Evolution of a Species

Gender stereotypes dog us. Men use hammers, women use potato mashers. Men repair cars, women repair broken fingernails. Women go to the bathroom at restaurants together, men pee with strangers. Women empathise, men show by example. Men BBQ, women bake. Woof.

Hmmm. Well, last Monday, over Thanksgiving dinner with friends, some stereotypes were happily ignored. Sure, a lot of the meal was cooked by the woman of the house, but the man of another house brought over a pie, a cheesecake, a mess of biscuits and some home-made butter. His wife just sat there, sipping her wine and beaming. And the men cleared the table and washed the dishes. That did not happen in my family when I was a girl.

Three cheers for small, incremental, geologically insignificant, but nonetheless encouraging social changes.

Singing Lessons

I’ve never thought I was much of a teacher. That’s not what I went to school for. Music school was there to teach me to be a better musician, not to show me how to get others to the same point. The idea of me molding, modeling, encouraging, tweaking, coddling, or nudging a young singer was so vague it might as well have been a wisp of smoke in the metaphorical distance. Laughable! That was a job for others, I blithely declared to myself. Tra-la-la! I was on this earth to perform. At least, that used to be the mantra.

A few days ago, I hugged my last student goodbye, after subbing at a music school for three months. And, I actually had the feeling some of those girls were going to miss their lessons with me. This has kind of knocked me sideways because most of the time I’m in that familiar mindset of fearing they’ll figure out I’m sort of a credential-less fraud, like a female Wizard of Oz – frantically pulling levers behind a velvet curtain at the back of the classroom, filling their brains with nothing but hot air.

But damned if I didn’t actually have something to teach them. Holy moly, I actually saw and heard changes. Note ranges increased, and rhythms sharpened. Voices sounded more effortless and words were sung with actual feeling. They didn’t carry that knowledge in with them. I gave it to them. Huh! And double-damned if they didn’t teach me something back. I learned to lay things out in a slightly different way for every student. I learned there’s baggage: that they may pretend things are normal, but starting at a new school, or having a backpack stolen, or getting into a fight with their mother, or not eating enough before their lesson could really mess them up and be heard in their voices. I learned that having a good lesson could palpably lift their moods – and mine. These are all genuine, giddy revelations.

I’m still a student, taking lessons from my own voice teacher. It’s something that we who continue to sing will do from time to time, even in middle life, to keep on top of our game. Most of my singing life I’ve been gathering up knowledge like kindling and stuffing it away for later use. I’ve set it alight on stage and shared it with audiences, but that’s fleeting, and more emotional than cerebral. I think this is the first time I’ve really been aware of passing it on in a form that might just get passed along to others. That may or may not ever happen, but nonetheless, I guess I’d call that a wee little legacy.

Sweet thought, that.

"BURP!"

I gorged at a cultural all-you-can-eat buffet last night. Literally and figuratively. It was Toronto's 5th annual 'Nuit Blanche", or 'White Night'. It's an all-night 7 p.m. to 7 a.m. art-a-thon, free to the public, spread out over many parts of downtown. I joined a friend's family and we wandered around one particular neighbourhood while I and their 11-yr. old daughter had the energy. [Side note: One sad thing about having a regular church choir gig is the Sunday morning babyhead blues. Babyhead: as in, a sleepy baby whose head flops over (got that from a Fringe play way back when) -- often during the sermon. So Saturday nights are generally more sedate than I might otherwise choose. And Sunday mornings more exhausting.]

Lots of stuff was going on, both programmed and spontaneous. Bikes you could temporarily sign out and ride, covered in LED Christmas lights powered by a generator on the bike or, slightly less eco-friendly: a bike covered in multi-coloured glow sticks. Multiple stands equipped with hobo-style oil-drum wood fires, at which volunteers from a prestigious cooking school were serving gourmet grilled sausages and fair-trade, organic hot chocolate. For free. You could keep the mug, and get a free blanket, both of which were inscribed with the word, "MERCY". This was all a nod to the recession, the extremes to which society had dipped in the past (the Dirty Thirties), and an attempt to embody comfort in hard times -- among other things, probably. The many lucky patrons, including me, were a bit gobsmacked at this kind of generosity.

We also partook of amazing free hamburgers, courtesy of a local bistro. High-end, hand formed, marinated, full size, nice bun, free burgers. Damn. Yes, I will go back there someday and patronize that establishment because they went to the trouble of making these amazing hamburgers just to give away. And around the corner, a crowd of people shuffling in a corridor between two buildings. They were wearing huge paper bags over their heads, with eye holes cut out. As we sidled past them, they apologized to all who passed by, over and over. It was amusing and disconcerting, and oh so very, very Canadian.

Because the event takes place at night, most of the art works involve light, including a projection of a story, in giant, plain, black-and-white Gothic font, on the side of a building. The story progressed to the accompaniment of a jazzy, electronica-tinged soundtrack. What really impressed me is that, primarily through the language of the story and the rhythm of the music, and little else, emotions and humour came through, loud and clear. Instructive.

I wish I could post the pictures, even if they were taken by my beyond-crappy cell phone camera, but, alas, they are compressed and I have yet to figure out how to spring them from their digital prison.

There were a lot of other things I wished for that night. Mostly for the energy and time to have seen more. This was only a small taste. All I can hope is that I painted a vivid, albeit all too brief, portrait of a magical, generous, delicious night on the town.

The End of the 'N-word'

This is the embodiment of an eloquent, persuasive call to action. To borrow from the blogger at Red Tory, this reminds us to "act in a manner as great as our thoughts." And the kid is only ten years old. With a command of language and poise like that, he will go far.