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theroadinward · 7 years ago

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Performing Otherness

My otherness is not something that I wear. It is not something that anyone walking down the street would ascertain. I am gay, I am an immigrant, and I am someone who struggles with mental health.

The way that my sexuality is expressed is through who I love and who I choose to have sex with. While sexuality can, at times, be a performance (think of the drag queens, the leather daddies, the twinks in glitter), mine is not, or at least, not to that extent. That is somewhat choice, and to an extent, it is not a choice. We are, after all, born this way. In any case, the self is always a performance to some degree.

I am an immigrant, from Canada, not a nation that one sees people up-in-arms about (aboot?) when you turn on the television. Furthermore, I am a white immigrant without an accent. My status on this front is something that I divulge at will, not something that’s visible on my shell.

My mental health is, in the most general sense, a huge inconvenience and frustration, but far from a fully-fledged disability. My experiences with anxiety and depression have never interfered in my life to the point where they have led me to lose a job, to lose my home, lose my friends and family at large, or reach a lifetime limit on health insurance. It is something that affects my ability to navigate the world, but I would not, in most senses of the word (especially not in the legal sense) be considered disabled. My otherness in this category is also something that I can disclose, or not.

The fact that my othernesses are invisible grants me an exceptional number of privileges, namely that, on the surface, I can easily pass as a straight able white cis male natural-born citizen of the United States, and receive all of the access that grants me. And I feel like a fraud for doing so, because some of those things I am not, but I appear to be.

It also grants me the privilege of occasionally seeing people for who they really are, hearing their comments about gay people, or immigrants, or the disabled, when they think that no member of that cohort is watching them. Furthermore, it grants me the privilege of being able to be an advocate for those communities in settings where there might not otherwise be advocates present. Again, this is a privilege of access. In those moments, I am a double agent.

I think of Julius Eastman, who was another/an other (a black queer man operating in cis hetero white cultural circles), and chose to embrace his marginalized status by conferring his works titles like Gay Guerrilla or Crazy Nigger. Especially given the brand of music that he was writing, pulse-based minimalism, it wasn’t necessary for him to make those artistic choices, but it was necessary for him to assert who he was, assert his difference, assert his way of being in the world, assert his truth, and disavow any attempts from The Academy to place an award on his music and set it on the shelf in the name of Diversity without having a larger conversation about what his work (and his personhood) represented. He was not a person to be used and used up. Eastman performed his otherness and used it as a polemic, as an interventionary tactic. Whether he did so because he wanted to, or because he had no choice, I do not know. I wish he were around for us to ask.

I think of Teju Cole’s remarks on being a citizen, that citizenship is “an act of the imagination,” that learning to be American involves not just what America claims itself to be, but also all of the illusions and lies that our people claim as truth, that we are the home of the free and the defender of freedom, that anybody of any socioeconomic status can lift themselves up by their proverbial bootstraps, that we are in a post-racial society, that our cities were built on things other than historical atrocities.

As a queer person, I find value in performing otherness, even though I do not have to. It is a duty, if anything, in service of those who do not have a choice, especially given the flux of law at this moment around marginalized communities. In a society with 45 and his court of sociopaths at the helm, the situation is dire. As Cole remarks, “the viciousness of law must be taken as seriously as the cruelties of war.” (Known and Strange Things, 286)

All of life is a performance. It is a performance of the self, of our many selves, but some of us face (are blessed with) a wider deck of choices about what and how much we choose to reveal. It is crucial to be aware of that gradient.

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theroadinward · 7 years ago

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What Made Me

The expanse of Alberta. Astor Piazzolla and Jack van Geem. Johann Sebastian Bach. Paul Yancich saying “Okay, there’s your first problem” in his pensive drawl. e.e. cummings. The fifth floor percussion studio at Colburn and all the people who were in that room with me ever. Ornithology with Wild Up and shedding Messiaen and Ferneyhough with all those crazy people. Using Nair on my chest when I was a teenager. My dad eating ice cream on the outside deck of an Alaskan cruise. Crying after snare drum lessons with Richard Weiner, but being better for it. Seven years of investment in a relationship that was a total bust in the end. Driving from LA to Cleveland. Frozen feet in a ski lodge in Colorado on the weekend. A continuing shameless love for The Spice Girls (especially Scary Spice) for which I will never ever ever apologize. Losing my virginity in the back seat of an 80s Volvo and getting caught by the cops. Alcoholics Anonymous meetings. Letting go of grudges against ex-friends and ex-boyfriends. Driving from Cleveland to LA. Showtunes nights in Palm Springs. That Ellen Degeneres Tulane University commencement speech. Utah at dawn. Rediscovering love with a bear, a cub, and three corgis. Zeltsman Marimba Festival. Aspen and looking up from a hot tub at the stars. Spoleto. Lucerne, even though Michel Cerutti was a cranky vampire. “Music videos” in a Denver basement singing along to Fiona Apple, being “videotaped” by a ginger that may well have been my first gay love. Crying like a buffoon in front of Nancy Zeltsman after I didn’t advance at Tromp. Late nights as a barista and going to class on three hours sleep. 9/11 aftermath. Submitting scathing course evaluations. Receiving scathing course evaluations. Dancing shirtless on my 21st birthday at Bounce on a weeknight, with only five other people in the bar, and vomiting afterward. Finally shaving my head. The joy and shame of being a musician. All the therapists that ever listened to me. Living for a year in “The Armpit of America,” as TIME magazine apparently called it. Dick pics: sent and received. Countless hours fuming over arguments on Facebook. Facebook. Waking up to the news of 49 dead people after Pulse. Great-Grandma’s donuts. Grandma’s perogies. Nana’s meatballs. Papa carrying me on his shoulders long after it was safe for him to do so. Grandpa teaching me how to waterski on Longbow Lake. Leeches in Longbow Lake. Drunk nights across the Atlantic. The violent beauty of Iannis Xenakis. Mom, who instilled in me the value of imperfection. Saying goodbye to a foster dog after eleven months. Surviving every time I thought I wouldn’t.

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theroadinward · 7 years ago

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On Anxiety

ON ANXIETY

20 August 2017

Four years and three days ago, I had my first panic attack. I was in the passenger seat of my mom’s car on the 405 North. Later that day, I was going to Lucerne for a music program. The side of my head went flaming hot, I was dizzy, she couldn’t get me to the ER fast enough. I thought I was dying. I knew I was dying. My partner at the time didn’t show up to the hospital—it was the beginning of the end—a slew of times that he would not show up for me in any sense of the expression.

Since then, there have been countless times where I’ve been convinced I was dying, and not in that philosophical “we’re all slowly dying” way, but the intense adrenaline rush of feeling like I’m in a car that’s about to be crushed at any moment. The feeling like my limbs will be pulled from my own body like string cheese. The feeling like my brain will implode. The feeling like my surroundings will warp like a Salvador Dali painting. The feeling like I’ll be pulled underwater. The feeling like I’m being smothered by a traffic of ghosts that surround me. The feeling like I’ll be swallowed up by my own tears.

Since then, there have been countless times that I’ve felt like a prisoner in my own body, like it’s something that’s not my own. I am at the mercy of my shell. Like so many others, I have tried to escape—through booze, through weed, through medication—all of it has only helped temporarily.

That pivotal point in my life at which this became a problem, four years and three days ago, defines me more than anything else. It feels like it has been forty-three years. It redefined my relationship to my body, my relationship to other people, my relationship to my career, my relationship to all my environments, my relationship to time, and my relationship to my own thoughts and mind. My whole reality became unreality, something I can no longer trust.

It would be easier if I knew what to expect. Will this be forever? Will I eventually grow out of it? I have no clue, and that’s fucking terrifying.

I will not let this beat me. I will weather this storm for one more minute, for one more hour, for one more day, for one more year, for as long as it takes, or until it takes me.

20 August 2017

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theroadinward · 10 years ago

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Shame: Its Role in the Lives of Young Classical Musicians

As of late, I’ve been reading Brené Brown’s “The Gifts of Imperfection,” a book that deals with the role of shame in our lives, and developing empathy and vulnerability in order to become more whole-hearted and loving people (towards both others and ourselves).

I’m not yet finished with the book, but have already had so many “a-ha” moments as I’ve read it, especially in regards to my experiences in the area of shame as a budding classical musician, and I’m more than willing to bet that many of my comrades in the same field have dealt with the same issues.

Brown offers this definition of shame:

“Shame is the intensely painful feeling or experience of believing that we are flawed and therefore unworthy of love and belonging.”

In her years of research of these issues, she found that the people who felt the most love and belonging, the people that were living wholeheartedly, were the ones that felt a strong sense of worthiness- that they were worthy of love and belonging. The crucial part of worthiness is that it does not have any prerequisites, that one feels worthy of love and belonging right now.

So often we feel (and this list is from Brown’s book):

I’ll be worthy when I lose twenty pounds.

I’ll be worthy if I can get pregnant.

I’ll be worthy if I get/stay sober.

I’ll be worthy if everyone thinks I’m a good parent.

I’ll be worthy when I can make a living selling my art.

I’ll be worthy if I can hold my marriage together.

I’ll be worthy when I make partner.

I’ll be worthy when my parents finally approve.

I’ll be worthy if he calls back and asks me out.

I’ll be worthy when I can do it all and look like I’m not even trying.

I’m sure most of us could add another ten bullet points to this list without much thought.

Upon reading this list I realized that the often unspoken issue of shame in the classical music community stems from our belief that we have to prove ourselves worthy, either to our own colleagues or to non-musicians and society at large.

Among Other Musicians:

The experience of practicing to become a professional classical musician requires one to be incredibly diligent, dedicated, and self-critical. However, because what we do (what we compose, sing, or play) is so intensely personal and emotional, it’s difficult for many of us to separate what we do from who we are. When we introduce ourselves to one another, our name is inevitably attached to our instrument. Our instrument and our person are closely interconnected, and the line between the two is a blurry one. Thus, it’s natural that when we face setbacks, failure or rejection as a musician, whether it’s in the practice room, on the stage, or at an audition, it’s easy to replace the guilt of “I made a mistake” with the shame of “I am a mistake.”

Part of our shame in the musical community stems from our fear of what our colleagues will think of us if we deliver less than what we perceive is our best. This fear is not unjustified. Any music student has certainly heard whispers among colleagues in the hallway after a recital saying far from kind things (ie. “There wasn’t a single note that was in tune,” “Her violin playing sounded like a lawnmower,” or “He has never made a reed that sounds good.”). I’m not talking about constructive or just criticism, but rather hyperboles that may derive from insecurities, or simply because we haven’t learned to turn off our critical practice room mentality and appreciate the power of a live performance, flaws and all. For whatever reason these words are spoken, their presence in our lives frequently fuels a fear that a less-than-perfect performance will result in less respect from our colleagues, either as a musician or as a person.

The other part of our shame from this community stems from our fear of what our teachers and superiors might think of us if we don’t live up to our (or their) goals or dreams. In my undergraduate education, there was a list on the percussion studio wall, essentially a “Wall of Fame,” that listed all of the school’s alumni that were appointed to orchestra jobs or university teaching positions. It did not list probably dozens who may have been great musicians making a living freelancing, or had transitioned to successful careers in other fields. As an impressionable and idealistic young musician, I looked at this list and thought “I want to be listed here, and if I don’t get on this list, I’m ruined.” What I didn’t realize at the time is that if I don’t ever end up on this list, it doesn’t make me any less of a person. Furthermore, if I do end up on that list, it doesn’t make me any more of a person. One of the most freeing experiences in my life since entering conservatory education was when my current teacher, Jack van Geem, confidently told our entire percussion studio “I won’t be any less proud of you or respect you any less if you choose to do something else with your life.” For years I had been buried under the potential shame of not “making it” as a musician for fear of letting down my teachers and myself, and to hear him say that helped me continue more confidently and passionately than before.

By pointing out these things, I don’t mean to insinuate that having goals, working hard and holding ourselves to the highest standards is not important. All of these are critical to developing into a professional. However, it is vital to our sense of love and belonging among our colleagues and teachers that a small amount of constructive guilt over an avoidable mistake does not transform into the destructive shame of thoughts like:

I am not worthy if I miss a note.

I am not worthy if I don’t get into ____ summer festival.

I am not worthy if I don’t advance at this audition.

I am not worthy if I choose to do something else with my life at any point.

Among Non-Musicians:

I come from a very practical family. Many of them are accountants who have led a more traditional life path along the lines of “Grow up, go to college for four years, enter the working force, get married, have kids, retire.” They have all been immensely supportive and loving of my black sheep career aspirations, but growing up in this type of family has at times made me feel self-conscious about the lengthy development and untraditional working lifestyle of musicians that is so dramatically different from those who raised me and still play an important role in my life.

Recently a friend and I were texting about social networks, and LinkedIn came up. I stated that I didn’t think LinkedIn was used quite as much by classical musicians as in other career fields, and he responded “That’s because most of them don’t have jobs!!”

Of course, I was immediately offended and extremely self-conscious. Having been accepted to and attended two of the most prestigious music schools in the country, attended competitive summer festivals, travelled internationally to perform several times, and put I-don’t-even-know-how-many thousands of hours into my honing my craft, reading a statement like that definitely felt belittling to all that I’ve worked to accomplish in my field. Although he has some experience as an amateur musician, he had no idea of what I’d gone through to do all of these things. Was I wrong to be proud of what I’d done? Has it all been for nothing if I don’t yet own a home or have a 401k?

I’m almost certain that every developing musician (no matter their amount of self-confidence, how large their love of music, or excitement about their career choice) has thought the questions above at some point in their lives. Your non-musician friends graduate from college, get 9-5 jobs and acquire all the “stuff” of “real adulthood.” Meanwhile you’ve lost track of the time you’ve spent practicing the xylophone part from Porgy and Bess, or the violin part to Don Juan, or the trumpet part to Pictures at an Exhibition, and at a certain point it can feel like you’re being passed by.

Watching the movie “Boyhood” about a week ago, a particular scene stuck out where the main character states something along the lines of “My mom did all the right things, got married (a few times), accomplished all her career goals, reached all the major milestones you could reach in life, and she doesn’t seem any less confused than me about life having done so.” In other words, accomplishing everything you want to will not necessarily make you happy, and it will not resolve your personal or professional insecurities that lead to feelings of shame. It will not necessarily lead to the conclusion “I am enough,” that allows one to lead a whole-hearted life.

There are certainly people my age in other careers who have a greater deal of prosperity or material possessions, but aren’t necessarily any more happy. Like all people, their happiness has at some point by hindered by thinking “I will be worthy when _____.” Reflecting on all of these things reminds me of how lucky I am. I was blessed to have had a family and teachers that encouraged me into a field where I’m surrounded by people who inspire me every day. I go to school for and make modest money doing something that gives me profoundly emotionally changing experiences on a regular basis, and that constantly challenges me artistically and creatively. My professional community does something that aims to accomplish nothing more than bring more beauty, creativity and joy to the world and create an emotional impact on the people around us. While I’m certain that I haven’t had my last experience that makes me feel some shame in my path, reminding myself of all the infinitely wonderful aspects of this world is something that reinforces my belief that I am doing the right thing with my life.

"Joy is as thorny and sharp as any of the dark emotions. To love someone fiercely, to believe in something with your whole heart, to celebrate a fleeting moment in time, to fully engage in a life that doesn't come with guarantees- these are risks that involve vulnerability and often pain. When we lose our tolerance for discomfort, we lose joy." -Brené Brown, from "The Gifts of Imperfection"

#classical music #shame #conservatory

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