What my Voice has Worn

My body has always been home to a voice. Some of my brother’s earliest memories include me holding him sweetly and screaming good-naturedly in his ear. My mother’s best friend heard my cries as a child and said, “That’s a singer.” From my earliest singing days, the sounds I made garnered praise and encouragement, inspired admiration and envy, and were marked as valuable and worthy.

You can imagine, then, the disconnect I experienced when my body, the thing that created and housed these prized sounds, was deemed unworthy, unacceptable, something to be criticized and hidden, and then, preferably, changed. My body has always — always — been something upon which others have commented and passed judgment, with a sense of entitlement that I’ve never been able to pinpoint and have definitively never been granted. My voice lives in a fat body, and though the voice is something to be praised, the body that builds it is not. That body is something to be solved. That body is something that cannot exist the way it does because fatness is a problem; fatness is undesirable; fatness is not romantic; fatness is not worthy of praise or encouragement and does not inspire admiration or envy.

Reconciling my body with the world to which I present my voice has occupied the before and after of my singing for as long as I can remember. It has never been just about the sound that came out or the story I told, but about the way my body looked while performing, how much of my flesh was visible, whether my body looked smaller or larger than it actually is. This is a curious experience unique to singers as there is no visible instrument, no prop to hold between us and the audience. Being told what people would or wouldn’t want to see on my body as I performed forged a painful connection between what I wore, the music I made, and my sense of self-worth and individuality. That link taught me that the value of my singing was weighted separately from the value of my body, and the value of my body correlated directly to what I wore when I sang.

WHITE SHINY BLOUSE, NAVY VEST AND NAVY PLEATED SKIRT

Taken on a choir trip to Austria in 2008. I remember hating almost every single photo of myself taken on this trip because I thought I looked so fat, which is ironic looking back as I was definitely objectively at my thinnest point. I vividly remember being taunted about my weight even in high school, and being criticized for it by my family, and definitely looked at myself and thought I was fat and unattractive.

A choir uniform. Not my first one, and not the most formal uniform I’d been in to date (I was a girl scout and thinking about that grey two-piece still makes me shudder), but I wore it from age 13-17 and so it occupies a very specific part of my identity. The fitting for this uniform was also the first one I can remember, and though I was a chubby teen as opposed to a fat one, the woman fitting me still somehow had to go through several too-tight skirt options before she could manage to find one that fit me. She didn’t say anything, but I remember the exasperated sighs, as if I’d done this on purpose to annoy her.

The outfits were borrowed, to be returned at the end of each year. At the end of this first uniform fitting, the woman measuring me reminded me to be sure I took good care of this one and give it back in good condition since they didn’t have very many in the larger sizes.

I never felt cute in that uniform. Sure, it wasn’t built to make anyone feel cute, though we surely tried our darndest by rolling up our skirts and unbuttoning our blouses a little more. But any time the heavy fabric around my skirt felt even a little tighter than usual, I was worried they wouldn’t be able to find me a larger skirt. What would happen then? Would I have to dress differently than my friends? Then I wouldn’t just be the biggest girl on the risers, but I’d also be the only girl in a different skirt.

Fittings became a real source of terror, and that was something I carried with me into opera fittings as I started getting cast in productions. The thought of having to stand there, arms outstretched, while someone wrapped a piece of tape around my widest parts and read off some numbers, would make my chest tighten. Numbers are concrete, objective, but when numbers become measurements their objective value is suddenly overshadowed by moral judgment — often accompanied by a sigh or an eye-roll or an expressive “hmm.”

GREEN GOWN WITH GOLD BROCADE TRIM AND A PETTICOAT

What you don't see in this picture is that I'm wearing my first push-up bra. Trying it on in the store was a nightmare - I had never had to look at myself in the mirror that way before, and I didn't like it. From that point, there weren't that many options in stores that fit me, so I didn't think I deserved cute things. That applied to my audition/performance looks, too.

My first period costume. We went to a local professional costume shop, where they took my measurements (another scary fitting) and I tried on a gorgeous forest green gown, with a full petticoat and gathered bodice. I felt — beautiful. The style of the dress, with the cinched waist, full skirt and plunging neckline, made me feel like my body was built for another time.

It was not only my first full costume, but my first gown of any kind. And my first big operatic role, the Countess in Le nozze di Figaro. It’s interesting now to think about how she was a woman watching her husband jonesing for another woman: a more carefree, playful kind of gal. It didn’t — and doesn’t — help matters that there is a definite casting trope (one that became very apparent as I watched production after production) to make sure that Susanna is smaller than the Countess. That was how I learned that there were rules dictating what kinds of bodies could sing certain parts, that romantic leads had to be supple and slender, that soubrettes and coloraturas better be small — or else. That was the first time I found myself hoping my voice would grow and keep growing because my body would never be small.

THE JEWEL-TONE WRAP DRESS

I don’t remember what I wore for my college auditions, or for those first few performances of my undergraduate degree. I do remember shopping for fabric with my mother and my aunt, who was going to make me a couple of dresses. I remember standing at the fabric store and squirming while she considered how many yards she’d need to make something my size. That dress never got made, and I’m glad of that — I think that memory would have permeated the fabric, held in by the seams.

I couldn't find a picture of me in an actual wrap dress, probably because I deleted all of them. I really didn't like pictures of my body for a very long time so there aren't that many of them from my early 20s. This purple dress was my version of the wrap dress, with a wider skirt to better "flatter" my shape. Everyone really liked it. I didn't feel like me.

I do remember seeing all my classmates and colleagues in their various iterations of the jewel-tone wrap dress. It fulfilled all the requirements of our very strict dress code: three-quarter sleeves, hem to the knee. Must look good with the requisite heels (not too high, of course, but definitely not a wedge, and absolutely not a flat). Necessary: a good canvas for some jewelry, because the right kind of jewelry was also a requirement. It had to be: no shorter and no longer, a good neckline but no real cleavage, and then of course do make sure you wear lipstick but not too dark and not too light.

I never felt good in a wrap dress — at least, not the standard cut. It was too straight for my body, clung to my hips and belly in an ill-fitting way that made me feel lumpy. I was repeatedly told I “needed to find a cut that flared out from the waist, something flowier, but definitely put some spanx on underneath that as well.” It needed to be flattering, and a straight cut on me just wasn’t flattering.

It wasn’t until quite a few years later, until recently, in fact, that I decoded that word — flattering. “Flattering” really means “hidden.” Hide the bits we don’t want to see. Hide the soft flesh of your belly and upper arms. Hide your knees. Hide your double chin, if you can — how many times have you seen a plus-sized actress in a turtleneck that comes up so high it almost hides her mouth? Hide it all, tuck it into a black dress that swallows it all up like a black hole so that we can focus on your singing instead of your body.

THE MOTHER-OF-THE-BRIDE DRESS

My affection for poetry and literature translates into a profound love for recitals and collaboration, and the preparation for my first master’s recital was consumed with meticulous research and programming. I had an idea of what I wanted to wear, but I knew I wouldn’t have quite as many options as my straight-sized friends, so it wasn’t something by which I was consumed. I eventually discovered that David’s Bridal offered very accessibly-priced and inclusively-sized bridesmaid’s dresses that were simple but lovely, not too glitzy or dramatic, perfect for me.

Before I found my dress, though, I received an email from a faculty member offering to help me with my search. They had done some research, so said the email, and had included a good handful of links, probably ten or so, to various dresses they had come across that they thought would suit me. I remember, for a moment, feeling touched that they had thought of me and wanted to help me.

And then I clicked the first link. It was a veritable muumuu, albeit in a fancy chartreuse fabric, with some rhinestones that seemed to be waist-adjacent. It had “mother of the bride” in the title. I stared at it for a moment, then clicked the next one. Slightly different, not quite a muumuu, but one of those flowy dresses with a capelet, in a dark color. The rest of the links fell into either of those two categories, with perhaps one exception of a ruched lace two-piece gown with a bolero.

It broke my heart. It really did. I’d gotten used to the comments — in person and on jury sheets and passed down from friends — about my body and how to hide it or improve it. I’d done my best to adjust while still holding on to a semblance of my identity, however mutable it was at that point. This was supposed to be an event that was about telling stories — telling MY story — and showing how much I’d learned, and now I felt more worried about my choice not to wear a shawl than I did about singing well.

FAUX. LEATHER. PANTS.

I hadn’t had the best luck with master’s degrees. That’s not to say I didn’t have incredible experiences — I learned ever so much in both of my degrees, and met brilliant people and mentors who meant and continue to mean the world to me. But both of my degrees didn’t turn out exactly the way I’d thought they would, and so, for both, the culminating recital felt like an enormous milestone that was performed in the face of hardship.

In both cases, that hardship taught me a lot about what was important to me, what my boundaries looked like, and how much power and license I had over my own choices. My final recital for my second master’s degree became somewhat of an ode to myself — to the people who helped build me and the building I did myself. It felt like an invocation — like a spell harnessing the collective energy of everyone in the room. I’d had powerful experiences with other performances, with other programs I had built with collaborators, with operas and concert work, but to be presenting this thing that was so unabashedly personal in an academic setting felt especially poignant.

I had found a beautiful gown while on vacation months before that I was very excited to wear — way off the shoulder, in case you were wondering, with no shawl in sight — but as the program came together, the gown didn’t feel appropriate for the second half, which was almost all contemporary American song repertoire (with some Schoenberg cabaret thrown in). While considering this, I remembered something I’d worn a couple of years back, for a very informal presentation of a piece written for me by a dear friend alongside Elliott Carter’s Of challenge and of love: black jeans, a black sweater that fell off my shoulder, and Converse. I’d felt so comfortable and direct and myself — and that’s how I wanted to feel to present the second half of this recital.

So, I wore the gown, with a sweet updo and sparkly earrings, for the first half. I didn’t tell anyone except my collaborators that I was planning to change, and the intermission was spent scrambling into my next outfit and sweeping my hair into a poufy mess with slicked-back sides. I walked out for the second half to a bunch of surprise and a lot of cheering in a sheer black top over a faux leather bralette and matching pants, with hot pink slides. “Sorry, Mom.”

I couldn't find a full-body image of this look, but I did manage to grab this photo I snapped in the bathroom right after. Bliss.

I felt incredibly powerful, and incredibly myself. I felt that way again when I was writing this. You could see my soft upper belly, and probably, at times, my belly button, and I liked that. I felt as proud of my body as I did of my sound — it felt like one entity, one being, instead of two opposing forces. I felt like a resonating whole, open and honest and generous and resonant.

Being ashamed of this fat body that is not only my home but is absolutely me breaks me into pieces, and a broken vessel is no vessel at all.

Dressing my body in a way that feels present in my body and proud of my body allows me to be a better singer, a better storyteller, a better performer. Being ashamed of this fat body that is not only my home but is absolutely me breaks me into pieces, and a broken vessel is no vessel at all.

I haven’t had to dress for a performance or an audition in quite some time thanks to the global pandemic. I’ve amassed quite a collection of soft, stretchy loungewear, in all different colors, but this too has not come without its reminders that fat people should cover their bodies a certain way. It’s not as easy for a fat person to find cute crop tops and sweater sets in a cut that is neither saggy nor baggy, but I’ve managed it, and it’s been a point of almost childlike delight to feel soft and pretty and not hampered by my size. I have my lessons and practices and make recordings in these soft outfits in which I feel both gentle and strong, unbeholden to any rules or guidelines or requirements for hem length and visible flesh. In a way, I’m grateful for the gift of this time, because it has given me the chance to explore the things that have scared me even within my own home, standing alone in front of the mirror: things like the outline of my lower belly, so heavily villainized by the myth of “flattering.”

I have come a long way in undoing the pathways that were forged in me without my consent, without my knowledge. I am so very grateful to my friends and colleagues who are also working to undo these things within themselves, as their solidarity and vulnerability is a source of great strength. Some of the most painful work is ahead, as we now have to decide for ourselves what we are and aren’t willing to overlook, and why. As the world looks towards re-opening — something I know we all yearn for — we must be aware that old wounds will re-open, as well. How will my body feel when I have to squeeze it into Spanx again? When my go-to audition dress doesn’t fit anymore? When I need to put my measurements and my weight down on an application, and those numbers are larger than they used to be? How will I separate the value of those numbers from the value of my body?

I don’t know the answer to those questions, and I don’t expect anyone else to, either. I do know that my voice works best when I don’t listen to it, and my body works best when I don’t listen to any voices other than my own. I don’t know yet how I’ll move forward with that information, or which rules I’ll choose to follow and which ones I’ll break. I don’t know how those choices will make me feel. I know that the concept that my voice and body each have a specific and separate value is something that does not work for me. My fat body was the first thing about me that did not fit inside that box I was taught, but it won’t be the last, not for me, and not for so many others. The time has come to joyfully and kindly trample on that box and to build newer, more flexible structures that allow us to function in and love our body/voice entities — through fluctuations and changes — exactly as they are.