"What's It Like to be Oppressed?"
One day,
during one of my boring piano lessons at Curtis with Eleanor Sokoloff, while I
was playing scales and Pischna exercises as usual, out of the blue Mrs.
Sokoloff asked me: "What's it like to be oppressed?" I thought about
it, and didn't know what to say. This woman was my teacher, after all, and I
didn't know if my answer was going to affect my grade or what. It wasn't like I
felt like my identity was so strongly tied to the black community, aside from
my parents being on the faculty at Fisk University, and my being raised in a segregated
black neighborhood and assigned to segregated black public schools. The black
children at my school had bullied me mercilessly throughout my years there,
perhaps because of my skin-color, or the fact that my mother demanded that I
speak correctly and not use any of the slang that they all spoke. In fact, the
one place where I was free from bullying was at the music conservatory on the
white side of town. That was where I honed my skills, and prepared for my
audition for admission to Curtis. The white kids didn't bully me. In fact, they
respected and admired my talent.
The year I
auditioned at Curtis, they had three openings in the piano department.
Seventy-two pianists came to audition. By the time I arrived there, I had
already performed as piano soloist with many orchestras, and had given concerts
throughout the country and beyond. Mrs. Sokoloff was appointed to be my primary
teacher.
To answer
her question, I think I managed to say something along the lines of,
"Well, people are mean to us sometimes," but I didn't have the
emotional language to describe the heartbreak of feeling that people saw me as
being unacceptable even before getting to know me. I was working so hard to be
accepted by whites, and my parents had instilled it in me that classical music
was the way to their hearts. I didn't have time to think of myself as a black
person. All I could do was focus on being prepared to perform.
But this
white woman's question made it clear to me that she saw me as a black person,
first and foremost. Looking outside of my body, it was possible to forget,
sometimes, that I was the lone African American in a sea of white. I certainly
did not dwell on that fact. I had to function in spite of it. Later, I think I
was aware of feeling a sense of disappointment. I certainly did not feel that I
had answered her question adequately, but to be made aware that she looked at
me and saw a Negro - regardless of how little I associated myself with that
category - made me sad. It sank in that there was nothing I could do to win her
approval, to say nothing of her love. There were other students whom she clearly
loved. She spoke of them often, invited them to her home, had dinners with
them, etc. Of course, they were all white.
I never told
my parents of this incident. They were so busy demanding that I do well at
Curtis, and not let anything distract me. I carried all of their hopes and
dreams on my back. They had finally accepted the reality that America would
not grant them success or even acknowledgement as classical musicians, but they
were determined that their daughter would have the career that they couldn't
have. Little did they know that this woman would do all she could to see to it
that I had the same fate.
Luckily, she
was unsuccessful. But it still shocks me as I write this that I was so
unprepared for such an encounter. My parents did not prepare me for such racist
attacks. I wasn't even allowed to perceive that I was being discriminated
against. If I even suspected it, my father would rush to convince me that it
was not the case. There must have been some other reason why this - whatever it
was - was happening. He was convinced that I was living in a post-Civil Rights
era. I would not have to endure the same humiliations that he grew up with.
Unfortunately, this made it clear that he could not hear about the
discrimination that I endured. I was left to think that the rejections or
failures were simply my fault, and I had to work harder.
I recently
started reading the letters of Leonard Bernstein, who also had been a student
at Curtis. From the tone of his letters, it is clear that his experience was
totally different from mine. Of course he enjoyed the privileges of being a
white man, but his writings were so emotional and personal. He was already
friends with noted conductors, composers and performers, all of whom were white
men. Some were blatantly sexist and made fun of aspiring female musicians. But
it was clear that Bernstein was free to feel that he was among “his people”
while studying at Curtis. I have never had that feeling. Throughout my youth I
was burdened with trying to make myself acceptable among whites, hoping that
their grades would be fair, and that they would become helpful and useful contacts
as I began my career. I don’t know if the males were fearful that I would want
to marry them, or if they intended for me to sleep with them (knowing that I
would not). But none of them offered to engage me or help me. None of them
stayed in touch. Much later, in the age of the Internet and Facebook, I have
found that many of my old classmates are connected, share faculty positions at
various schools, participate in various festivals, etc. It seems to be an
unspoken rule that white musicians will support other white musicians, but the
rest of us are on our own.
I’ve had it
with this blind discrimination and exclusion. It is time to do something! If you are not integrating
faculties, orchestras, and festivals, then you are contributing to the problem.
I am holding you responsible, and you
know who you are!
Nina Kennedy
is the author of Practicing for Love: A
Memoir ©2019, published by RoseDog Books. You can purchase the book here.
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