2 – An Awesome Mimi

During my early afternoon Study Hall period on the Friday at the end of the first week of school, I was summoned to the music room with a note from Mrs. McNally, a teacher who directed the school’s chorus groups. I had heard she regularly put together chorale groups that won school district honors as among the best.

Carrie McNally looked surprisingly young for someone who had achieved such a wide reputation for leading the chorus. She was tall, strikingly handsome and somewhat masculine in her demeanor. Her students were said to adore her, but I was scared of her, perhaps due to my always cautious and fearful nature. She looked like she could be terribly demanding.

“Thank you for coming, Paul,” she said, her face suddenly warming. She had a lovely smile, so different from the teacher who had appeared at first glance to be a cold, hard woman.

“I had to. I got this note,” I said. It was all I could think of to say. People of authority scared me.

“Well, thank you anyway. I’ve heard so much about you and your marvelous voice.”

“You have?” I wondered how she could have heard about me. Did Sarah tell her?

“Of course,” she said smiling. “I got a note from your teacher at Jefferson who urged me to make sure you continued singing. She sent along with a tape from one of the performances you did last school year. I’ve never heard a clearer, more lovely voice.”

“Thank you,” was all I could say.

“I want you to try out for the chorus. Your friend Sarah Simpson tells me you still have that beautiful soprano voice.”

*****
On the school bus that afternoon, I told Molly that Mrs. McNally’s wanted me to join the school chorus and that our grade school music teacher had said I had too good a voice not to perform.

“You’re going to try out for it, aren’t you?” she asked.

“I don’t know.”

“What? Why not?”

“Well,” I stuttered with finding a suitable answer, without revealing the obvious reason: that I might become a laughingstock, probably because I suspected I’d be the only boy among a crowd of girl sopranos. And, from the way Mrs. McNally was speaking, I might become the leading soprano soloist.

“Why not?” she pressed.

“Well, for one thing, who will watch Carolyn after school?” I asked, finally finding an ironclad excuse.

“How many days would you have to rehearse?”

“Mrs. McNally said it would usually be two days a week, except for those weeks before a concert. It might be more then,” I replied honestly.

Molly nodded, obviously realizing the need to watch over my little sister. The money situation at home hadn’t improved, since mom’s hours of work had been cut, putting even more pressure on our parents to pay the rent and keep us reasonably fed and clothed. It wasn’t until we left the bus at our stop that we spoke of Mrs. McNally’s invitation to me. Just before we split up to go to our respective homes, Molly turned to me and said, using my girl’s name, “Polly, I got an idea.”

“What’s that?”

“If our parents agreed, I could watch over Carolyn on those days you needed to rehearse,” she offered excitedly.

“They won’t agree,” I protested.

“They will too. Your mom knows me and my mom loves Carolyn. Carolyn could come to my house after school and stay until either you or your mom got her.”

“Not gonna happen,” I said firmly, hoping the subject would go away.

“You know I like playing with your sister and I know she likes me,” Molly persisted.

We parted without saying anything further. I walked home slowly, reflecting how mad I was at myself for telling Molly of the offer to sing in the chorus. I was also mad at Sarah for telling everyone I had a “lovely soprano voice, as beautiful as any girl’s voice.” The idea that I might be a star singer was intriguing and enticing. Maybe my voice would finally change suddenly and end this dilemma. Yet, I wondered, if I could be a beautiful girl then that would be great. What an intriguing idea.

*****
Mrs. McNally summoned me a few days later – after I had agreed to join the chorus – and suggested that I listen to a few famous arias performed by sopranos. She had sent a note to me in homeroom, saying I had been freed from my study hall period to join her for a brief private lesson two days a week, when she also had a free period.

I wasn’t sure what she had in mind with this special attention, but she had seemed excited when she heard me sing in person. Mom had a ton of CDs at home of opera and, with mom accompanying me on the piano, I had learned the famous “Sì, mi chiamano Mimì” (“They call me Mimi”) from Puccini’s “La Boheme.” It’s a marvelous solo in which Mimi, a young seamstress, introduces herself to Rodolpho, followed by a lovely duet. It was one of mom’s favorites and I began singing it just because it seemed like fun. Of course, I faked singing it in Italian that I had learned to mimic by listening to one of mom’s CDs. At mom’s advice, I read the synopsis of the opera and studied the English translation of the piece so that I could sing the words convincingly, just as if I was the flirtatious Mimi.

I performed a portion of the piece a cappella for Mrs. McNally, apparently hitting the high notes cleanly and without straining. She said she was impressed, and we spent a few minutes while she played recording of some other soprano solos of famous operas, providing some other examples for me to hear.

One aria that stood out, sung on a You Tube clip by Barbara Bonney, was “Ave Maria,” by Franz Schubert. (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=RkxlFhk1FcM)

“You liked that one, Paul?” she asked.

“It’s so beautiful,” I said, truly entranced by the sweetness of Barbara Bonney’s lovely voice.

“You want to sing that? It’s difficult to do well,” she said.

“Please, Mrs. McNally. I’d like to try.”

“That’s the spirit,” she said, giving me a High Five.

*****
Mrs. McNally’s enthusiastic support of my talent was tempered by the fact that I was a boy singing female roles; there were seven sopranos in the chorus and, of course, I was the only boy among them. Too make matters worse, I stood in the front row in a sea of girl sopranos and altos, while other boys filled the ranks of baritones and basses. Most of the other singers in the chorus seemed pleased to welcome me into their ranks, and I heard no taunts or whispered laughter about my unusually high, lovely voice.

Mrs. McNally had smoothed my acceptance, I believe, when she addressed the group on the first day of rehearsals and telling them that she felt all of the students exhibited such great talent that she felt the group could win the state singing championship in the following May competitions.

“We’re a team,” she said, “just as much a team as our football or basketball squads. As you know, the boy who plays center on the football team is just as critical to victory as the quarterback. If he doesn’t center the ball cleanly or fails to block the defender, the quarterback won’t even get a chance to throw the ball.”

“But, Mrs. McNally,” Jorge Alvarez interrupted, “Why does everyone know the quarterback and no one knows the center?”

“That’s a good question, Jorge. And, I know it always seems that way, doesn’t? But, remember what I said: the important point is that the football team wants to win and it can’t win without the center doing his job. His role is not easily noticed, but you can bet that the quarterback and the star end who catches his passes will be easily noticed. That’s just the nature of the game, but every good quarterback fully knows he owes his success to the boy that plays center as well as the other four linemen whose jobs are to protect him.”

“What’s that got to do with us, Mrs. McNally?” asked Emily Waters, one of the sopranos.

“It’s this, Emily. Some of you will be asked to sing solo parts, and that means those few singers will be identified and most likely applauded. Those who sing in the background will likely be ignored, and that can be hard to understand for those of us who don’t get to do solos. We work just as hard, practice just as long, yet only a few will get the applause.”

“Aren’t we all getting applause at the end of the song if we sing well?” asked Dimitrus Chambers, a towering young man whose bass voice had become a powerful force in the chorus.

“Exactly,” Mrs. McNally said, smiling at her crew.

“We get it, Mrs. McNally,” Emily responded.

“And now I’m going to ask you all to help us on something that could be a problem this year,” she said, her voice becoming a bit stern. “We’ll probably be asking Paul Torrance, who is new to the school to be singing some solo soprano parts, and it’s likely to bring some unwelcome attention to us. It’s rare for a boy to have such a high voice by this time in his life, but Paul’s hasn’t changed yet. As we audition for the solos, Paul could easily win a chance to sing solo; I’ve heard him sing and I must admit his voice is clear and smooth and very lovely.

“Paul doesn’t like the attention, but he clearly loves to sing. I hope all of you will accept Paul as one of us. His unique voice may bring some teasing or taunting, but I don’t want to hear any of that coming from his chorus mates. You hear me?”

I hated Mrs. McNally at that moment. I hated her for drawing such attention to me. It showed me again what a failure I was as a boy. I looked down to the ground, afraid to look the others in the eye. I felt humiliated. I was ready to quit the chorus.

Sarah, who sat in the chair next to me, must have sensed my distress. She whispered in my ear, “Look, Paul, she’s saying this to make it easier for you.”

“I suppose so,” I said back, already beginning to fight back tears.

Sarah leaped up from her chair, and said, “Mrs. McNally. May I say something?”

“Yes, Sarah, what is it?”

“Ma’am, I’d like to tell you that Paul has a remarkable voice and could help us win back the state championship this year,” she began. “We sang in the chorus at Jefferson and I was a soprano then, too, and he beat me out for the solo parts. At first I hated him. A boy shouldn’t be singing those parts, I thought. But his voice is so beautiful and can hit high notes so easily, that I realized he was better. Besides, he’s a nice guy.”

I looked up at her, stunned at her endorsement. It seemed like she helped to raise the cloud of depression that had fallen down upon me that day.

“I couldn’t have said it better myself. Thank you, Sarah,” the teacher said.

Mrs. McNally turned to me. “Please stand up so we can introduce you to the rest of the chorus Paul.”

I rose and gave a tentative wave to the others, who numbered about twenty-five. Most applauded, and I sat down quickly.

*****
I began to take my singing even more seriously, thanks to the encourage from Mrs. McNally and growing support from among the girl singers in the group. After auditions, I guess it was obvious that I had the best soprano voice; all of the others sopranos (all girls, of course) seemed to applaud my selection, as well as that of Tamara Lincoln as my backup, and occasional partner in soprano duets. I was pleased that Sarah was chosen to sing the lead alto parts, and that we would likely participate in some dual singing segments.

Most of the boys in the chorus shunned me, even though I had tried to befriend a few of them. It was obvious that none of them wanted to associate with me, for fear that they’d also be branded as some sort of weirdo. Jaime Lopez, who was at Jefferson with me and had been friendly, had also changed; he almost brought me to tears one day as I tried to sit next to him in an English class.

“This seat ain’t for you,” he said, waving me away. “Go sit with the other girls.”

I looked at him, shocked at his attitude. It wasn’t like him.

“Go, there’s a seat right in among the girls. That’s where you belong.”

I took his advice and sat down in the only other vacant seat which was surrounded by seats occupied by girls.

“Sit here Paul. We like you,” Emily, my soprano friend from the chorus, said. Girls were all around me. They all smiled at me.

“Thanks, Emily,” I said.

“I saw how he treated you, Paul,” she said, leaning across the aisle to so that we could talk without being overheard.

“He used to be my friend,” I said, still on the verge of breaking into tears.

“You’re one of us,” Emily said.

I wanted to ask her what she meant, but just then Miss Heppinger called the class to order, “Now today, class, we’ll being learning something about poetry.” There was a groan coming from some of the boys, but I was looking forward to the discussion, having tried to write poetry myself and failing miserably.

She was introducing us to some of the Sonnets of Elizabeth Barrett Browning, starting with the most famous of them that begins, “How do I love thee? Let me count the ways . . .” I loved that sonnet, as did the other girls in the class.

“That’s a corny poem, Miss H,” piped up D’ontre Adams, on the boys.

“No, it isn’t,” I yelled out in protest.

“Maybe you girls like that lovely stuff, but real boys don’t,” D’ontre responded quickly.

“I’m not a . . .” I began to yell back, but was quickly interrupted by Miss Heppinger who told us both to be quiet.

“Both of you be quiet,” the teacher said firmly. She could be a commanding figure in the classroom; she was a large, husky woman who seemed quite old to me. I remember some of the boys talking about her among themselves in the cafeteria and then laugh after one commented she was obviously too ugly to ever get a man. “I bet she’s still virgin,” one boy said. “Nah, she’s gotta be a lezzie,” piped in another. For some reason I felt offended by their comments; I had grown to like “Miss H” because she was obviously in love with teaching us about good literature. Of course, I was cowardly and said nothing at that time.

“Now D’ontre,” she said, “Tell us why it’s corny.”

The boy, a tall, sinewy boy who I knew as a good basketball player seemed tongue-tied for a moment. “I don’t know why, it just is corny,” he finally said.

“You know D’ontre, it’s OK that you don’t like the sonnet. Just because others may like it doesn’t mean you have to, but you should be able to tell us why it’s corny,” the teacher said. Her voice was gentle and kind, and I knew she never tried to belittle a student. I liked that.

“Likewise, Paul,” Miss Heppinger said, turning to me. “You have to have a reason for liking the sonnet and to tell D’ontre why it’s not corny, as he says.”

“Well, it’s romantic,” I said, trying to search for an answer. I found myself as tongue-tied as D’Ontre.

“What makes it romantic?” she pressed.

I tried to figure out an answer; it took me a moment before I finally answered. “To me it’s really one of the most beautiful expressions of a girl’s love for her man. See the numerous ways she tells of her deep love for the man. I can imagine a girl writing this for her boyfriend. I can feel she’s truly in love with him.”

“How do you know the poem is expressing a girl’s love for a boy?” the teacher probed.

“Oh?” I said. “It just seemed that way, but now that I look at it, maybe it’s the other way around.”

“OK, class,” she said. “This is the point I’m making. A good poem will affect each of us differently, but the important point is poetry should be written to arouse your emotions, to make you feel strongly about whatever meaning you get out of it. Now D’ontre, do you still think it’s corny?”

“Well, maybe not,” the boy conceded. “But I think the poem is depicting a guy writing his girlfriend.”

*****
“Paul, how’d you like to get singing lessons from a real pro?” Mrs. McNally said one day, asking me to stay a few minutes after rehearsals ended.

I told her I’d like to, but that my parents couldn’t afford to pay the tuition.

“I wouldn’t worry about that,” she said. “Remember I recorded all of you when you did your auditions. I always do that so I can listen to you all afterward before deciding who should sing what.”

I nodded. I remembered how she insisted that we each sing directly into the microphone she had set up.

“You ever hear of Andrea Laskiewiecz?” she asked.

“Oh yes, she’s a great singer and she lives here, doesn’t she?” I had heard her sing at one of the summer park concerts, the concert where they featured famous operatic arias. It had been a magical night. Madam Laskiewiecz had performed a few times at the Met and often with the Chicago Civic Opera, and had settled in our city, her hometown, where she ran the vocal music department at the Juneau Conservatory of Music.

“Well, I shared the recording of your voice with her,” Mrs. McNally said. “You blew her away, Paul, you really did. And she said she’d love work with you, said you had ‘some rough edges’ but that you had potential.”

I didn’t know what to say; of course, I’d love to study under the great Andrea Laskewiecz, but there was no way we could afford her. Besides, I wasn’t sure what good it would do since I figured in a few months – or at least in the next year – my voice would change and lose its lovely high ranges.

“She’d probably take you on as a scholarship student,” my teacher continued. “The Conservatory has a program for young people with talent to attend without charge, or with minimal costs, anyway. I’d like you to meet her.”

*****
Two days later, I took the No. 30 bus to the Conservatory to meet the great Andrea Laskiewiecz. My heart was pumping a million miles a minute as I walked between the great columns that marked the front entrance of the century-old Conservatory building. I felt tiny and insignificant as I waited in the crowded and busy reception area, looking at the photos of the many musicians and singers who had studied at the school and moved onto greatness throughout the world as pianists, violinists, cellists, jazz performers and singers. I felt I was a fraud to even consider being good enough to be in the Conservatory program.

“So you’re Paul, the lad behind that exciting voice I heard on tape?” Madam Laskiewiecz said, as she beckoned me to sit down in a chair in her cluttered, cramped office space. Books on music mixed with CDs and sheet music folios on her crowded shelves and on virtually every flat space in the room.

Pictures of her family, a prosperous looking older man, obviously her husband, and three strapping teen age boys, who looked like they’d likely be football players rather than musicians or singers.

She spent more than half an hour talking to me, all of the time her piercing dark eyes focused on me, as if she were sending laser rays into my own thoughts. At first I felt ill at ease, fearing that she was discovering all of my deepest secrets, but as the conversation wore on I began feel more comfortable. Soon her tone became gentle and soft, almost motherly, and I grew to feel safe in her room.

Then she surprised me with a comment that upset the comfort I had been gaining.

“I know what’s bothering you, Paul,” she said, her voice kind. “You’re the only boy singing soprano and you think you’ll be laughed at, probably even called names, like ‘faggot’ and such.”

I merely nodded and, almost on cue it seemed, tears began forming in my eyes. I felt I was about to cry.

“That’s the price of being special, of having great talent, and I can tell you’re both,” she said, smiling.

She handed me a tissue to wipe my eyes.

“That’s OK, Paul, real boys cry,” she said.

When I had settled down, she led me out of her office and into a small studio that contained an upright piano and two chairs.

“Now I want you to sing for me. I understand you can sing ‘Mimi’s Song’ from La Boheme, is that right?”

“Yes ma’am, it’s one of my favorites,” I said.

“You know the story, right, about Mimi who sings the song while introducing herself to Rodolpho, a handsome young poverty-stricken poet?”

“Yes ma’am. It’s so beautiful.”

“To sing really great opera, dear, you must assume the part,” she said. “You must be Mimi. You cannot only be a person who is merely singing the words. You have to think, feel and care as if you are Mimi. You got that?”

“Yes ma’am.”

“Good, because if you achieve that, you’ll be a great singer and you’ll be so good, people will praise you and they won’t care if you’re a boy or a girl. You’ll just be Mimi.”

Madam Laskiewiecz then placed a piece of music on the piano and sat down on the bench and ran a few riffs on the piano that I recognized as the intro music to Mimi’s solo.

“Sing now, Mimi, dear,” she commanded after giving me a short pause to collect myself.

“I’m ready now,” I said after running through one of my warm-up exercises to loosen my voice.

“You’re even lovely when you warm up, Mimi,” she said.

At first I was mystified at her calling me “Mimi,” but then I realized she may have been conditioning me to fully assume the role of the French girl; she wanted me to become Mimi, even for this brief audition.

“Paul, Paul,” Madam Laskiewiecz said excitedly when I finished. “My darling, that was magnificent. I was nearly in tears when you ended. You have a few things to clean up, and some of your Italian was unintelligible, but those can always be fixed.”

“Really,” I said, excited by her praise. I felt I had done well, but feared it would not be good enough for a critic such as the Madam was known to be.

“Do you know Italian?” she asked.

“Not really, but I listened to mom’s CD of Renata Tebaldi sing that song maybe a hundred times and just got the words from her, as well as the melody,” I replied.

“You never saw the words in print, nor the music?”

“No, just by ear.”

“Remarkable.”

She agreed to take me on as her student; she knew our family couldn’t afford the tuition, but said she was confident I’d qualify for one of the full scholarships the Conservatory offered for low-income students.

I was in a dreamy state on the bus ride home, excited to tell mom about my meeting with the famed singer and her acceptance of me. My mind drifted to the life of Mimi, how it felt to be a poor, struggling girl in love with Rodolpho. Wouldn’t it be great to play Mimi in a real live opera production? I fantasized about being that pretty French seamstress, standing on the Met stage, looking lovely even in my tattered dress, and singing the Italian words that mean, “They call me Mimi.”