This was supposed to be our fresh start. A 600 mile trek west on I-80 from the city limits of Detroit to the cornfields of central Iowa. The task within the job description seemed a perfect fit; rebuild a flailing department that had once been called a “jewel” for operatic training. I was so excited to get my feet on the ground and start inspiring students and boosting morale. If 3” pumps had bootstraps, it would be fair to say that I am definitely a “pull yourself up by the bootstraps” kind of woman. Being a woman was my first mistake.
Of a full-time faculty of nine, I was the only woman. I pointed this out to some of my colleagues when I ran into them in the hallway before the academic term started. One grunted and said it was “just the way it played out.” I should mention that at many academic institutions, voice professors are still a gendered hire. They specifically seek men or women to teach students how to sing based on voice type (I have lots of thoughts on that). Some days I would sit back and wonder, “If they hadn’t specifically needed a soprano, would they have been content to have an all-male faculty?” The only other full-time female employee in the department was a staff pianist, a doctor in her own right, but not considered faculty. That should have been a clue.
I attended the semester opera auditions in a suit. It was my first time hearing and meeting the students. Many of the students did not prepare anything to sing, stumbling through “My Country, ‘Tis of Thee,” a rumpled paper provided by a colleague in hand. I am not so “old school” that I adhere to the necessity of the jewel-tone wrap dress, but the students here wore flip flops, ripped jean shorts, and came with dirty hair and wrinkled t-shirts for their auditions. I was not angry with them, but rather shocked at the deep level of depression within the program. The rest of the faculty did not bat an eye. But it’s our job to teach them to be successful beyond these doors, right? What if they showed up in graduate school like this because they believed it was appropriate behavior?
I never understood being well-rounded to mean “equally bad at everything.”
I noticed there were program-wide gaps in the abilities of the students. Again, I did not blame them but recognized what they had not yet been taught. I could teach them, and I did. Most within my studio saw speedy and recognized improvement. It was not the students who were deemed the big fish in this puddle, but rather the ones who had been discounted who really flourished. I saw the passion for learning and progress begin to grow in them. They discussed operas and their favorite singers they had discovered with me. They stopped by my office to play me video clips of their practice sessions, gleeful with a note they had hit or a phrase they had executed a certain way. It was a joy. The big fish? They were not quite as open to learning. I suppose that is the way. In a field prone to people-pleasers, it is a natural human quality to gravitate towards the professors and mentors who already tell us how good we are. And in this subjective field, if we don’t like what someone tells us, we can always find another opinion.
I was not the only “younger” faculty member, but the way I related to students was very different. Perhaps it is because I have a good amount of life experience. Perhaps it is because I am a mother, and my own children are just a few years behind the students I was teaching. I have found it uncommon in my field to run into same-age peers who became mothers in their twenties. It is not a criticism, but an observation about the way we relate to students and how much we acknowledge the age-gap. I was not there to be anybody’s pal or bestie. I was there to guide them, to mentor them, to prepare them, and I continue to hold that boundary very clearly.
Faculty meetings were strained from the beginning. I found myself in a roomful of people primed for retirement. Many remembered “the good old days” of thriving numbers and national recognition, and many seemed to have forgotten why they stopped doing this thing or that thing that kept the students accountable. When ideas were asked for, it was common that I would speak up immediately, the room would fall silent or eyerolls would ensue, and then after a circled discussion amongst a few others, someone would pipe up with the exact same idea and pat themselves on the back for “thinking of it.” If you are in any way a marginalized person, I know you will recognize this as a common occurrence and identify with it.
Older female colleagues from an adjacent department initially welcomed me. Then came a day when I defended a student whose role would be cut in half as a “teachable moment.” I made it clear that I believed that was too harsh a punishment for missing a rehearsal three weeks before opening to see a world-famous soprano in recital. I was told they needed to send a message to the rest of the cast. I replied that that was not a teachable moment, that it was simply making an example out of someone. From that point on, despite me not fighting them on their decision, those colleagues never acknowledged my existence again.
That same week, a complaint was made that I was too hard on a student. They had vented to a colleague (which young students are prone to doing), and the colleague did not speak with me, but rather went to the higher ups with it. My teaching was never observed. None of my bosses were even in the music department. I was told by an older man that I did not seem to be warm or nurturing enough. I wondered if he would dare use those words with any of my male colleagues. I pointed out the extra time on weekends that I opened my door to students to drill them on their opera roles, or the after-hours recording sessions with my own equipment and editing for grad school prescreens. None of that seemed to matter.
I met with the dean. I pointed out that the school no longer offers the classes that my students needed to be successful in their major once they graduate. There was no French, German, or Italian available. No opera literature class was offered. I was told that this was not a conservatory; they wanted students to be well-rounded. I made it clear that I am a woman who can sing opera in four languages, who also fixes her own car from watching YouTube videos, cooks gourmet meals, and who took up boxing to build strength when her autistic child grew too big to easily carry when they took off running. I never understood being well-rounded to mean “equally bad at everything.”
The semester went on. Many of my students thrived. They performed regularly at weekly convocation and dressed with pride and good hygiene. They were proud of themselves for getting up and doing the thing that they chose to study. I was proud of them too. I attended the opera and choir concerts to support my students. My colleagues did not speak to me at these events. Faculty meetings grew more tense. The work culture became untenable.
The end of the semester brought relief. And then, at the beginning of the first week of break, a calendar invite from the dean’s office for the following day. It was a Tuesday. Our last meeting had been on a Tuesday as well; 8:00am on election day. With tears in her eyes, the dean told me that I was not a good fit. I told her it went beyond that; I had been treated terribly. She said they felt like I could not represent the school the way they wanted. I assured her that I know exactly what I am capable of. This school didn’t want me. I don’t think they know what they want. The next day, a meeting with HR, a laptop returned, and, days after that, an emptied, ID card, keys, and parking pass left on a desk dark from the beginning of winter break.
I will miss the students, but there is joy to be found in students everywhere. I will miss the feel of real piano keys under my fingers, and the way the strings would reverberate as I demonstrated a clean offset. But, I do have my electric piano next to my bed, and a couple of hours spent rearranging my room allows for a perfectly acceptable studio.
I have been given the gift of time. It will be five more months until my own children finish their school year here. My days are full of creative possibility. I have learned a whole list of red flags, lined up like military color guard, to warn me in future prospects.
I have also gleaned the importance of remaining true to myself. I am, in my most authentic form, untamed. I knowingly sacrificed my creativity and my art for a job that I thought would bring stability to my family. A small town would bring a style of living that would allow us to rest. But color just outside the lines and you’re an outcast. No one can take both the liberal and the art out of “liberal arts” like a small, homogenous town.
And so with the new year comes new possibilities, new hope; both a rebirth and a return.
I’m so sorry, Jenny. I keep seeing this kind of thing happening in learning institutions everywhere, and the fallout breaks my heart. You have a singular gift for making a silk purse out of a sow’s ear, and I think you will land on your feet. But I feel great sympathy for the students you leave behind, and hope that now they have had a taste of what good pedagogy actually IS, and what real growth and progress feel like, they will reach for more, even if it takes them away from the school. I hope your holidays are joyous, and the new year brings fresh promise and a happier relocation.