less than thrilled. These were the people who were able to achieve what I was not. 

Put the world’s tiniest violin away, lady. Belting and dancing were never your strengths.

Stepping foot inside The Ordway always feels like a special occasion. Usually, I’m here to enjoy Minnesota Opera productions, but the hall is more suitable for musicals that require amplification. The space’s acoustic is often inconsistent for operas, making it challenging to hear singers over the orchestra.

Beauty and the Beast was one of my favorite movies growing up, mainly because of my love of Belle. She was everything I was not; she was introverted, kind, patient, and beautiful. The one thing the two of us had in common was our shared devotion to reading. However, this was my first time experiencing the Broadway production. I was familiar with “Home” and “A Change in Me” due to a callback situation from years ago, but other than that, the additional songs were entirely new to me.

Ready for a good time. The Ordway, St. Paul, 2022.

The set, designed by Adam Koch, transported the audience to a French-inspired fantasy. The village and Gaston’s lodge embodied warm colors and bright lighting, designed by Cory Pattack. In contrast, the castle’s deep blues, purples, and intense shadows provided the atmospheric shift to communicate Belle’s fear and discomfort. She is the bright and warm light tasked with bringing love to the enchanted castle.

Belle, played by Rajané Katurah, was a perfect Disney Princess from the moment she stepped onstage. Her lines dripped with saccharine sincerity, paired with a powerful, contemporary musical theatre sound. Although I would have typically preferred a mix-belt vocal production for the role of Belle, Katurah’s raw instrument was so incredible that her contemporary pop style won me over by the time she belted “A Change in Me” with such emotional breadth that I forgot to breathe for a moment. It was affirming to see a beautiful woman who didn’t fit the exact mold of a stereotypical Disney Princess (super thin and white) perfectly embodying the leading lady– representation matters, and it was refreshing to see a diverse cast onstage.

Other notable performances include the Beast, played by Nathaniel Hackmann, whose vocal production most closely aligned with a classical sound. The Beast can be an awkward character to embody onstage, but he played the role with an earnest vulnerability that won me over from the beginning. Mrs. Potts, played by Jamecia Bennett, performed a rendition of “Beauty and the Beast” that was absolutely breathtaking and resulted in resounding applause from everyone in the house. Her perfectly executed runs and creative ornamentation provided the magic necessary for the iconic ballroom scene. Finally, Gaston, played by Regan Featherstone, was an absolute delight. Like any good Disney villain, he was as awful as he was entertaining. His full, warm voice and top-notch dance skills, as evidenced in the showstopping number “Gaston,” indicate a bright, continued future as a performer.

However, my favorite part of the show is a credit to the fabulous ensemble. In “Gaston,” the chorus of villagers, perfectly choreographed by Robbie Roby and Renee Guittar, engage in a complicated clinking of glasses reminiscent of the “Cups” song popularized by Anna Kendrick. This raucous tavern scene invigorated and entertained the audience to great success.

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I attended Beauty and the Beast on a Saturday matinee. The show began promptly at 2 p.m. and concluded at around 4:30 p.m. The audience appeared engaged for the entirety of the production, which included an approximately twenty-minute intermission. It was predominately filled with families and skewed on the younger side.

I say all this because I am keenly interested in live theatre, specifically opera. Why do Americans love musicals more than operas? Opera is musical theatre, after all. 

Beauty and the Beast has name recognition, familiar tunes, and an easy to follow plot. Regardless of whether a venue is staging an opera or a musical, those factors increase ticket sales.

Additionally, the singers in this production embodied the vocal style popularized by contemporary pop, R&B, and rock singers today. They’re exhibiting the sound and style of music their audience regularly hears. Americans often mock a stereotypically operatic sound– in fact, the audience giggled at Madame de la Grande Bouche every time she touted her “opera voice.”

Unlike many operas, the show was an appropriate length for a modern audience and featured familiar, hummable music. There are recognizable tunes in many operas, but overall, there is a copious amount of filler music, especially in baroque and classical operas, during which the public’s attention span begins to wane. Additionally, 21st-century opera is often challenging to sing for the performers themselves– I can’t imagine an audience member whistling a melodic line from such difficult music!

Perhaps most importantly, musical theatre is an American creation sung in English. Opera companies make accommodations in the states by showing supertitles above the stage, but this is not without its cons. The public misses action happening onstage because they are busy reading, or a significant plot point is given away on the supertitle screen before the characters reveal the action.

Many opera companies around the country mount one musical theatre production per year, and I think that’s an excellent way to ease Americans into opera. The way we sing is impressive– when we sing well, we fill an entire theatre with sound, cutting through an orchestra without amplification. There’s a reason that many opera companies will produce shows such as Sweeney Todd or Carousel– the style of those musicals can be executed well by a cast of opera singers. 

I’m not an arts administrator. I’m just a singer. But when I hear folks in the opera industry lament that live theatre is dying, I want to correct them– opera is dying in America. It appears to be available only to the elite, a culturally rich minority who grew up listening to operatic music or somehow ended up as a classically trained musician who learned about the repertoire and tradition throughout their education. This model is neither an accessible nor sustainable way to produce meaningful art.

The operatic style of singing and production has a place in American society. Suppose companies were more open to cutting the run time of productions, considering an English translation here and there, and expanding to musical theatre. In that case, maybe opera companies could also mount month-long runs of shows, like Beauty and the Beast at The Ordway. However, if we ignore the kind of art that a mainstream audience enjoys, we may not survive. Unamplified singing with a full orchestra is one of the most impressive musical feats on the planet, and people love to be amazed. Opera is live entertainment, not a relic in a museum– it’s a tale as old as time!

The Ordway’s Beauty and the Beast production runs from November 30-December 31. Tickets are available at ordway.org.

Who Am I?

(For my musical theatre people: I’m Jean Valjean)

Allowing ourselves to just “be” rather than constantly “do”

Look, I climbed a literal mountain! Our social media addictions feed our desire to showcase accomplishments. Hurricane Mountain, The Adirondacks, September 2021.

I had ample opportunity to track my accomplishments as a kid. The millennial generation was known for our participation awards, but I never needed those (hair toss). I got good grades, made it into honors bands and choirs, and performed roles in school plays and musicals. I didn’t need a participation award to quell my eternal need for attention; I already got it when I excelled. You’ll notice that sports are nowhere on my list of school activities– I wasn’t good at them. In fact, I was downright awful–my brain just can’t fire those hand-eye coordination neurons very quickly. I avoided what didn’t garner immediate external validation.

Since we as Millenials spent our childhoods showered with praise for our accomplishments, it’s no wonder many adults today define themselves by their jobs. I have the distinct pleasure of not having the career I want and aligning the entirety of my person with that lack of a meaningful operatic career. It’s not a healthy combination.

A couple of weeks ago, I wrote a precursor to this post about grit. For more on passion, perseverance, and grit, CLICK HERE.

I lamented on Instagram that I had no auditions in October 2019, but it was okay because I didn’t define myself as only a singer anymore. If only I had been telling myself the truth and not just trying to comfort myself with likes on social media. Greensboro, NC, 2019.

A couple of years ago, I tried to define myself not as a singer but as a whole person who sings. This shift in mindset was a lovely thought on paper, but what I neglected to cultivate was the actual practice. 

I didn’t and haven’t stopped associating my worth as a person with my identity as a singer. For example, I am more worthy if I perform well or have an excellent coaching; I am garbage if I get rejected from multiple auditions or don’t sing as well under pressure as intended. 

The untangling began when I was diagnosed with a vocal injury in October and was embarrassed to identify as a singer. Could I even call myself a musician without gigs or auditions on the horizon?

When I stop defining myself as a musician, my other identifying traits trip me up. Ok, well, now I want to be seen as attractive and healthy, so I take the time to style my hair, makeup, and clothes. I make a spreadsheet measuring my macros so I can eat well and exercise daily. Oops- I ate a cookie at a friend’s house, snacked on some chips, or had a couple of glasses of wine. I didn’t feel like cooking, so we ordered DoorDash. I didn’t push myself as hard as I could have in my workout. Now, with my tummy full and my pants tight, I lament that I have failed to uphold the beauty standard I set for myself. Why is it so hard to become thin? Why do I care about this, anyway?

Ok, so I won’t be the fittest person alive. That’s fine; I like food too much anyway. Let’s focus on some of my other traits. I may not be the best singer, but I am disciplined and hard-working. My to-do list stares me in the face, daring me to get started or fall short of my expectations. I sit at my tablet to write, edit my samples, and fix my cover letters. Ding! A text from a friend. Ding! An email; I’d better see if it’s about an audition. Ok, it’s not, but suddenly I’m on Instagram scrolling through other singers’ successes. Ok, back to writing. Back to practicing. My puppy needs to go outside. Is it already time to leave to go teach voice lessons? Jeez, somebody needs to vacuum in here. 

What an incredible surprise and disappointment when I realized I was less disciplined than I thought. After all, if I were genuinely disciplined, that Excel sheet measuring my macros would be no problem. Does your brain do this to you, as well?

Disconnecting my identity from what I do is more complicated than I thought it would be.

Sometimes, I get to wander through the literal wilderness, not the proverbial wilderness of my shortcomings. Mantasoa Lemur Sanctuary, Madagascar, June 2022.

Bear with me for a second as I recount a Bible story from the Old Testament. Yes, this is happening. If it helps you to infuse a religious meaning into this tale, feel free, but the parable itself has been eye-opening to me through this time of transition, with or without spirituality attached.

In the story of Exodus, the Egyptians free the Israelites, but it’s not easy going from there. Fast forward, and Joshua prepares to lead the Jewish people to the Promised Land. However, they wander in the wilderness for forty years before crossing the Jordan River into Canaan, the land of milk and honey. 

When I look back on my choice to pursue a classical singing career, I cringe at the number of wrong turns I took along the way. Every grad school visit, new teacher, audition I wasn’t ready for, and day job I took felt like stepping closer to the banks of my proverbial Jordan River when in reality, I was wandering in circles in the desert. That’s a brutal truth to face. I feel like I’ve been meandering in a wilderness of my own design for nearly ten years.

Milestones are meaningful to me, so it’s no surprise I’m putting so much pressure on my thirtieth birthday. A recurring thought in my mind has been the lamentation that I have nothing to show for myself. This mindset is wrapped up in what I do. I can’t help but feel that it’s inevitable I will cross a river into my own promised land soon. I’ve been wandering for so long, and it didn’t feel aimless before, but it does now. The question from a few weeks ago of what comes next continues to loom over me– I still don’t know. I’ve experienced my fair share of uncertainty throughout my twenties. I do feel sure, however, that I’m ready to stop meandering. A shift in perspective is a dip of one toe into the river’s banks.

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It’s challenging for us not to define ourselves by our successes and failures in work and our personal lives. Every time I try and identify myself with traits I have cultivated rather than my accomplishments, that lets me down as well– I’m not disciplined, funny, extroverted, or creative all the time. I constantly fall short of my expectations. Sometimes, I am a lump of coal.

I hate to get hippy-dippy, but I’ve settled on not defining myself. Assigning specific traits or identifiers to ourselves results in self-limiting beliefs. We don’t have to do anything special to be worthwhile humans; we just have to be. When we allow ourselves to simply be, our paths are more sure, free of judgment, and straight ahead– the wandering in the desert ends. The way forward is the right choice, and if I ever free myself from my bruised ego, I believe that road will become apparent.

I am Victoria, and I am not a singer. I am a person who sings. 

Frauenbild Friday: Frauenliebe Pt. 6

Honestly, I’ve been dreading this one a little because there’s no way around it– this song is about sex, and my mom and all of her friends read this blog. It’s also about sex in a very pre-sexual revolution sort of light– intimacy leads to babies, this is the only function of sexual relations, and everything else is SIN, I TELL YOU!! SIN!!!! Mom and friends, I’m sorry. 

I’ve been dying to use this painting since I started the blog. DO NOT SIN, or the devil will visit you in your sleep!! The Nightmare by Henry Fuseli, 1782. Image courtesy of theartstory.org.

Even in 1840, we know people had sex outside of marriage. In fact, young men were encouraged to “sow their wild oats,” so to speak, with prostitutes and the like, while women were expected to know absolutely nothing about sex and needed teaching from their husbands. Haven’t you all watched Bridgerton? The shame of losing one’s virginity and the burden of unplanned pregnancy has always fallen on the woman, and that hasn’t gone away. A quote from The Breakfast Club comes to mind regarding virginity as a woman: “If you say you haven’t, you’re a prude. If you say you have, you’re a slut. It’s a trap.” Remember in my introduction to Frauenbild Fridays when I mentioned the “Madonna/Whore Complex”? People love to shame other people about sex, especially women and members of the LGBTQ+ community.

Most people know Margaret Atwood for her novel turned TV show, The Handmaid’s Tale. It was my favorite book I studied in high school, and it inspired me to read all of Atwood’s work I could get my hands on. Most of her writing is centered around dystopic future universes dripping with seething commentary on our current world. However, she wrote a historical novel in 1996, Alias Grace. It’s set around the time our song cycle was composed. One of the most riveting and angering plotlines is a maid in the tale engaging in a romance with a son of the family she works for, who gets her pregnant. He claims she got knocked up by somebody else and refuses to acknowledge the child. Knowing she will lose her well-paying servant position and reputation, the maid attempts to abort the fetus. She bleeds out on her bed and dies. So yeah, that’s what happened in 1840 when a woman had a Süsser Freund encounter–or perhaps 2040 if we keep eliminating reproductive rights. 

Sexuality is a controversial topic these days. Many people in the United States believe that unless you’re attempting to conceive a child, any sexual act is unholy and their job to punish. Right-wing commentators unleash a vendetta upon the LGBTQ+ community daily. Reproductive rights diminish around the country. A small group of people’s desire to control American citizens’ private lives is disgusting, unacceptable, and, unfortunately, historically consistent. When will we learn?

Intimacy is just that– it’s intimate. It’s a shared moment between two (or more, you do you) people that is no one else’s business. Intimacy is the glistening glue holding this piece together. When I hear this song performed well, it’s almost as if I’m uncomfortable invading this private moment between two people. Their hopes, dreams, and wants are between just the two of them. 

Jessye makes the most difficult song in the cycle sound easy peasy. *chef’s kiss*

You know the drill. Thanks, A2 level German knowledge and Google Translate.

This song is just so beautiful. From personal experience, it’s also wicked hard to sing– it’s incredibly exposed and requires precision equal to that of a tightrope walker. The understated accompaniment, paired with the impossibly long vocal lines, paints an atmosphere of sensuality and privacy from the first chord. As the piano line animates in the middle section, the vocalist gains energy and courage, and the relaxation back into calming bliss is a powerful musical experience.

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I’m so happy that our Frauenbild can practice vulnerability and experience safety and security with a partner she loves. I delight in the fact that she was married at a time when falling pregnant out of wedlock was life-threatening. I’m thrilled that she experienced a positive sexual awakening. Everyone deserves that, and not everyone is safe to love who they want to love right now or even how they want to love.

God called on his people to “love thy neighbor.” Let’s do that. 

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Sweet friend

I am amazed at everything you do

Everything you are

What you could be

And when I am in your arms

I know I am safe

I know I am loved

I know I am home

But mostly

I know you.

‘Tis the Season

On Friday morning, instead of rising blissfully full of turkey and mashed potatoes, I woke up with the telltale signs of an impending cold. I went on the attack. Canceled plans? Check. Extra hydration and rest? Oh yeah. Echinacea, Vitamin C, Zinc, and Zicam? Absolutely. Raw garlic? Yikes, but let’s do this.

I hope you had a better Thanksgiving than my dog.

Unfortunately, despite my best efforts, the cold has changed its permanent mailing address to my nose and throat. I know exactly how I acquired this unwanted tenant–teaching is opening oneself up to a petri dish of possibility every day. A student waltzed into my studio last Monday, and when I asked my standard, “how are you today?” she replied, “I’m good; my throat hurts really bad, though!”

Did we learn nothing from the pandemic?

Guilt rushes through my whole body. I drank wine on Thanksgiving, and alcohol torches the immune system. I didn’t stand a chance. The classic shame reel plays in my brain: “This is my fault. I bet responsible singers didn’t drink on Thanksgiving.” 

Nobody likes being sick, but singers can’t get sick. A cold, allergies, or flu could mean ostensibly setting fire to hundreds of dollars. Unfortunately, I couldn’t nip this cold completely in the bud on Friday, so here I am, four days later, hacking away and feeling my vocal range dwindle by the hour. It’s like having the polyp again, except snot rolls down my face as I type. Too graphic? Oh well, bodies are gross. You’ll be ok.

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Overzealous voice teachers love to tell their students what they “need” to do to care for their vocal health. Drink plenty of water. Avoid alcohol and caffeine. Don’t smoke. Eat well and exercise daily. Sleep with a humidifier. Get adequate rest. Avoid loud environments that require a raised voice. Don’t scream or yell. Be perfect and do not have fun, ever. You will get sick and lose your voice. It’s no wonder my first reaction to getting a cold (a mild illness that we all know is notoriously difficult to avoid) is that it’s my fault. Hey, brain– I’m just a human who was out in the world with other humans, and this caused me to catch a minor cold. Stop being so mean. I can hear every voice teacher I’ve ever had lecturing me in my head as I tell my other inner voice to shut up.

For example, this is the kind of literature that keeps singers up at night:

From “The Functional Unity of the Singing Voice” by Barbara Doscher.

Of course, I read this now and think, “how did I not realize that a spiral of vocal misuse and a general laissez-faire attitude toward my vocal health was going to hurl me toward vocal injury?” My answer to that question is in a few of my past posts: denial. I also think scaring students into believing a single glottal attack gone wrong or yelling at a party will result in permanent vocal damage. Haven’t you ever heard a baby cry? Their vocal cords are fine.

At worst, this minor cold might cause me to cancel auditions and sing less well at a gig this weekend. That is truly the worst outcome, but many of us genuinely lose it when we’re ill because we risk losing income and opportunities. I know professionals who quit singing because the sheer pressure of remaining in pristine vocal health at all times is too emotionally and mentally taxing.

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Despite my Nyquil-induced haze and copious napping over the long weekend, I still sat at my tablet to write. I may be forced into a polyp era of vocal rest until this cold passes, but writing has yet to betray me. My vocal folds and nasal passages are an absolute mess, but my mind and fingers still work. Singing is so fickle; writing is not. As long as I’m conscious and inspired, I can put words on paper. It’s comforting to know I’m not rendered completely useless by a sniffle.

I feel myself shifting away from singing just a little. I’m not sure if it’s permanent, but I need to feel like I’m working toward something meaningful, and opera just isn’t there for me right now. I’m not sure if it was ever really there. The familiar feeling of imposter syndrome sets in as I browse articles on how to start freelance writing– who am I to write about anything? What do I even know? 

The quest for a purposeful life haunts me as my thirtieth birthday looms closer by the day. I wanted to be a full-time operatic performer. Who am I kidding? I still want that. I pursued that dream, albeit with many mistakes that likely prevented the desired outcome, at the expense of everything else throughout my twenties, and I can’t shake the thought that I have nothing to show for myself. 

The catchphrase, “life is short,” is meant to inspire us to take risks and enjoy ourselves because time on this earth is fleeting and precious. I agree; don’t get me wrong. However, if you’ve spent enough time around me, you probably heard me posit, “life is long.” This privileged saying relies on my fortune of living in a relatively peaceful country with adequate healthcare and the hopeful absence of early-onset illnesses and accidents, but if all goes well, life is long. I have time. You have time. Life may be short, but if we’re lucky, it’s not that short. The ability to pursue a meaningful existence doesn’t conclude at thirty years old. Admittedly, it gets a little more challenging to pursue my particular goal, which I already feel. Companies that heard me in years past when I was a worse singer don’t grant me auditions anymore because of my age. I believe Taylor Swift recently called herself a “geriatric popstar.” She’s 32 years old.

I’ve decided that my thirties will be about diversifying my skills. I crave the operatic career; I really do. That’s not going to disappear. When I look past the desire for a life in music specifically, I feel an impetus to do something interesting, something most people wouldn’t be able to do. I want to enjoy all of what life has to offer and achieve something great. Maybe it’s a bit Pollyanna-ish, but I believe we’re all capable of something great; we just have to dig deep inside ourselves to discover what we can offer.

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On Saturday night, I popped a couple of Nyquil, made myself a cup of Good Earth tea, and settled on the couch to watch the 2019 biographical comedy film Dolemite Is My Name. Eddie Murphy stars as Rudy Ray Moore, an aspiring singer who works multiple dead-end jobs to support his equally dead-end musical career. One day, inspired by the stories of a homeless man who visits the record store where he works, he begins a stand-up career that leads to a string of comedy films in the 1970s. He is known as the godfather of rap.

Rudy Ray Moore felt like a failure. His attempts to forge a musical career led only to closed doors, and he was stuck. Due to his creative mind, work ethic, and a stroke of luck, Rudy eventually made his mark in the music industry. He didn’t give up; he merely diversified his skill set and shifted his perspective. I admire that. 

We may not have learned to stay home when we’re sick from a two-year global pandemic, but I think we learned how to modify plans when necessary. I didn’t believe I would ever live in Minnesota again, and here I am, happily typing away in the suburbs. I wouldn’t be writing at all if I hadn’t been open to exploring options outside of a strict performing career. Openness is the most important quality I’ve cultivated over the past couple of years. I’d like to take a page out of Rudy Ray Moore’s playbook– I’m open to exploring skills outside of singing. 

Fa la la la laaaaa la la la LAAA.

At this exact moment, however, I’m most open to another cup of tea and a dose of DayQuil. The snow is falling beautifully outside, the lights of my garland flash on the fireplace mantle, and I need another Kleenex, or I’ll scream. ‘Tis the season, indeed. Eat your raw garlic, and take care. You’re still a worthy human being, even when you’re sneezing on yourself.

Happy Holidays.

Grit

People who hear me sing often tell me that I am talented. This compliment is supremely flattering. However, I am not an exceptionally talented singer. Hear me out.

Last week, as I prepared for Friendsgiving, I listened to one of my favorite podcasts, The Jordan Harbinger Show. I enjoy the variety of experts and subject matter he explores with guests on his show, but I only recently began listening to the podcast. This week, he aired an episode from the vault, and I was thoroughly inspired by their conversation. As someone entirely outside of the corporate sphere, the name Angela Duckworth and the book “Grit: The Power of Passion and Perseverance” were altogether unfamiliar to me. Forgive me if you’ve read the book or followed her work for ages– I’m a newbie!

Duckworth describes talent as a person’s innate ability to learn and apply a specific skill. This definition has not been my experience as a singer, much to my embarrassment and shame. Vocal concepts have taken me years to master, while the most talented singers come by their basic technique naturally. I had a lot of vocal practices straight up wrong. However, I have always been a talented musician, and that’s different. 

Around the age I began piano lessons. Honestly, let’s just say I’m sharing this because it’s cute and call it a day.

My parents inherited my great-grandma’s upright piano when I was young. Grandma never played, and although my mom took lessons as a kid, she didn’t keep up her practice. Naturally, like any bumbling toddler, I eyed the instrument with curiosity, and it wasn’t long before I explored the keys on my own. “Explored” might be too kind of a word– I’m sure my mom would say I pounded the antique keys with my tiny fists and screamed along to my improvised compositions.

At the age of four, I was a little young to begin piano lessons, but my mom couldn’t stand the racket of my exploration any longer. She enrolled me in classes with a kind and patient woman named Carol, who taught in a home studio just a few blocks from our house. I often think of those afternoons since I teach my students from the same books my mom purchased for me twenty-five years ago—Faber and Faber Piano Adventures; what a lasting legacy you cultivated.

The piano was notably easy for me. I sped through the first couple of books, recited my notes with ease, and played with a general understanding of musicality atypical for a little kid. I wasn’t Mozart or anything, but my teacher mentioned I had an unusually developed ear to my mom. She gave me extra theory assignments when she realized I might be learning my pieces by ear rather than reading the music. Both aural skills and music reading are imperative for a high level of musicianship, and for her observation early on, I am grateful.

Like many of my fellow millennials, I was placed in my elementary school’s gifted and talented program and was proud that school was easy. Without realizing it, my little brain created the mindset that if I had to try, it meant I was stupid. I didn’t want to try; I only wanted to succeed easily and breezily. Because of this attitude, I stopped liking the piano when I had to start actually practicing. 

This is the only picture I can find where I’m holding a flute. I’m sure my mom has many at home. All-State Minnesota Orchestra Woodwinds Section, Summer 2010.

I began playing the flute in fifth grade, coincidentally around the time piano became a chore. My childhood best friend’s mom is a professional flutist and college professor, and I patiently awaited being old enough to take lessons from her. I loved the flute. At first, I just couldn’t get the embouchure right, making me want to quit immediately. However, I initiated a viable sound after spitting rice outside for a few days to get my lips in the correct shape. It was thrilling. I looked forward to lessons with my friend’s mom and took pride in being the best flute player in school. Aside from spitting rice, I didn’t have to work hard to improve– I was a natural.

A couple of years after I initiated weekly lessons, another student my age began studying with the same teacher. She was also a naturally talented musician, but she quickly surpassed me in skill because she worked hard to succeed. There was a critical difference between us–she practiced intently every day while I practiced maybe twice per week, haphazardly, just enough to get the assignment under my fingers. Her advancement angered and embarrassed me because I stubbornly stuck to a talent-or-nothing mindset. Around this time, I quit piano, stopped practicing flute entirely, and my musical focus shifted again, this time toward singing.

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Dear Reader, you’re likely beginning to notice that I had many musical professionals available to me as a child, and you’re right. I’m incredibly fortunate, but that’s a story for another time. However, I have one last teacher to introduce to the mix–my high school voice instructor. As luck would have it, I grew up with the most wonderful neighbor who also happened to be a retired opera singer and voice teacher. In middle school, I became interested in musical theatre but knew my vocal chops weren’t up to snuff. My voice was decently impressive for a teenage girl, but this wasn’t enough for me– I needed to be gifted and talented like I was in everything else where I excelled. We started lessons when I was fourteen years old. I desired to belt Popular from Wicked, but she had other ideas. She sneakily instilled in me a passion for opera and art song, and I left musical theatre mostly behind after high school. I graduated as a “smart girl” who excelled in academics, singing, flute, and theatre. I was proud of my achievements.

Go Raiders. Northfield, MN, June 2011.

If you’ve been keeping up with my blog posts, you’ll remember that I entered college to become an educator rather than a performer. However, if you’ve met me, you’ll know this would not have been compatible with my personality and interests– I changed my major to voice performance by the end of my sophomore year. At Concordia College, I was a moderately big fish in a comparatively little pond. I was the only mezzo-soprano performance major (more on that later), sang with The Concordia Choir, and had the full attention of a small voice and coaching staff. I placed at the NATS competition three out of my four years (don’t talk to me about my sophomore year) and always got the lead role in opera scenes. Although I didn’t get many solos with the choir and didn’t qualify for senior honors, I still blazed through my classes and performances with relative ease. I wasn’t trying yet, which was a pity. I regret this immensely.

Concordia College, 2015.

Upon graduation, I had to decide if I would admit that I was not a natural singer but had the potential to achieve vocal greatness if I worked for it. As it turns out, I was not a hot commodity for graduate schools or young artist programs— I was singing in the wrong fach with faulty technique and a misguided sense of artistry. Although I would continue to make a few wrong turns, I recognized that to become a real performer, I would finally have to try. No matter how gifted and talented a musician I was as a child, that wouldn’t cut it in the professional world. Coasting on raw talent doesn’t usually work for anyone in any career.

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This realization brings us to grit. The title of Angela Duckworth’s book spoils the definition of grit in psychological terms: it combines passion and perseverance for long-term goals. Interestingly, she also defines passion as consistency over time rather than a highly emotional state fueled by obsession or infatuation. I have been consistently passionate about singing for a very long period, even when it betrays me or when I don’t reach a particular goal related to my career. While listening to the podcast, I felt a sense of pride. That old flame I wrote about a few weeks ago is grit.

I sometimes feel like my passion for singing has worn down over the years, but by Duckworth’s definition, it hasn’t. My practice has only become more disciplined and focused as I’ve learned how to try. Unsurprisingly, actually trying didn’t come naturally to me. I didn’t know how to practice or study because I never “had to.” Of course, this is ridiculous–imagine how much more I could have achieved if I had exerted any real effort to improve my singing before the age of 25!

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I wish I had been a natural at singing. Envy bubbles up inside me when I see twenty-two-year-old singers who are already incredible and graduating from prestigious conservatories. That’s what the entertainment industry longs for most– a natural. Everyone loves a natural talent, even if they play, perform, or sing like someone who had to work super hard to level up their skills. However, I can’t let myself get jealous. It’s not fruitful. I was never going to be opera’s next star at twenty or even twenty-five. What I built throughout my twenties instead was grit, and I didn’t even know it.

“Never take advice from someone who’s falling apart,” Taylor Swift croons during the last song on her newest album, Midnights. I’m painfully aware that I don’t have much about living figured out, but I know that cultivating grit has made me feel meaningful and worthwhile even when I have little to show for myself. “If at first you don’t succeed, try, try again.” They don’t tell us in music school that we have to try and fail hundreds of times, and we still might not succeed in the traditional sense. Performer and athlete are the first job titles that come to my mind that require a substantial dosage of grit, but we’d all be better off upping our “grit score,” as Angela Duckworth describes it in her book. Trust me, you are unstoppable where passion meets perseverance, even if you feel incredibly low.

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I wish I could tell my childhood self that it is noble to care, ok to try, and normal to fail. If I put in minimal effort as a kid, it was impressive to succeed, and I had an excuse if I failed or fell short of my goal. I sound like a talented singer now, but trust me, it has taken years of practice and instruction to get me where I am today, and I still have so much further to go. I’ve touched on this in previous posts, but you never really “make it” as a musician– there’s always another level to unlock.

It’s easy for me to focus on what singing has taken away from me, but today, I’ll thank singing for teaching me grit. It’s one thing to be gifted and talented and another to do something with that.

“If at first you don’t succeed, try, try again.”

Frauenbild Friday: Frauenliebe Pt. 5

My sister got married in May of 2021, during an exhilarating time when most people recently became vaccinated for COVID-19 and began crawling out of their shells. People were ready to attend a wedding and have a great time. We all wanted the day to be perfect for my sister, an angel baby of wonder and beauty, who deserved the best day ever.

Angel baby of wonder and beauty, 2021.

The bridal party got ready at my parents’ house, and everybody appreciated how relaxed it was. I did Kayla’s makeup in the bathroom, where I spent every morning obsessing over my appearance for fifteen years. My mom laid out a spread of sandwiches and pasta salads on the coffee table purchased years ago. Dad and I spied on the couple’s first look from the bedroom window, gazing out into the greenery and marsh of the backyard. It all felt so familiar, and yet there was a buzziness surrounding every aspect of the morning. Our song for today, written nearly two hundred years ago, captures that same anticipatory emotional state.

Sun: shining. Tank: clean.

When I look back on my sister’s wedding day, I think about everyone in the bridal party sitting cross-legged in our sweatpants on the living room floor, eating lunch, and cracking jokes like it was a typical day. We excitedly awaited my brother-in-law’s arrival, enjoyed the casual, candid photos, and fastened all of the buttons, of which there were many, on my sister’s beautiful ballgown-style wedding dress. That was probably my favorite part of the entire day– when I felt my sister’s unusually expectant energy resonate through such a familiar space. She was all smiles, a little ball of happiness. The house was electric.

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It seems like the excitement of such a momentous occasion hasn’t changed much since 1840, but there’s one significant emotion missing from most American weddings today: dread. Listen, if you feel differently, let me know; I’ve never been married. Our Frauenbild is saying goodbye to female company as she enters a life of servitude to her husband and children. Bye sisters! Bye friends! What a bummer. Let’s experience this whirlwind of a piece together, shall we?

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I’m back to Barbara Bonney for this one.

Google Translate, baby!!! Who needs a poetic translation anyway?

My sister wasn’t weighed down by a feeling of existential dread on her wedding day because she wasn’t shifting her relationships– I think we can all happily agree that marriage no longer means cloistering oneself away from friends and family. However, it does seem that connections outside of immediate family still tend to weaken over time. Maybe for modern folks, the life change of marriage isn’t what makes adult friendships so tricky to maintain, but rather the pull of so many responsibilities in a thousand different directions. We’re all incredibly busy people, and we can only allocate so much attention to each facet of our lives. Friendships often suffer first and worst in our hectic lives, which is a mistake. I am a massive advocate for prioritizing non-romantic relationships for personal well-being. 

Was this post just a long con to get you to admire my table setting? Maybe.

It’s Friendsgiving season. For anyone reading over the age of thirty-five, Friendsgiving is a Thanksgiving celebrated with friends as opposed to family, often held the weekend before the traditional holiday but sometimes in place of festivities with family at all. Little pumpkins and an orange plaid runner decorate my table, and I even have festive rings hugging the cloth napkins I purchased. I mean business. The guests in question this evening are friends I’ve had since childhood, people who know my innermost thoughts and my most embarrassing moments. They have seen me throw tantrums over my hair and laugh at inopportune moments. I’ve been looking forward to hosting them for a couple of weeks now because spending time in their company genuinely makes me feel whole. Friends outside of the partnership of a romantic relationship are imperative to my happiness, and you need them, too. So does our Frauenbild. 

I don’t have much to say about feminism today (a supreme shock, I’m sure), and maybe it’s the season, but what I’d like to allow us to reflect on today are relationships. The people closest to us make our lives worthwhile, enable enjoyment, and restore our spirits. I think that’s part of the reason I look back on the morning of my sister’s wedding day with such joy– I could feel the positive energy emanating from some of the people I love the most.

We have these little computers in our hands that connect us to anyone in the world, yet many of us feel increasingly disconnected. Take this opportunity to text or call a friend, see how they’re doing, and ask about their day. They want to hear from you. I need to do this too. We may not have worriedly said goodbye to all of our friends on our wedding day like our Frauenbild, but we still let relationships fade slowly by the day, week, and year when we don’t prioritize the connections that enrich our lives so profoundly.

Happy Friendsgiving.

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I yawn in my childhood bed, sleepily blinking my eyes awake to the view of old photos on the wall. My sister is wide awake, atypical for her night owl self. We’re opposites in that way.

“Today’s the day!” I shout in a sing-songy voice, quoting Finding Nemo. “The sun is shining; the tank is clean!” We’ve laughed through this quote on monumental days for as long as I can remember.

We make our way to the bathroom, and I notice a tight, 1980s curling iron stuffed away in a drawer under the makeup I’ll be using today. I cringe and remember the time I tried curling my hair in 8th grade, and it was a total disaster. I threw a tantrum and was late for school. I sigh and move past the unpleasant thought– there will only be happy tears today.

I spot some old hot rollers tucked away next to the useless curling iron and recall carefully rolling up my sister’s hair for Rock ’n’ Roll Revival–a much more successful bathroom adventure. That’s the energy we’ll channel.

The Rock ‘n’ Roll Revival memory in question, 2013. Unfortunately, no photographic evidence remains of the Great Curling Iron Debacle of 2006.

I stop cracking jokes, so I don’t smear the makeup on her smooth, glowing face. She looks beautiful. Her bridal party arrives throughout the morning, each member cooing over her appearance and filling the room with joy. 

I run out of good hair day luck and struggle with my own. It’s the 8th-grade catastrophe all over again. One fake eyelash falls like a black spider into the sink, and I kiss that idea goodbye. Who needs falsies, anyway? The sound of excited chatter and laughter fills the house. It’s ok if my curls don’t fall in my face quite right and my eyelashes come unglued; today isn’t about me.

We throw the dress over her head. Poof! A quote from Anastasia, another childhood favorite, pops into my brain. “The Russian circus– I think it’s still in here!” I meticulously begin fastening every button, step by step. Everyone is watching; the photographer snaps a photo.

She looks perfect. No dread, no second thoughts. Only joy, surrounded by her best friends and family for life.

Ghost School

I drive the familiar highway northwest, reminiscing on the countless trips back and forth over four consequential years of my life. I remember when Taylor Swift’s Red came out over fall break in 2012, and we blasted the album multiple times on a carpool trip back to campus. I recall belting Wicked with my sister as she prepared to help me move back into an apartment during my junior year of college. I even drudge up the sleepy ride back from a Macklemore concert in the Twin Cities with friends right before he became famous; thank you very much. This trip was before every Concordia alum moved to the big city, aka Minneapolis, post-graduation. I swear, most Cobbers are either in Minneapolis or Fargo now. I guess I’m one of them.

Very menacing!!! Photo courtesy of the Concordia College website.

What is a Cobber? At Concordia College in Moorhead, Minnesota, our mascot is an angry ear of corn named Kernel Cobb, who inspired the slogan, “Fear the Ear.” This is serious and not a joke. Roll Cobbs!

The campus is mostly the same, although a giant “Welcome to Concordia College” sign spans loudly across the skyway connecting the central part of campus to the sporty side. I didn’t go to that side very often. 

There’s already snow on the ground and a noticeable chill in the air– it’s funny how big of a difference three hours north makes. I recall many pitch-black nights walking with my fellow Concordia Choir members from rehearsal to dinner, barely breathing because it was so freezing. Up north is a different kind of cold. That cold hits different, as the kids might say.

See, doesn’t he look a little chilly here? Photo courtesy of THE Concordia College website.

The building I walk toward hasn’t changed much. A jokester has put a crimson-red scarf on the small statue of Paul J. Christiansen outside of the recital hall– I smile. Someone always did something like this. Most of the faculty names on the doors remain the same as when I left seven years ago, though the space is notably missing the legendary name of René Clausen. His spirit haunts this space.

The halls are bustling with students; it’s a Friday afternoon, and I’m guessing The Concordia Choir still meets at 4:30 sharp. Everyone stares at me as I pass by, making a beeline for my favorite practice room. Everybody knows everybody at Concordia, especially in Hvidsten, the music building. I’m too old to be a student; there are no guest performers or faculty on the schedule, so who am I? I flash my fake, midwestern smile without making eye contact and keep walking. My room is open.

Basking in the glow of my insecurity mirror, November 2022.

I always liked this room because the mirror made the space feel larger. Many hours were spent picking apart my appearance in this broom closet. I remember a specific day when I wore a pair of jeans that had grown slightly too tight and a sweater that never looked right on me. Still, I stubbornly wore the outfit anyway, and I barely got any practicing done that afternoon because I was just staring at my body in the mirror, willing it to change. “I’ll start doing My Fitness Pal again today,” I told myself, my eyes welling up with tears. “I need to run more. I won’t go to Mick’s (the Thursday night spot for Concordia students) this week.” Poor Victoria. How would she feel now, staring in the same mirror, fifteen pounds heavier than the last time she looked into it? Yet another sign of my failures.

I try not to think too often of how past Victoria would feel about me because I know she’d be disappointed– I established that last week. It’s hard not to think of her in this space filled with ghosts, demons, and memories. But past Victoria was an idiot and didn’t know anything. She had so much to learn. I banish those thoughts and warm up for my brief rehearsal with the exhale-card-holding pianist. Yes, he’s back. If you haven’t gathered this, he’s a recurring character in my life.

The one and only. Post-junior recital, April 2014.

“Erika!” He exclaims as I walk into the recital hall. There are no demons in here, only friendly ghosts. I have positive, warm memories of this space. Whether it was hours-long coachings with Dobby the house-elf (as he will henceforth be known in this blog), aria class, or waiting for my entrance as Cenerentola for opera scenes, the energy in the recital hall was always dynamic and inviting. As we drop needle on my pieces and I sing out into the hall, I think of every solo performance I sang on this stage over four years. It feels like home.

I often look back on my time at Concordia resentfully. When I graduated high school, my goal was to go to Concordia, sing under Dr. René Clausen with THE Concordia Choir, and direct a high school choir. Boom. I had it all figured out. However, by the end of my sophomore year, I realized I didn’t like choir much and that I loved opera. I changed my major to vocal performance, but I didn’t want to quit choir because my friends were there, and I liked going on the tours. Seriously, that’s what kept me in Concordia Choir. I was also hung up on prestige and ~social currency~. I can admit that now. It all looks so silly in retrospect.

The community of choir brought me back every time. Graduation concert, May 2014.

I spent years undoing how I sang at Concordia– high larynx, darkened vowels, little vibrato. Regardless, those hours spent in the South Choral Room meant something to me. The demons haunting my memories were actually friendly ghosts.

I gained so much from Concordia that I couldn’t acknowledge for so long. The faculty at this small school supported me unequivocally. I got to travel the country once a year for free and sing with a nationally renowned choir. I went to Italy, for crying out loud! I was an incredibly naive young woman and became a person in a welcoming, safe and encouraging environment. I made friends for life here, and even though we didn’t connect at Concordia, I wouldn’t be with Casey if it wasn’t for that place. It’s where I met Dobby, who shaped my artistry more than any other teacher or mentor in my entire artistic career to date.

My perspective on Concordia shifted, finally, after seven years. Regardless of whether or not my audition from this weekend leads to a contract, I’m thankful for the haunting feeling that I made a mistake releasing itself into the universe. I’ll never know whether transferring to a conservatory would have changed the trajectory of my vocal career. I’ll never understand why I stayed at Concordia. I just did.

If you read my latest Frauenbild Fridays post, you’ll know that one of the rings I wear is a ruby class ring from Concordia. When I lived in North Carolina, nobody ever asked about the ring except to note its beauty, and that was a rare comment. Being back in Minnesota, however, I get plenty of remarks from fellow Concordia graduates or folks who know about the Cobber ring tradition.

My church choir has a new alto, and she is the sweetest lady. On Sunday, she asked me if I was wearing a Cobber ring. I smiled and exclaimed, “Yes, I’m a Cobber!” The change had already taken root. I usually brush Cobber comments off, but two days ago, I was grateful and proud to be a graduate of Concordia College. I surprised myself yet again. I’ve learned that surprises are everywhere if you pay attention. 

There’s only one way to end the reflection on my undergraduate institution, and it’s this: 

Roll Cobbs!

Christmas Concerts, 2013.