July 4th

I used to be a huge celebrator of the 4th. Seriously - I’m a pyro I love lighting things on fire and watching them burn, I love seeing all the beautiful shapes the sparkles make, writing my name with sparklers, and even the stained shirts from all the smoke bombs.

But the last few years, I haven’t celebrated the fourth.

Instead, I’ve asked what we’re celebrating?
How does this holiday uphold the white supremacist structure?
How can I better represent a part of my heritage? (because yes back in the line we also have Native representation)

This is what I apply to every holiday we celebrate here in America. Can the majority of Black and brown people afford to buy hundreds of dollars worth of fireworks? No.

How can we bring attention to that in a capitalist society? Not purchasing the fireworks.
This year I’m also very aware of the boarding schools in Canada and although its there…it begs the question what has been covered up here?

My in laws once told me to avoid the Reservations in Minnesota because they might attack me?!?!?! And I realized just how deeply we ingrain the lies we are told by the whispers of whiteness.

Unseen and unheard - how can we help share Native stories this holiday?

Are we there yet?

The last month has been….woof.

I’ve wanted so many times to sit down and write, but I couldn’t even find the words.
Because the words hurt and burn coming out.
The words that I want to say smash and demolish my hope of a different world, a free world.
It hurts to want to tell your mom that she is racist and always will be.

This month started out ‘innocently’ enough. Rampaging against MLMs and Rachel Hollis and The Holistic Psychologist.
I couldn’t tell you the number of DMs from white women that I got - ‘I never liked her anyway, I was never in an MLM’ etc
You don’t have to prove that you’re a good white person with your words. You have to show me you’re a safe white person with your actions and your willingness to be messy. Your willingness to be challenged and feel pain.

Then there was Daunte Wright.
I watched the same old tired arguments.
And I watched how people missed the entire connection to the white supremacy of the online marketing industry.
This pervasive need to be in denial is what allows for Black men to be openly killed by the state.
It is what allows us to doubt that a murderer would be convicted (even with a 10 minute video).
It’s all connected.
And its insidious and its easy for white passing and white folx to distance themselves…but that’s the same thing men do with their #notallmenmovement.

We will not be there until Black people are not murdered in the street.
We will not be there until white people stop popping up in my ‘safe’ inbox to tell me they’re a ‘safe’ white person.
We will not be there until white feminism is openly spoken about.
We will not be there while coaches and white people tell me to monetize my activism.
No, I will not monetize my pain, I will not profit off of the trauma of my people, I will not market in deception.
And until we get there…we are not there.

Accountability is a step.

Justice is a new system.

Separate, but equal

Separate, but equal originated in the Plessy v. Ferguson case in 1896, which cemented segregation for years to come. The idea seems idyllic at face value, it makes whiteness comfortable and still allows BIPOC to engage. The question to be asked was ‘who determines what is equal?’ Segregation (according to whiteness) ended in 1964.

But it didn’t really end did it?

When researching for my latest IG post I noticed just how many Black women were the FIRST period and yet many times history reflects male accomplishments (even when regarding BIPOC achievement). It’s an odd dichotomy isn’t it? Women are so often the first, but rarely recognized as such.

We recognize them in our communities of women, but it is rare for their accomplishments to be recognized by men.

And frankly I am tired….

Of accepting that mentality.

Of accepting that because it’s recognized by some that it is enough.

Of accepting separate, but equal.

Women’s history month is filled with so many strong women, but so many were and are kept from the table of men. Separate just isn’t good enough anymore. Our own table isn’t good enough anymore.

I recall a time when I didn’t believe this and perhaps that makes me radical, but nothing ever changes if nothing ever changes including our thoughts.

My Dad's Story

Over Black History Month, I’ve been privy to so much celebration of larger than life Black activists, creators, musicians, and humans. But I wanted to share some of my dad’s stories that I have carried with me and that will remain in my family.

My dad is 72 and lived during the height of the Civil Rights movement. He witnessed the murder of Martin Luther King, JR. He witnessed ‘mulatto’ being removed from the census. He witnessed Loving Day (1967) become main stream.

My dad is a tall man, but is pretty unassuming. He carries himself highly, but mostly likes to keep to himself. He demands respect thru his kindness and selflessness. I get almost all my features from him-eyes, nose, lips, cheek bones, smile, undertones-everything, but the melanin. I’m slightly more fiery than him, but I do carry a lot of his calmness and thoughtfulness.

Now let me tell you a couple stories:

There’s a story my daddy tells of living in the south when he was a kid. He’d go to school and Mr. Jenkins could silence the hall with a small throat clearing. That was the person my daddy emulated. The person he wanted to be and the person he is today. He’s the person that does things so quietly that you barely notice, but he makes a monumental shift in the room.

Another story was when he attended Jr. College. He was one of the FIRST four Black students at the school. The student’s cars were attacked, they were called names, they were ostracized. But my dad doesn’t talk about this time in a negative way. He talks about it on how he became him. How he faced adversity and instead of being angry about it, he stood in it and learned how he DIDN’T want to be.

The last story I’ll share is when he resigned from the military. My dad entered the Air Force after school, he never flew (he’s afraid of heights), he worked with the computers (he’s a programmer). At one time, they were working to develop a new highly lethal bomb and how to deliver it. My dad walked away. He didn’t want to have a hand in destroying the world, he wanted to have a hand in stabilizing it.

These are the stories of my dad that I’ll be passing to my students and my children. It’s my personal history.

As we wind down Black History Month, I’d love for you to share a story that made a difference and how you’re going to carry that with you for the rest of the year.

Racial Awareness

I vividly remember the first time I was keenly aware that I was different, that something betrayed me from fitting in with the white kids at school.

Before going to school, I never noticed my dad’s skin color. When I went to his softball and volleyball games there were loads of other people that looked like him and kiddos that looked like me in varying shades.

I remember in Kindergarten being asked, ‘why do you look so funny?’ by a boy in my class.

Out on the playground as we got older the white boys targeted the ‘different’ people by tossing pebbles at us as we played.

It was in those moments that I realized white people thought of me as an other. If you ask my dad he’ll tell you that we didn’t talk about race until I was in upper elementary school, but I was certainly aware.

I remember how my peer’s views of me changed over the years. Even the white girls as I developed into a curvier figure with a larger voice started to lump me as ‘different’ along with the other biracial girl at school.

I wonder often about my kids-what they’ll look like…will they get their dad’s olive tinged Norwegian skin, will they get my undertones which are almost impossible to place, or will they be darker than us. And how will we talk to them about race? How will we teach that 2 year old that the world is going to treat them different, giving them a side eye because they have a different shade than their parents.

And then I forgive my parents for letting me figure it out alone. For entering the constant commentary of ‘what are you?’ ‘why are you so white?’ ‘you’re so exotic.’ And that’s just the light stuff.

When did you first become aware of race and how do you/will you talk to young people about it?

An Open Letter

An open letter to higher education music departments,

There is an insidious problem in higher education music departments around the country. It is one that for the last 100 years many have tried to address, but none succeeded in changing it. We view progress as having a BIPOC professor and assigning them the task of teaching the music of their people. We have banished, almost entirely, the music of women and BIPOC artists from the standard repertoire. We assign the very sound of a voice based on the look of a person; if you are black you must be able to sing gospel (and opera is just a plus) and you’ll likely be hard pressed to find a teacher in most departments who is trained to teach you.

You see, we beat out creativity from the earliest stages of music lessons. We tell children that the scale is one thing, despite being trained in first piano and voice lessons to sing/play pentatonic scales. We tell them that only the music on the page is right. From the earliest moments of music making we deem ‘correctness’ to be the goal. We try to make young children pitch their voices higher and if they won’t they don’t pass to the next level. By doing so, we remove diversity. 

I started singing at an early age, maybe 5 or so. My earliest memory is as a Wiseman (under the watchful eye of a white depiction of Jesus Christ) where I ran off stage because I wasn’t correct. I remember thru high school thinking I was stupid and not talented because my voice wouldn’t do what the white kids’ could, despite my white skin. By this time I had learned that it was best to keep my biraciality quiet. When I arrived as a freshman at Luther College, I had a diversity scholarship for my 50% blackness, but I still wasn’t allowed to pursue my voice in its truest form.  To be honest, I don’t think I heard about a single BIPOC artist outside of singing spirituals in choir throughout my entire undergraduate (or graduate) career. And THAT is the problem.

Organizations and colleges are flabbergasted right now at just how little their professors know about the music of anyone other than dead white men. They are starting to tear down the idea that this may not be the most effective music to learn from. And they ask, ‘what can we do?’ The answer is simple: teach BIPOC music alongside the white repertory and find similar lessons that you find in white music, trust that it isn’t hard because much of our cannon currently can be traced to African roots.

Since my time in academia I have readily embraced my biracial heritage and built my career performing and teaching music of all genres and all races. I have coached nearly a hundred voices to their own unique glory. They are not cookie cutters like I was taught to teach. Yes, technique is essentially the same for every voice, but uniqueness requires an ear for something other than the white sound we hear from the majority of the walls of the largest opera houses in the world. I do not credit my education for teaching me this, I have had to adapt. 

21st century musicians and educators are having to adapt just to survive. Teaching that there is only one path to ‘greatness’ is no longer acceptable. Teaching that there is only one sound for a fach is no longer acceptable. Teaching the standard repertoire no longer effectively equates into a successful musical career. 

Covid-19 has devastated our community. We can continue to sit on our hands and wait for someone to save schools or we can work together to save them. Reach out to your networks of alumni working in artistic activism, arts administration, and education to have them speak and share their experiences. Learn from us what you can do better. Those of us not insulated by collegiate positions are still successful and our success should be acknowledged by you, whether it is on the path you thought you created for us or the ones you thought you snuffed out.

Acknowledge. Become uncomfortable. Uncomfortable enough to change. To survive we must change the system together. 

Respectfully,

Tara Priolo

Luther College ‘13

University of Minnesota, Duluth ‘15

www.tarapriolo.com

Born a Statement

‘Politics’ and ‘political’ seem like the dirtiest words in the book right now. Even dirtier perhaps than ‘racist.’ Everywhere I am seeing responses ‘we’re not a political organization’ in response to asking for a simple post on Black Lives Matter. Some organizations have even gone so far as to put out a statement about COVID-19 (a seemingly more and more politicized disease), but point blank refused to put out a human rights statement on Black Lives.

A few weeks back, I was listening to a live stream on Instagram from Biracial Unicorns, where they were discussing their exhaustion and their feelings as social media once again left BIPOC people to fight all alone. I commented on the livestream inquiring about light-skinned and white-passing biracial individuals. The response was, ‘You were born a political statement.’ It was in that moment that I again realized how positive my view of the word ‘political’ is compared to others. —maybe ‘positive’ isn’t the right word.

I’m going to be blunt here, as a white person proclaiming something as ‘too political’ is actively defending yourself from the responsibility and accountability that it takes to become anti-racist (this is a verb not a noun). The classical music world is overwhelmingly white and so the majority of statements from those in top board positions about BLM was simply that a statement was ‘too political’ OR ‘we can’t actually do anything, we’re just a musical organization.‘ Consider. Your. Whiteness. Consider. Your. Proximity. To. Whiteness.

Here’s how I know it is not detrimental to make a ‘political’ statement. I am a political statement. Walking, talking, breathing, existing, singing, preaching, empowering statement. I have made many a ‘political’ statement on my public pages by now, not because I HAD to, but because there is no such thing as a statement that is too ‘political,’ because statements are personal. Show up. Stand up. Do better. Let’s stop compartmentalizing our lives and determining that people are only allowed to comment on one type of thing. Free our words as we free our minds.

14 Days

Grief is a funny thing. Dichotomy in a sentence. I remember the first time I felt true grief, I was 10 and my uncle had passed. I learned about the five stages of grief. I learned that anger was one. I learned that it was ongoing. I learned that it could change you. I’ve felt grief many times in my life. I felt it again two weeks ago when I awoke to see the video of George Floyd, murdered by a white man. Before I went to bed the night before I saw little parts of the story, but I shut it down. I shut out that another black man had been murdered by police. I tried to shut out the grief, but when I awoke Tuesday morning to confirm it, it hit me like a freight train.

I knew what I was about to face as a white-facing biracial person. I knew I was going to have to relive the pain and process of coming out to everyone who didn’t know me to convince them I had a right to grieve this death. That I had a voice and a platform. I had just had a conversation a week before about how sometimes being white-facing is so tricky because you have survivors guilt. I’ll never live the experience of my more melanated siblings, but I live with the trauma of it everyday. I found that I regretted for a long time that I had not been an activist, loudly and unapologetically. So, as I put on my war paint struggling through three different shades of ‘neutral’ makeup to come up with a color that matched my skin, I steeled myself. I took my moment and cried and decided that this time I was going to bring it to my public platforms. This time, I would be the activist. I prepared myself to lose my momentum on socials platforms, I prepared to lose followers and students. I fully expected a backlash.

I started on my personal page, sharing every ounce of information I could find. Researching the Minneapolis Police Department, confronting my friends who shared the video itself. I shared on Instagram that Black Lives Matter, a gateway into what was to come, to prepare my followers of my stance. It wasn’t so long ago that I had begun using the hashtag ‘biracial'.’ I wondered if people had figured it out yet. Tuesday night, I went live on my personal page, and mostly just cried. I grieved publicly. I begged for my white friends to become advocates. I begged for them to support me. I bore my soul that time. I discussed problematic responses, posting at least 4 times ‘Hey white people, here are inappropriate ways to respond….’ I wondered, how many people will I anger. I never wondered if people would follow because I expected they would not.

Wednesday is #coffeechat day on my public platforms. I almost didn’t go live or post on instagram. I was losing myself. I saw posts of white people that were oblivious, that were trying to do well, and something else…white people defending and having hard conversations. It was a glimmer. I forced myself to post on instagram and in the middle my eyes welled up as I said ‘HE MURDERED HIM’ and again as I spoke about being light skinned and less ‘scary.’ Even though I didn’t know it then, that was my first taste of public activism. I sang ‘Empty Chairs at Empty Tables.’ A song that so clearly portrays survivor’s guilt, a song that questions why, a song that expresses grief.

Thursday, I was spent. I couldn’t be present any longer, I tagged friends and watched as the protests ignited into uprisings and then into riots. I had lived this before, I had learned about this before. And my heart was in agony. Again, I wondered, ‘Am I black enough to be speaking about this?’ My husband said he was scared. My father called and didn’t want to discuss the murder because it was just another in a long list. Thursday, I finally slept and recovered from the initial shock of what had happened and what I had done. I wondered if I’d destroyed my career as I watched the livestreams of my city being demolished.

Friday, I had to decide if I was going to come out against or for the looting. A conversation I continue to have with myself. I looked at how I was grieving and decided I could not tell another person how to grieve. I began to see white people still fighting the good fight. I had recuperated so I offered to be a resource, to read the things white people wanted to post, but weren’t sure about. I was a sounding board and an amplifier. Somewhere in there though, I felt pride. I felt like I had always been called to do this.

Saturday passed as devastating as the previous days with no arrests and a curfew in place. We watched the news endlessly as cities burned and cried out his name and the name of countless others. I went live on my personal facebook. I was finding my voice.

Sunday came and I needed to sing. I needed to sing those songs I learned from the black culture. I needed to say that we’d overcome. That I would overcome. Sunday…a semi drove into a crowd of protestors and I felt the familiar tinge of grief and anger. I yelled and screamed and cried, but I posted. I needed my voice to be in the conversation.

The 7 day anniversary of Big Floyd’s murder came and went, I was beginning to realize that I’d uncovered a whole new side of myself. I was beginning to realize that THIS combination of things was what I’d always needed to add. I spoke on a live feed about the world still watching and waiting for us. The conversation fell into the music world with #blackouttuesday and we saw the true colors of many organizations. People were reaching out to me left and right, by this time over 60 people. Slowly, the messages change from ‘how can I help?’ to ‘can we collaborate?’ It was everything I’d been wanting for years, a chance to record the repertoire that fit MY voice or have a piece written for me. I was hit with an overwhelming sense of happiness. The conversations continued, I opened up to my studio about the possible lack of communication because of the mental toll of this event. I began to realize that this was the voice I’d been looking for all along.

By Wednesday of the week following the murder more stories of police brutality came out and the public hadn’t stopped talking about it. The winds of change were at my back. I was finally empowered. I was finally the voice. I was finally proud for the change I had made in my corner. Sharing my story had never been more freeing or gratifying. I was constantly reminded of Rev Martin Luther King Jr.’s quote ‘only when it is dark enough can we see the stars.’

This time was impossibly dark, it still is. The work isn’t done, but I’m seeing the pinpricks of the stars. I’m seeing the very source of change. Change that the history books will site. Change that my generation will teach their children. Change that has come swiftly and inexhaustibly. Change with a welcoming, listening ear. Change that allows for micro-conversations. Change.

At the end of it all, I’ve come out stronger, with less guilt, and more confidence than I ever had before. I see clearly the path in front of me and I will continue to be active. I will no longer wait for the white person to ask ‘Why does your voice sound like that?’ I will instead lead with, I am biracial. I will no longer compartmentalize my growth.

Roots

Over the last 29 days I have shared 26 videos of songs on my social media sites. I began it in an effort to bring joy to people. The first and second song I posted were ‘Lean on Me’ and ‘Lift Ev’ry Voice’ both staples in the Black community. I remember in middle school being asked to sing ‘Lift Ev’ry Voice’ over the intercom, I remember thinking, ‘Am I black enough for this?’ and ‘What will people think of me?’ As I got older ‘Lean on Me’ taught me about my voice and my place in peoples lives. Both songs taught me that my vocal cords love spirituals. They easily settle into thicker orchestrations and thrive in a cappella situations.

Still…I wonder what people think when I sing these songs based in Black tradition, that carry so much heritage and struggle. The songs that I often feel I have no right to touch because my skin passes me off as white even though my soul has felt that struggle. Those videos were some of my best received, perhaps because they were the first, perhaps because of the use I played in one, or perhaps because they’ve been up the longest. Who knows really? During this quarantine I am seeking out music by Black composers or have texts by Black poets or speakers. They fit like that last puzzle piece, they feel easy, unburdened by that of the music of Mozart or others on my voice. It is nice to be encompassed by that, even if its only for a little while.

A first

On Jan 16, 2020 I confessed in front of a room full of people that I was in fact biracial. On that same day I read ‘I dream a World’ by Langston Hughes in front of those same majority white elderly people. And then I proceeded to sing Hughes’ text set by white men that wholly reflect who I am.

I sang ‘What good would the moon be?’ which depicts a woman who chooses love above all else and independence instead of conformity. I sang ‘To be Somebody’ and ‘Prayer’ to help me plant myself. I sang ‘My People’ and ‘Joy’ as I realized this was my place. This was the music I had always been meaning to share. Music that was my story as well as theirs. Music that begs for others to listen. I’m just breaking the tip, but I’m looking forward to digging further into this genre of music.

Afterwards I received numerous compliments and an offer to perform the program again in February (details on my events page). Amongst the compliments there were two that really stood out to me. One by my partner in crime 'Kristine Denton, who earnestly looked at me and said ‘When you sing, people listen.’ This seems like a surface compliment if I come at it from another perspective, but to me it is everything. It has taken me years to come to the conclusion that I hold ample power as a white-facing biracial person. To hear that people not only listen to my spoken voice and social media words, but also the song that exudes out of me is a more powerful statement than I could ever have imagined. I ponder that compliment often and I find myself thinking ‘it was always me wasn’t it?’ Not in an arrogant way, but rather an embracing, loving way. For years, I was taught to hide parts of myself and to bare it all and have it heard, well that’s everything.

The other compliment I received from an African American Thursday Musical member. I watched him play piano last spring. I remember thinking ‘how powerful to see this man playing a spiritual arrangement next to the classics’ I remember thinking about how much it might mean to a little black boy to see him playing there. And I remember thinking how lucky I was to be able to choose when I disclose that I am biracial. He was the person whom I saw in the audience that day and hoped that he would come speak with me. He said, ‘I had a feeling just based on your picture that you were biracial, but I want to thank you. Thank you for showing people that we can and thank you for singing it with your voice.’ It took everything in me to not start crying. He commented on my position on the board and how, that too, was equally important. I am still in disbelief almost two weeks later. Me? Me?!? Really?!?!? An African American older classical pianist just thanked me for bringing forward some of our plight, and not only our plight, but mine specifically. The one that is quietly unnoticed, but the one that means so much to me and now others. The struggle of singing with a unique voice, that is so evidently ‘thicker’ and more ‘colorful’ than those of European decent alone.

I look forward to continuing down this path and finding more underdone repertoire and to perhaps find the biracial voice in classical music, or perhaps create it if it comes to that. If you know any biracial composers or musicians who are biracial please share them below! I would love to contact them!

Joy

Joy
by Langston Hughes

I went to look for Joy,
Slim, dancing Joy,
Gay, laughing Joy,
Bright-eyed Joy–
And I found her
Driving the butcher’s cart
In the arms of the butcher boy!
Such company, such company,
As keeps this young nymph, Joy!

In case you haven’t read the last two posts, I’m in the thick of prepping for a concert performance next week on Jan 16th with Thursday Musical. It is a wonderful opportunity to present some texts by Langston Hughes and to open up a conversation of contemporary voices in music. When I was first offered this opportunity millions of questions crossed my mind, but as time went on I realized, maybe just maybe, this is the start to a project that may become a dissertation or a performance feat or both or so many other things. I want to find the biracial voice in music. For now this is specific to myself as a biracial performing artist in a diverse community (Minneapolis), but also in a wider field where persons of color often do not receive equal representation. As a biracial person I find that more often than not I’m asked to identify with one part of myself or the other, are you black or are you white? I have always refused to choose because while I present as white, my voice does not match, it is colored and impossibly bright, and that, too, is me.

And it has been fairly recently that I have put those two together. This year I have 4 new private students and one of them asked me how I got my voice to feel like myself. It was an interesting question because I’ve never had a student as me that before and over recent years I have considered my voice to be an instrument that is separate from me, something that wasn’t quite able to be contained and so I pushed it to the right. It is wild, it is free, and undeniably different. As I’ve researched and found recordings for this upcoming concert I’ve found that I identify much more with the voices Harolyn Blackwell and Kathleen Battle and Audra McDonald than I do with Barbara Booney or Renee Flemming and this is likely because my voice is far more similar to the former list than the latter. This realization has brought me so much joy I am no longer bound by trying to sound like I look, HOW FREEING.

Anyway, the poem listed above is also one of the songs in Genius Child by Ricky Ian Gordon. It is the last one and he says he wrote it because it was how he always saw Blackwell, whom he wrote the cycle for. It is a lively, loving, sparkling piece and allows for the voice to bloom happily. You can check out my dance moves to the interlude on my instagram (linked at the bottom of this page) and hear it at the concert or via recording once I release those after the concert!

My People

The night is beautiful,

So the faces of my people.

The stars are beautiful,
So the eyes of my people.

Beautiful, also, is the sun.
Beautiful, also, are the souls of my people.

~Langston Hughes

In a few short weeks I will be performing on Thursday Musical’s Artist Series Concert ‘I dreamed a World.’ In a matter of moments I knew what I’d be doing. Parts of ‘Genius Child’ by Ricky Ian Gordon as I’ve had a particular fondness of this song cycle for about 10 years. Text by an infamous black poet and music by a contemporary white man who brought in jazz and blues and all sorts of nifty little nuggets based in the African American traditions. As I was choosing I almost just chose songs that I’d already done, but I thought I’d give myself a little challenge and learn some of the new ones. After all, I’m probably doing the whole cycle (FOR THE FIRST TIME) in June.

Anyway, this particular text and song gave me pause. Firstly, because it’s quite a high setting and as you’ll learn as this blog goes along is my…interesting relationship with my voice. Despite being a soprano, my high notes have never come out quite how I thought they should, slim and brilliant and effortless. But enough on that, the second thing that gave me pause was the text. It speaks about Hughes’ people, representing them by the nature that surrounds us. And I got to wondering…am I black enough to be singing this? Who are my people? Did Gordon have any right setting this text? At first, I reached for anger that yet another uniquely African American saying was overrun by a white person and used for his gain. But then I relaxed into it, I listened to Harolyn Blackwell and Nicole Cabell sing it. I tried it and I felt home. It is a classical melody with interesting chords underneath and is unbelievably gorgeous. A simple tune set with beautiful text and harmonies. And I answered my questions: yes, I am bi-racial it is represented in my voice, my people are my community that I have built through this wonderful thing called music and absolutely Gordon had every right to set this text.

For me

A little bit about me…because how else does a blog begin? You’ve probably seen my professional bio and my teaching one and maybe even one that’s 100 words long. Perhaps you were even lucky enough to catch my little casual blurb that was up here for awhile…telling you that my favorite color is purple and that I love my husband and my pups. So, you could gather that I am a teacher and a performer and an all around passionate, creative human being constantly seeking out new things.

Here’s what you probably don’t know if you haven’t known me for years and are not a member of my closest circle:

For years, people poked and prodded me trying to determine what was wrong with me because the bridge of my nose is too wide and my feet are flat and my eyes are a strange (albeit quite beautiful eyelash flutter) color and I am decidedly shorter than my mom while my dad stands 6’2”. For years, people have commented ‘wow how is your voice so big?’ For years, people have asked me ‘You look exotic, what are you?’ For years, people have sought an explanation for the ways I look and the way that I sing. Here’s my answer: I’m biracial. I am a white facing bi-racial person, with my dad’s eyes and my moms height. My skin color is unique, it doesn’t carry the beautiful pale pink of my mother or the light brown tinged with yellow undertones of my dad. I didn’t actually realize this until a couple weeks ago, standing next to my sister-in-law, she is the palest of porcelain and my skin is impossible to describe. White people often ask ‘what are you?’ black people often comment ‘you must be mixed, I hope my baby grows up like you.’ It’s only in recent years that I’ve recognized the implications of that statement…perhaps they want their baby to grow up white-facing so they can somehow escape what it means to be brown/black in this country…what it means to be different.

For years, I have asked myself…how do I present this? How do I insert two heritages that are vastly different into one? I have long been drawn to African drumming and call and response songs and the dances. I have also always loved classical western music…which tends to be predominantly white. For years, I have tried to make my voice fit into the status quo of the classical world at the moment. It is only now that I have an opportunity to sing music with texts by Langston Hughes and by African American composers that I realize I was trying to erase what makes me unique, as unique as my skin that I mentioned before. My cords are thick, my face is wide, my cheek bones are high. These are all from my black side. They make audition panels either weep (yes this has happened) or they make them question.

So. Why here? Why now? What am I writing about?

I hope to bring shed a little more light on what it looks like to be bi-racial. I hope to bring you some music that isn’t performed a lot. I hope to give you a little insight into the workings of my brain when deciding on pieces. But, mostly I’m doing this for me. Remember that creative and passionate soul I mentioned? Well I’m passionate about a lot: music, writing, politics, social justice, fashion and on and on. So, journey with me as we weave this together.