She sang it in an elaborate, operatic style, and I turned my face to the window to hide my giggle. I mean, it’s a very eighties R & B record, with the hook sung in Michael Jackson’s impeccably smooth signature style, so to hear it delivered like Beverly Sills (a popular Brooklyn-born operatic soprano from the 1950s to the 1970s) was pretty hilarious to my teenage singer’s ears.
Oh, but Mother was not amused. She whipped the volume knob down and glared at me, her brownish-green eyes narrowing and hardening to stone.
“What’s so funny?” she spat. Her seriousness quickly swallowed up the silliness of the moment. I stuttered, “Um, well … that’s just not how it goes.” She stared at me until every bit of lightness faded. Almost growling, she said, “You should only hope that one day you become half the singer I am.” My heart dropped.
Still, to this day, what she said haunts and hurts me. I don’t know if she meant to cut me down to size or it was just her bruised ego talking; all I know is that those words that shot out of her mouth pierced my chest and were buried in my heart.
These words were there in my heart in 1999 when I was acknowledged and respected for my voice and my compositions by two of the greatest opera talents of all time. I was invited to join Luciano Pavarotti in “Pavarotti & Friends,” a prestigious annual fundraising concert for children in war-torn countries, hosted by the great tenor, the maestro, in his hometown of Modena, Italy. (The concert was directed for TV by Spike Lee, ya dig?) It’s an ancient town known for producing fancy sports cars like Ferraris and Lamborghinis as well as balsamic vinegar—and I’m sure whatever indulgences the maestro desired were imported. I brought my mother and my wonderful little nephew Mike with me. I was proud and happy to be able to treat her to a glamorous trip and to introduce her to one of her idols. In a strapless pale-pink silk taffeta sheath gown, my mother watched me share a grand outdoor stage in front of fifty thousand people with one of the greatest and most famous opera singers of all time. Not only did we sing together, he sang my song: Pavarotti sang an Italian version of “Hero” with me, for the whole world to see. For my mother to see.
Then, in May 2005, I met the phenomenal soprano Leontyne Price (the first Black woman to become a prima donna at the Metropolitan Opera and the most awarded classical singer) when she was being honored at Oprah’s illustrious Legends Ball, which celebrated twenty-five African American women in art, entertainment, and civil rights. The historic weekend began on Friday with a private luncheon at her Montecito home, where the “legends” were greeted by the “young’uns,” including Alicia Keys, Angela Bassett, Halle Berry, Mary J. Blige, Naomi Campbell, Missy Elliott, Tyra Banks, Iman, Janet Jackson, Phylicia Rashad, Debbie Allen, myself, and many more.
And throughout the extraordinary weekend, we young’uns paid homage to the legends for their great contributions. My mother would often boast, “Oh yes, Leontyne and I had the same vocal coach,” and here I was hanging out with her (at Oprah Winfrey’s house no less)! Madame Price remembered my mother, and she also validated my talent.
On the day after Christmas that year, on the most elegant, thick, eggshell-colored stationery I received a letter from her:
“In the difficult, demanding business of performing arts, you are the crown jewel of success. To achieve your level of success as a multi-dimensional artist is an outstanding measure of your artistic talent.” It went on to say,
It was a pleasure to visit with you during the Legends Weekend and to tell you in person how much I admire you and your artistry. Your creativity and performances are superb. You present your compositions with a depth of feeling that is rarely, if ever, seen or heard. It is a joy to watch you turn all of the obstacles you faced into stepping-stones to success. Your devotion to your art and career are praiseworthy. This brings you a standing ovation and a resounding Brava! Brava! Brava!
*Dead*
I guess to my mother, I may not have been half the singer she was, but I was the whole singer and artist I was.
This was my first glimpse into how misguided words from a mother can really affect a child. What a simple difference a laugh along from her would have made. Whatever had connected us before, a fragile mother-daughter bond, was shattered in that moment. There was a distinct shift: she made me feel like the competition, like a threat. In place of our previous bond grew a different tie, a rope tethering us through shared biology and social obligation. In no way did my mother crush my dreams of being successful that day; my faith had grown too strong by then.
Having people you love be jealous of you professionally comes with the territory of success, but when the person is your mother and the jealousy is revealed at such a tender age, it’s particularly painful. I was going through some heavy shit then, and for her to expose her insecurity to me in that way, at that time, was damaging. I’d already had so many years of insecurity around my physical safety. Though a subtle, brief moment, this was the first big blow in a
