3 – The Performance
The next afternoon I had no lessons or rehearsals scheduled, and I could be home to watch over my sister Carolyn, rather than saddling my friend Molly with that chore. Actually Molly didn’t mind spending time with my sister and, as she often did, Molly joined us that day for my after-school duty of watching over Carolyn.

“I wanted to watch this video of an opera,” I said to Molly when she entered the house. “If you don’t want to watch that’s OK, and you can play with Carolyn.”

“An opera? Why?” she probed.

“I just wanna.”

“OK, be that way,” Molly said testily, heading back into the bedroom that Carolyn and I shared to see what my younger sister was doing.

On my return the previous day from my meeting with Madam Laskiewiecz, I had stopped at our Public Library branch and found a DVD of Luciano Pavarotti performing the opera, with a soprano by the name of Fiamma Izzo d'Amico playing Mimi. When Molly left the room, I eagerly put the disc in our player, and pushed the “play” button. Of course, I had to set the sound it at full volume; how else can you appreciate opera?

Soon, both Molly and Carolyn emerged from the bedroom, obviously drawn into the living room by the sound. Pavarotti’s magical voice has been known the thrill just about everyone, including those who claim to hate opera. It was an easy lure for Molly and Carolyn. I was pleased to hear that Ms. D’Amico’s voice was nearly as equally compelling as the great tenor’s.

“Wow, that’s something,” Molly said after Pavarotti, as Rodolpho, completed one of the first act arias.

I shushed her, since I knew Mimi’s song was coming up next. (I had begun to think of it as my song!) As Ms. D’Amico moved into introducing herself to Rodolpho I began singing along with her; I rose from the chair and began flitting about the room, my voice soft and low in volume, seeking to duplicate every move of the lovely young woman performing on the TV screen. I was Mimi, a poor seamstress, finding my love suddenly in the handsome Rodolpho (though by that stage in his life, the aging, portly singer was hardly a typical heartthrob).

When the aria ended, Molly motioned me to pause the video, which I did.

“What?” I said, feeling angry that she had interrupted the opera.

“Your voice, Paul. It’s really beautiful,” Molly said. “You really sounded good, maybe just as good as that singer in the video.”

“You could be that girl, Polly,” my sister added, using the name she and Molly had begun calling me.

I blushed, finding great comfort in their praise. In their mind, and to my joy, I was indeed a girl.

*****
By mid-semester, Mrs. McNally’s chorus was coming together beautifully; even though we all thought we were singing quite well, our teacher pressed us to do even better. She was a stickler for details, making certain we stayed on pitch. She was brutal when someone hit a sour note – even a tiny off-key note – calling them out. How she could determine which of the twenty or so members of the group hit the bad note, I’ll never figure out. Yet, she did it in a gentle, yet firm way.

She was no less sparing in her criticism of those of us who were taking the solo parts, who were the so-called “favored ones.” Sarah, of course, had become the lead alto and Dimitrus Chambers the principal bass. I was the lead soprano, and most of my chorus mates seemed happy for me. Yet, for a few girls, my selection didn’t go too well. Not only was I an underclassman, the fact that I was a boy naturally continued to bother them.

“I wish your voice would change,” one of the said, her tone snarky and nasty.

Hearing the giggles and whispers (coming mainly from the boys) obviously aimed at my girlish voice and mannerisms, I wanted to just fade away, never to be heard of again. Why couldn’t I be a real boy? Or, as the question seemed to becoming up more often: Why couldn’t I be a real girl? Most days, I had sung my solos to near perfection, something that should have made me feel good, but too often I felt devastated. Many afternoons, following rehearsals I boarded the late school bus, ready to break into tears, knowing that I was considered nothing more than a freak, a faggot, or a weird creature of a cruel bit of nature.

“Why are you sad, Paul?” Dimitrus said to me one afternoon in mid-October as we both rode the late school bus to our homes. (The school scheduled several buses that would leave about an hour after classes ended to accommodate those of us who took part in extracurricular activities.)

Dimitrus and I had become friends, since we were working on a duet together. He sat next to me, his large, muscular frame seeming to dwarf me. Already, his deep voice had matured, and even though he was but a year older (he was an 8th grader), he already seemed to be developing a beard. We bonded when I told him about one of my favorite singers, Paul Robeson.

“Who’s he?” Dimitrus asked.

“You don’t know about him?” I asked, incredulous that Dimitrus, a young African-American boy who loved to sing, had never heard of Robeson, also African-American, who had been an All-American football player who went on to be one of world’s greatest singers.

“Oh, Dimitrus, you should listen to him sometime. You’ll be thrilled,”

I told him I’d loan him one of the CDs that mom had in her collection.

“Thanks, but you’re just changing the subject,” he replied. “I asked you why you’re sad, Paul.”

“I’m not sad, Dimitrus,” I replied.

“Don’t lie to me. I can see it in your face,” he said.

“I guess,” was all I said in reply.

“I like you, Paul,” his words simple. And honest.

“I like you, too, Dimitrus,” I said, suddenly feeling much better.

*****
The chorus rehearsed intensely in preparation for the school’s annual holiday concert that was held in the second week of December. For many of us, it was the highlight of the school year, a time when our parents and grandparents would pack the school auditorium to cheer on their kids, hooting and hollering as if they were cheering a performance at the Metropolitan Opera. Not only would our chorus perform, but so would the orchestra, two jazz bands and the brass band. We had two featured pieces, one a set of spiritual songs sung by slaves, with Dimitrus singing solos in “Follow the Drinkin’ Gourd,” and “Swing Low Sweet Chariot.” The other was the always popular and emotional “Ave Maria,” and I was honored to do the solo.

“You seem happy these days,” Dimitrus observed in the few days before the concert as we rode home on a cold night in early December on the school bus.

“You think so?”

“Yes, Paul. And I think I know why.”

“You do, eh? Maybe it’s because I’m thinking about Christmas and what Santa will bring me,” I teased.

Dimitrus laughed, a jovial laugh and brought a sparkle into his dark eyes.

“I guess you’re right,” I said, growing serious. “It seems I’m being accepted by most of the kids now.”

“Of course, you are,” he said. “You work hard and you’re nice and you’re friendly, too. If you weren’t a boy I would want you as my girlfriend.”

“Your girlfriend?” I said, shocked.

“Paul, I didn’t mean . . . ah . . . ah . . . oh, that sounds bad, doesn’t it? It’s just that I like you. Is that all right?”

“Yes and I like you,” I replied, still dazed by his reference to me as a girlfriend.

Dimitrus smiled. “Well, I think we’re best friends, aren’t we?”

I nodded and thought to myself: I’d like to be his girlfriend.

*****
The chorus was the last group to perform before the grand finale when all the groups would gather to perform a couple of Christmas carols to finish up the evening. As we sat through the orchestra struggling through a Mozart sonata, then the brass band brightening up the night with a Souza march and “76 Trombones,” and finally followed by the jazz band’s rhythmical Miles’ Davis’ “All Blue,” I began to get the shakes.

“Are you cold, Paul?” Sarah whispered in my ear.

“Just nervous,” I said.

“Nonsense. You’ve got the ‘Ave’ solo nailed,” she said encouragingly.

Sarah was right; it wasn’t that I might flub up the “Ave,” or that my voice would crack on the high notes, I was scared at the reception I’d get when the huge audience watched me – a boy – sing in a girly soprano. I began to wish that I could sing in one of the gowns that were worn by the girls.

*****
Mrs. McNally always spotlighted the group as a whole, keeping the solo parts brief. I liked that idea, partly because I was fearful of being too prominent and also because her policy helped take away any thoughts of jealousy that the others might have toward us. I wanted desperately to fit into the group, and not to be thought of being different or special.

In our arrangement of “Ave Maria,” the chorus as a whole opened up singing a stanza before I was due to take two steps out from the first row of sopranos to perform my solo, accompanied by harmonic humming in the background. From the opening “Ave” I became enraptured by the emotion of the moment. Stage lights beamed into my eyes and all I could see were faint outlines of faces, reflections off eye glasses and the sparkling of the jewelry worn by some of the women. It was just enough to let me imagine the crowd out there, hopefully enraptured by the beauty of the moment.

I sang as if possessed by an unknown spirit, my voice ringing clear. I was soaring into the ether as I came to the end of the song.

The applause, accompanied by a few whistles and hoots, was spontaneous and thunderous. “Bravo” was shouted out by several persons; I couldn’t tell for sure, but I think one of them was from my dad. Then I did something that I regretted almost immediately: I curtsied.

The crowd applauded even louder with that; then I remembered, I was a boy. I bowed in response and I could hear some good-natured laughter. I had captured the audience. They had accepted me. I realized, however, I had neglected to acknowledge the chorus; after all, their tremendous accompaniment helped to set the emotional power of the music. I turned and gestured acknowledgement first to Mrs. McNally as our director and then with a sweep of my hand to salute my chorus mates. I could see they were all smiling as they jointly refused to bow, but then looked toward me and beginning to applaud.

In turn, I applauded them and quickly returned to my place in the first row among the other girls.

*****
Dimitrus Chamber’s performance of his two spirituals – and the impressive backing of the chorus – may have aroused even more applause. While his solo part in the “Drinkin’ Gourd” piece was small, Mrs. McNally had decided to let him perform “Chariot” as a solo, with the chorus harmonizing softly in the background. It was a powerful performance; I was so happy for him. He also received “bravos,” one from a husky, sounding man; I hoped it was his father, since Dimitrus had confessed to me that his father thought he should be playing football instead of singing with “a bunch of girls and sissies.”

He and I stood next to each other as the two of us led the audience in singing “Silent Night,” the final song of the night.

When it ended, the stage full of middle school performers stood, ready to bow to acknowledge the applause from our parents, brothers, sisters, grandparents, aunts, uncles who filled the auditorium. Dimitrus whispered as we prepared to bow: “You know boys don’t curtsey. They bow.”

“Thanks,” I said, mockingly, knowing he was teasing me.

I bowed, though I really felt I should curtsey.

*****
After the performance, Dad took mom, Carolyn and myself to Fuzzy’s Place, a popular ice cream shop for a treat; we were lucky we got the last free booth as several other families came piling in from our school.

As we waited to be served, Stephanie Stafford, one the girl altos, walked by with her parents; Stephanie gave me a slight wave and I waved back.

“What a beautiful voice you have,” Stephanie’s mother said as the family halted briefly at our booth.

I didn’t answer her right away, since I knew Stephanie was one of the few girls who wasn’t too pleased with me getting the big solo part in the chorus.

“Thank you,” my mom said, quickly rescuing the situation. Stephanie stood partly hidden behind her mom, and it appeared she had a smirk on her face.

The incident eased a bit as Mrs. Stafford introduced herself and her husband while Stephanie and I grunted “hi’s” to each other.

“I figured he may as well take advantage of that high voice until it changes,” my dad said, apparently seeking to save a bit of the boy I guess he thought I should be.

“It was a real treat to hear him sing,” Mrs. Stafford, as the family continued back to a table that had finally been freed for them.

“I don’t ever want Polly’s voice to change,” Carolyn piped up after we were alone.

“What?” Dad asked sharply. “Did you say Polly?”

“No, daddy,” Carolyn replied.

“Yes, Carolyn, you did say Polly,” he pressed.

“I think she said Paulie. She sometimes calls me that, dad.”

Carolyn was seated across from me and I could see she was feeling a bit mischievous; she could sometimes be a bit uncontrolled in her speaking, just blurting out whatever comes to her mind.

“Well, why don’t you want Paul’s voice to change? He’s a boy and it’s going to change,” dad said.

“’Cause he’s my big sister,” she blurted out.

“Your what, Carolyn? Your big sister?” Dad roared.

“Shhhhh, dear. People are looking at us,” mom said, putting her hand on dad to quiet him.

Before he could say anything further, the waitress arrived to take our order.

Father looked up at the waitress. “I’m sorry, miss, but we’ll have to go. Something’s come up,” he said.

He pulled his wallet out, extracted several dollar bills, put them on the table, and ordered, his tone stern and sharp, “Get up kids, we’re going.”

He spoke softly, but directly. He was determined and I knew when my dad acted like this he was determined to do something drastic. I wanted to cry as I slid out of the booth, allowing my dad to slide after me. I caught a glance at Carolyn, wanting to strangle her not only for calling my “Polly,” but to then refer to me as “big sister.” Carolyn already had tears in her eyes; she realized she had let our secret out and I knew she was sorry. I couldn’t be mad at her, could I?

*****
It was a frightfully silent drive home. No one said anything. Carolyn and I sat in the backseat and she was sobbing. I reach over to put a hand on her hands and nodded with a smile, hoping to put her at ease. “Don’t worry,” I said, just mouthing the words and without accompanying sounds. She knew what I said and she mouthed back, “I’m sorry.” I smiled back at her. I know my smile might have been forced a bit; to be truthful, I was scared stiff. My dad never spanked us, but when he was mad at us, the contempt he had in his eyes was more hurtful than even a good whipping. I wanted my dad to like me, and when I thought I heard his “bravo” I was elated.

That joy was to be short-lived; I feared what was coming.

“Get ready for bed both of you, brush your teeth and get into your ‘jamas and then get back here into the kitchen,” he ordered us.

Carolyn and I scurried off to our room and took off our good clothes and quickly got into our pajamas. His order to “brush our teeth” meant we’d be getting no “treat” for the nice night out we had had.

“What’s he going to do to us, Paul?” Carolyn asked.

“I don’t know. He’s pissed,” I said.

“I won’t tell him anything else about our secret, Paul,” she said.

I smiled at her. “Thanks, Carolyn, but I think you better tell him everything. Tell the truth,” I advised her.

“But . . . ah . . . Paul. He’ll get so mad at you.”

“Don’t lie. He’ll get even madder,” I said, trying to reassure her, even though I was hardly reassured myself.

Butterflies flitted about in my tummy as Carolyn and I left the bedroom for the kitchen. I knew the truth would have to come out: I acted often like a big sister to Carolyn and, more importantly, I enjoyed being her big sister. I had no idea what dad would say or how he would act. I knew one truth: he’d be disappointed in me.

*****
“Now Carolyn, tell me about your big sister and Polly,” dad began once we were seated. Mom and dad were at each end of the small kitchen table, forcing Carolyn and I to sit opposite each other. I assumed a stiff position, both my legs before me, my hands clasped together on my lap; as I sat there, I mused that I assumed a position just as if I was a girl. I wondered if I should assume a more masculine posture, but decided against it. I was comfortable sitting as I was.

Both dad and mom had grim looks on their faces.

“Answer your father, Carolyn,” mom urged, offering her an encouraging smile.

Carolyn looked at me and I nodded, signifying that it was OK for her to tell the truth. It wasn’t right for her to get in trouble just because of me.

“Daddy, I’m sorry,” she began, beginning to cry. “It’s all my fault. I asked Paul to play with my dolls with me after school, and we did. I had so much fun. I liked to think of him as my big sister and began calling him Polly. That’s all.”

“That’s OK, Carolyn,” mom said, commenting before dad could say anything. “You see Charles the kids were just playing. Paul was just being a good baby-sitter.”

“Do you do that often, Carolyn?” dad asked.

“I guess,” she answered, looking down at the top table. I could see she was going to burst into a crying spell soon. I hated to see her in pain.

“Daddy,” I said, unconsciously addressing him as a girl might to her father, hoping to spare my little sister more interrogation. “We do it almost every day.”

He turned to me, eyeing me closely. Suddenly he loomed large in front of me, a seeming giant leering at me and readying himself to attack me.

“And you like being a big sister called Polly, do you?” he screamed at me.

Even though I felt like crawling under the table, I held my erect seated posture. I nodded hesitantly in the affirmative. I knew I enjoyed being a girl called Polly and being Carolyn’s big sister.

“What the hell is going on with the kids?” he stormed. “I’ve got a fairy son who thinks he’s a girl. I won’t have it. And I’ve got a little girl who likes her big brother to be a girl. What’s happening?”

Mom got up, squeezed behind through the narrow space that separated my chair from the kitchen sink. I felt her give my shoulder a gentle caress as she passed.

“Now, Charles,” she said getting to dad’s side, and grasping his shoulders. “Let’s calm down.”

By then both Carolyn and I were crying, our sobs noisily filling the tiny kitchen.

“What did we do wrong, Elizabeth?” dad asked, having calmed finally calmed down.

“Nothing, darling,” mom said. “We have two really great kids. Let’s just try to sort this out.”

Dad merely nodded. He put his head down, onto his hands and thought he must be thinking. My own sobbing subsided and finally dad lifted his head from his hands. He looked first at my sister and then at me. I wasn’t sure what he had on his mind.

He turned toward mother and said, “I guess I promised us ice cream after the concert. Elizabeth, I think we have some ice cream in the freezer, don’t we?”

“Yes, honey.”

“Well, we need to celebrate Paul’s great singing tonight, so see if you can find some chocolate sauce, too,” he said.

Mom got out the ice cream; because we had only a partial carton left, we all had small portions, but dad made sure I got the largest piece as well as the most chocolate.

“Did you hear my ‘bravo’ Paul?” he asked as we ate.

“I thought it was you, dad. I was happy you liked it even though I sang with the girls.”

“It’s the most beautiful ‘Ave’ I’ve ever heard,” he said.

We were shooed off to bed after we finished the ice cream. Dad told us to brush our teeth again, since we had eaten. He grabbed my arm, told Carolyn to head into the bedroom and then dragged me into the living room. He sat next to me on the couch.

“Paul, I’m not happy with this girl stuff, you know, but I also know you’re very special to your mother and me and we want you to be happy and have a full life. Mom and I’ll look into this. It appears you like the idea of being a girl and I don’t understand it.”

“Dad, I’m not sure I really want to be a girl, but I do like doing girl things. I’m confused,” I confessed.

“I love you,” dad said, kissing me on lips. We hadn’t kissed in years.

I slept soundly that night.

(To hear the voices of Ms. D’Amico and Luciano Pavarotti since “Mimi’s song,” go here: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=OkHGUaB1Bs8

(For a sampling of Robeson’s voice, check it out here: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gtLcELU1brA&list=RDgtLcELU1brA)