I remember a choir rehearsal in school when I was 18 years old. Or maybe it was just a vocal ensemble. I’m not sure. I don’t remember what we sang, but I remember enjoying it. I always enjoyed singing. Not only because it was the one place I felt truly like myself, but because—well, singing. It came easily to me. It was joy! Fun! Wonderful!
What I do remember is this: the teacher, in front of the whole group, sighed (he was one of those sighing, eye-rolling types—you know?) and said, “Please, Miss Callas… not so loud.”
And I remember how it felt. Flattened. Stupid. Embarrassed.
I even understood his irritation, sort of. I was probably being a bit much. Singing a bit too loud. And yes—Miss Callas wasn’t quite as loud for the rest of that rehearsal. In fact, she was mostly silent. Probably in dramatic tears. But, righteous so, if you ask me.
A few days later, I stopped him on the stairs. Told him how bad he’d made me feel (I know, right? I was 18. This was the ’90s. Where did I find that kind of courage?)
He sighed again, rolled his eyes again, and said: “You’re very talented. You belong on the stage. You have to learn not to take things so…personal.”
And he meant it—I could tell. He didn’t silence me in the long run and I kept using my whole voice, strong and fierce. But still—a small seed was planted. Maybe I shouldn’t always sing as fully as I want to? Maybe my voice isn’t always welcome the way it is? A question always lurking in the back of my head.
Yes, of course we must listen to our fellow musicians. (And no, I probably wasn’t the best at that at 18.)(but, then again, yes, I actually do think I was. I always, always cared about the people I sang with.). But if we never sing with our full voice—if we’re always holding back—tension builds.
Blockages settle in the body. Longing becomes a knot in the throat. The feeling of being too much starts shrinking us from the inside.
Over the years, I’ve become deeply sensitive to men (it’s almost always men) telling me to be quiet(er).
Or showing me, subtly or not, that they can’t handle my voice.
Now—I never stay in those situations. I always leave. I always let them know why.
Truthfully, I don’t think they find me very interesting anymore.
What this has done, strangely enough, is made me feel invincible on stage.
In the rehearsal room, people might tell me to tone it down.
But on stage? No one gets to do that. They can’t. On stage, there’s only forward motion. On stage, the voice gets to live.
The thing is: I LOVE making music together. I don’t want to be the loudest or the most seen.
That’s never been the point. The magic happens in the togetherness.
And I still wonder: what made him want to hush me, an 18 year old young woman? In a school situation?