“I think so. I guess you should ask Maxine. She should know.” Mom walks to her bedroom. I hear her mumble, “I’ve never been to the symphony either.” Her door closes.
I go to my bedroom and stand in front of the closet, looking for something to wear. I try on at least five outfits. Nothing looks right. Either the shirt is too snug, the skirt too casual, the dress too dressy. I think about the money I put away just in case there was an emergency. A new dress isn’t what I thought I’d use the money on, but I have to. I mean, after all, it’s the symphony.
39
música
music
Before the symphony begins, one of the volunteers gives us a tour of the backstage area and talks about the history of the Oregon Symphony. She is white, and the black sweater she is wearing makes her skin look pale and washed-out. “You all should be very proud to be Oregonians. Did you know that before we were called the Oregon Symphony, we were called the Portland Symphony Society? We were the first orchestra in the West, and one of only seven major orchestras established in America before 1900.” She seems very proud of this fact.
The volunteer walks us to the stage so we can see the same view the musicians will have tonight as they look out at the audience. She tells us, “I like to think of our musical sections as different families coming together for one big celebration. You see, instruments in certain families have things in common, like being made from the same types of material, looking similar, and sounding akin to each other. They come in all sizes, just like natural families have parents and children and extended family members.”
I can tell this is something she’s memorized. But still, she manages to say it to us with passion and a smile on her face.
She is hyper, talking fast and high-pitched like the chirping birds outside my window in the early morning. “Our families are the strings family, the woodwind family, the brass family, and the percussion family.”
The volunteer must be offended that we aren’t as excited as she is. Why else would she look at us and say, “You know, some folks don’t think they can relate to this kind of music. But let me tell you, all kinds of people have been lovers of the symphony.”
This part doesn’t sound memorized. I think she’s going off script.
“Now, I know hip-hop is what you kids are all about these days,” she says. “But did you know that James DePreist was one of the first African American conductors on the world stage? In 1980 he became the music director of the Oregon Symphony, and he held the position for twenty-three years.” She walks toward us a little, still smiling. “He truly transformed our little part-time orchestra to a nationally recognized company with several recordings.” She pauses for a moment, maybe waiting for one of us to say something. Then she says, “Fun fact—he was the nephew of contralto Marian Anderson. Their family was from Philadelphia, but she lived in Portland in her last days. Do you know about her?”
Maxine speaks up. “Yes, we know about her.” There is venom in her voice.
“Oh,” the woman says with a smile.
Maxine is not smiling. She folds her arms and says, “In 1939, when she was refused permission to sing to an integrated audience in Constitution Hall, with the help of First Lady Eleanor Roosevelt, Marian Anderson performed a critically acclaimed concert on the steps of the Lincoln Memorial in Washington, DC. She traveled the world.”
“Well, my, yes. That . . . that sums it up,” the woman says.
“She was also the first black person to perform with the New York Metropolitan Opera,” Maxine adds.
“Yes, well, looks like you know music history. I think that’s great.”
I hear Maxine’s breathing intensify.
“Now,” the volunteer says, “let’s get you all to your seats.”
We walk to our reserved seating and sit down, watching people file into the auditorium, dressed in their pearls and ties. Maxine whispers to Carla, “Can you believe that woman? Talking to us like we’re some poor black heathens who don’t know anything worth knowing.”
Carla says, “I know, right? First of all, I don’t even listen to hip-hop.”
Listening to Maxine and Carla, I think maybe they aren’t only offended at that woman’s stereotypes, but maybe they are upset at the idea of being put in the same category as me and the other girls.
The lights fade.
My emotions are all mixed up and jumbled inside.
For the first two songs, all I can think about is that white woman’s smiling face, her annoying voice. And even though we’re all dressed up in our new clothes, even though none of us had opened our mouths and talked to her, she thought we were the kind of kids who wouldn’t appreciate classical music. Makes me feel like no matter how dressed up we are, no matter how respectful we are, some people will only see what they want to see.
I try to let the music wash away that feeling that comes when white people make you feel special or stupid for no good reason. I don’t know how to describe that feeling, just to say that it’s kind of like cold, sunny days. Something is discomforting about a sun that gives no heat but keeps shining.
I close my eyes and try to listen to the music, really focus.
The melody is like an intricate collage. If you take it on all at once, you hear one song, one whole sound. But if you listen for the viola and cello, the flute and clarinet, you hear how each note lies next to the other to complete an image, how the French horn and tuba complements them all. How the piano and xylophone, the cymbals and drums hold them up like a base color. How the picture wouldn’t be the same without each note in its just-right place.
I did not know about James DePreist, and I’d never heard of Marian Anderson. But tonight I feel myself dancing with them. Feel myself traveling the world.
40
el río
the river