While reading Pat Spencer’s article about Noel Da Costa’s Blue-Tune Verses and Claude Debussy’s Syrinx in a 2020 New York Flute Club newsletter,[1]  I was struck by this question: Can we talk about a work by a non-white composer without referencing whiteness, without praising a non-white musician’s proximity to whiteness or their fluency in whiteness? Why do we fall back on that framing at all?
 
It’s easy to question the utility of a lens of whiteness when we come across references to Joseph Bolougne, the Chevalier de Saint George, as the “Black Mozart.” How odd to be nicknamed after someone younger than yourself—especially someone whose work you influenced![2] On top of being forbidden to take his father’s title or become director of the Académie Royale de Musique due to racism in France, Bolougne’s nickname robs him of his own identity musically. His value, according to his nickname, is that he was musically skilled just like Mozart, even though he happened to be Black. The nickname masterfully praises Bolougne while holding him at arm’s length precisely because of his otherness.
 
Such a framing may become even more uncomfortable when we think of it in terms of gender. Emilie Mayer was similarly referred to as the “female Beethoven.”[3] She was musically skilled like Beethoven, even though she happened to be female. Louise Farrenc is another composer whose value was touted in relation to another man—during her lifetime people described her music as being like that of Robert Schumann. What would it mean, though, if we were to say that Robert Schumann’s work is like Farrenc’s? Does the inverse sound wrong? Revisionist? Empowering? Historically accurate?[4]
 
But let’s set these specific musicians aside and probe the more insidious question their examples raise. It is a question which lurks every time we consider the diversity of our programming, our syllabi, our reading lists, and our artist rosters: Why can’t our understanding of either of these composer’s value exist without being propped up by the men whose pale bodies litter the historical landscape around them?  The way we frame an idea matters, because it amplifies and reinforces our understanding of the world, ourselves, and our values.
 
What I’m talking about is the practice of centering whiteness (and, often, more precisely white maleness). Centering whiteness stands at odds with the aims of social justice, but it is something the practices of our field almost always rest upon.
 
Centering
How we tell stories is part of how we create our identities. We affirm our identities. We project our identities. We proclaim our identities. The stories we tell reaffirm who we believe we are, create space for others to see us as we choose to be seen, and shape the world for others around us to exist in.
 
Every story has a center, a viewpoint or concern that is emphasized by its very center-ness. The center is revealed by whose stories are told, whose values are referred to. We tell stories every time we program a concert, every time we assign a textbook, every time we price tickets to one concert higher than tickets to another:
 
“A contemporary of Beethoven”
“Debussy-like harmonies”
Schenkerian foregrounding…
Gershwin-like jazz style
“Just as good as…”
“You could close your eyes and not know it’s…”
 
It’s not just that we praise—it’s how.
 
How we tell stories about music creates a framework for others to learn from, to build upon, and to understand what music is, what it means, and what music is worth paying attention to. When we tell stories of the musicians who matter to us by using whiteness as an anchor, we reaffirm that whiteness is the norm, that white is right—that a non-white musician’s value is contingent upon their proximity to “good” musicians (who all happen to be white).
 
Why do we center?
When I teach music appreciation, I always do a lesson on bias to awaken my students’ engagement of historical texts—words, of course, but also images, fashion, and sound. I want my students to understand the bias implicit in every text (and in every word they’ll write in my class).
 
We often throw around the word “bias” like it’s a bad thing: You’re so biased! Don’t be biased! Fair and balanced!
 
But bias just means perspective, and that’s an inescapable aspect of the human condition. Perspective is where we’re looking from: our position relative to what we’re looking at. Our position as people comes from our cultural upbringing, our geography, our life experiences, how others have treated us (based on our gender, our sexuality, our ethnicity, our bodies, our intelligence, our physical abilities, our personalities…). The list is infinite because human experience is so beautifully messy. The sum of all this infinitude is our perspective—Pierre Bourdieu refers to the “situatedness” of our listening, our hearing, our looking.
 
Our perspective—our bias, our situatedness—is the place from which we engage with the world. It’s framed by how we’ve learned to be in the world: what words to use, what to pay attention to, how to think. The tropes and patterns of speech we fall into. The assumptions we make. Our frame of reference for understanding why something is important. That’s why centering of whiteness is so hard to break away from, especially when we seek to diversify our musical work.
 
In the US, specifically, the “norm” is whiteness: the color of Band-Aids. Aperture settings on a camera. Facial recognition algorithms. Love interests and leading actors in TV and movies. Hands in stock photos and recipe videos.

It’s the perspective we’re enculturated into—we learn to see the world and orient ourselves in the structures that surround us as we open our eyes. White (and white-presenting) individuals see themselves represented in that world. Individuals who are not white—in addition to systemic racism that creates barriers to education, employment, and physical safety—are implicitly told, over and over again by the structures and media aligned with power and money all around that this world is not meant for you.

What’s the goal?
We must meet this reality with intentionality. Diversity isn’t enough—it’s lip service that feels like a more substantial effort than it really is, precisely because of the centering of whiteness that defines our world. Diversity doesn’t fix how we tell our stories. Diversity reinforces the “Black” in “Black Mozart” and not the Bolougne.
 
The real goal we should be working towards is inclusion, and that’s harder to reach. Inclusion and uplift require decentering whiteness—and often decentering oneself (or even one’s organization) if your perspective is already in a position of power. Let’s imagine this with a metaphor of eating.
 
If you host a party and only invite people you already know, that’s exclusion.
 
“They can just throw their own party,” you say. That’s segregation.
 
Diversity means inviting someone to the table—but you still own the table. You probably still plan the menu (it is your table, after all). It could be the most delicious meal ever, but it might not accommodate everyone’s dietary restrictions or preferences. Not everyone will be able to participate in that meal, even if they’re present. There’s also no way that you as the host could reasonably anticipate or accommodate everyone’s food needs. That’s integration.
 
Inclusion means asking others where they want to build a table together and letting everyone bring their own favorite food to share. The meal won’t be what any one individual planned, but everyone will come away satisfied, able to eat, and the end result will be beyond what anyone in attendance could have imagined, created, or achieved on their own. If this sounds like a slow process, it is. If it sounds like something that would lead to the future we need, it is.[1]
 
Back to music
Diversity is easier than inclusion. That’s probably why we talk about it a lot. It’s low-hanging fruit. Tokenism is diversity. Programming one or two non-white artist in a year-long season is diversity. Feeble, but the box gets checked. How many of us have sat in administrative meetings calculating the percentage of non-white people on a Board, on a concert program, or in an audience?
 
In the rush to diversify our concert lists, to “rediscover” a work that’s been ignored for decades, or book artists for a show, we must ground ourselves in practices that engender social justice through uplift—through decentering, through intentionality, through inclusion.
 
This means that if we want to do justice to work of musicians whose identities are typically marginalized in the music industry and Western canon, we cannot tell their stories as if either their marginalized identity is the most interesting thing about them, as if they are in defiance of the ineptitude of all others who share their identity who couldn’t “hack” it, as if their similarity to a beloved white musician is why they’re worth paying attention to at all.
 
When we’re drawn to music, we grapple with why and we find our story to tell, hoping that others may find it useful, too. Anything we’re relying on to make the case for a musician’s work—musical analysis, historical precedent, biographical details—always communicates bias and values beyond simply what we’re saying. We must take care that the support we offer the music we uplift actually serves our goal of uplift and doesn’t add an asterisk of otherness or of less-than.
 
A musician’s work is valuable because music is human. Human beings are valuable. Full stop.
 
Uplift is delicate work because the thing we’re working with is fragile. It’s fragile from years—centuries—of being beaten down, fragile because it’s had to survive without support, without shelter, without protection. So, uplift must be gentle, it must be intentional, it must be careful, lest we create more fragile pieces we’ll have to sweep up later.





[1] Pat Spencer, “Noel Da Costa’s Blue-Tune Verses” https://nyfluteclub.org/uploads/newsletters/2020-2021/20-October-NYFC-Newsletter-final-p7-low.pdf

[2] As Gabriel Banat pointed out in 1990, Mozart’s K.364 (1778) borrows a gesture that frequently appears in Bolougne’s solo violin works. (https://www.jstor.org/stable/779385?seq=1). See also Marcos Balter, “His Name Is Joseph Bolougne, Not “Black Mozart” https://www.nytimes.com/2020/07/22/arts/music/black-mozart-joseph-boulogne.html

[3] Actually, there were a lot of “[adjective]-Beethovens” in the 19th century. He was used as a frame of reference for everything musically monumental, kind of like the question, “Who’s the greatest player of all time, Michael Jordan or LeBron James?” It’s helpful to have a frame of reference when a precocious or powerful figure comes along, someone who upends or expands our understanding of what is possible in a field. It’s also an act of reverence for the one serving as the frame of reference. But what does it mean in music when our frame of reference is always white people?

[4] R. Schumann admired Farrenc’s work—the influence plausibly could have flowed this way.

[1] See here for a distinction between outreach and engagement. http://www.communitypowermn.org/the_difference_between_community_engagement_and_marketing#:~:text=The%20word%20outreach%20implies%20that,outreach%20takes%20capacity%20and%20effort. 

September 6 – Choral Arts New England (CANE Conversations: Grants During a Time of Crisis) with Viriginia Lupi, Patricia Mitrokostas, Loren Van Allen, and Dana Whiteside. Moderated by Gregory Brown
Thank you to Greg Brown and Choral Arts New England for welcoming me to this conversation. As I was thinking about the topic of grant making in the world right now, I wanted to start with three examples from my experience that I hope resonate with others in our music world and how I’ve been thinking about the role of philanthropy in our arts world as a development professional, teacher, and music creator in the context of the past six months.
 
As will all stories of 2020, it’s hard to pin-point a precise beginning, so I’m actually going to back up into 2019. I had been the Institutional Giving Manager at a community music school in Brooklyn, and I left that position in the middle of 2019 and continued to work as a development and grant writing consultant from then up until Covid hit in March, at which point my consultant career ended—as organizations who had been trying to leverage their financial resources towards growth faced the very real precarity of sudden revenue shortfalls.
 
I had also been teaching flute at an El Sistema program in the Bronx who was able to continue to pay their teachers through the summer with the foundation support they’d already acquired for the year, but as they continue through the fall they’ll take stock of whether to continue their work virtually at all. Tensions between what was originally applied for 12-18 months prior and the upheaval of the educational landscape now, the additional costs to support students who may not have a computer, reliable internet, a printer for PDFs their teachers send, or whose instruments need repair—much less external microphones.
 
Finally, when Greg approached me about this panel several weeks ago, it got me thinking about how when we’re in a position to distribute funding, how can we create opportunity rather than restrictions? When I composed a set of four solos in June, I thought about what the idea of creating opportunity could mean, when three things came into focus for me: (1) At that point, because I was still teaching through that El Sistema program, I didn’t need my stimulus check with the same kind of urgency I knew other people in our musical community did. (2) I was thinking about the trauma we were all experiencing of our work (which is more than work, but an affirmation of our lives) being ripped away. (3) I was thinking about longstanding social inequities and how it can take extra effort to correct for them. So, I offered these pieces to the world for free and offered to pay anyone out of my stimulus check who recorded any of them they wanted. I offered to pay at least $50 but $100 for bipoc artists. And I said: do anything you want, with any of the pieces, just make your art the way you want to. And the response was amazing, more than I could have ever imagined if I’d prescribed certain instruments or ways of filming or length, or deadlines. Over two dozen people performed them in the first month, all over the world, other people donated money to keep the support for performers going. And that experience gives me hope—but it’s extraordinarily different from other calls for proposals or applications I’ve experienced as either a grant writer, grants panelist, or individual performer. I think that one of the healthier principles I’d love to see the philanthropic industry adopt going forward is one of decentering, of creating avenues for applicants’ agency rather than more narrow avenues they have to conform to, because that’s where I think the possibility for grassroots, community-relevant, and inclusive art making can flourish.
 
 
September 21 – The Juilliard School: panel moderator, “The Arts as Community Engagement and Activism” with Chanel DaSilva, Hector Rivera, and Andrew Yee
I’m so happy and so honored to get to talk to you all, and that our students and community can learn from and be inspired by your work and how you put your philosophy into action. We started planning this panel around a month ago, and as with all things 2020, the weight of the decision to do feels even heavier now than when we made it. When long-standing institutions close their doors and furlough their staff; when leading figures in our fields deny the existence of racism, sexism, or classism in our work; when well-meaning organizations veer towards performative rather than productive efforts in the name of equity, diversity, and inclusion; when we realize that a single election isn’t enough and that we have to have a plan to get up and do the work not just on November 3 but also November 4, November 5, November 6 and beyond—I think all of this means we need to be open, honest, and unrelenting in our commitment to using our platforms and our artistry to engage with the ideas that matter most and animate our world.
 
September 24 – Brown University, guest lecture with Eric Nathan
When I think about how we engage with music, welcome, and bring people into the world of music, I think about cooking.
 
I make bread, and I do this myself, but not by myself—I read books, watched videos, called my sister in a panic to guide me through something called the Rubaud method, and texted her triumphant photos when it emerged from the oven.
 
But think about all the ways people learn to cook. You might attend a cooking class, and then go home with that experience, buy the same ingredients, and try to recreate it. Or you might read a recipe—and some people buy everything listed in the ingredients, others might know good substitutions, or you may know what flavors you like or dislike and adjust accordingly. Some people learn or get inspired watching cooking shows. Or maybe you learned standing next to someone in your home, like a relative, a friend, or someone who worked in your home, watching them, asking questions, mimicking their motions. Or there was a dish at a restaurant that captivated you.
 
There are so many ways to develop skills and knowledge and appreciation and connection and a sense of ownership with food.
 
And there are analogues to the music world. But which of them do we look down on? Which of them do we push aside as not real musical engagement? Which of those kinds of learning and engagement can you put on your resume? Which of these are we not making a possibility—a professional tool—for our students to use?
 
So: think about the other things you do—places you go, activities you enjoy, hobbies, communities you're a part of. What made that connection possible for you? What makes you feel like you belong there? And how can you bring that into your artistic process?

Sometimes it felt like I was no longer a flute player this year. Like I just claimed to be one, like those people who call themselves foodies. Or who say they’re hikers, own all the gear, but only hit the trails once in mid-June. But worse, because a better description would be that this year felt like forced exile—I was Napoleon on Elba.

I had imagined that completing 2 years’ worth of mouth work following a car accident would immediately mean the glorious return to my former gigging life: a concert every week, tours, and the satisfying conquering of new works. Take that, scary run! My metronome and I will slay you!

But the reality was a whimper, and after a handful of satisfying performances in April and May and a chamber music retreat in June, my calendar yawned, empty and ready, but unfilled. I had poured so much energy into performing those three months—the first time since 2015, and it felt so good—, but made no plan for the future beyond, so that when it became the present there was nothing for me to do.

I told myself that the quiet of summer didn’t worry me; that happens every year. But when September rolled around and nothing was in the books and no one was calling, I felt a pit in my stomach. Then my day job heated up in a big way, and in the evenings I would return home, exhausted but frustrated that there was no “5-to-9” work for me—nothing to work towards, nothing to challenge me, and, in short, nothing that made me a flute player.

I built mini performances into my classroom teaching, forcing myself to dust off Telemann, Kuhlau, Debussy, Takemitsu, and Korde. I told myself my students needed to hear this range of flute music to really understand classical music. But I just needed to play.

The fall was tumultuous in other, very real ways. I moved twice—no, three times—from September to December. I started a second university teaching job in October. I think back over the semester and remind myself about the reality I was living, how there wasn’t time to lay the plans to make music.

And yet, and yet.

That’s why I do all these other things: the day job, the teaching, the living in balls-expensive Brooklyn. It’s to give myself the opportunity to play. To make sound with people I admire, who inspire me, whose very existence encourages me to be better, in every sense of the word.
 
But 2017 isn’t over. I moved, for the last time, two days before Christmas, into the top floor of a small house. The first thing I unpacked—after my dog’s bed and food, of course—was my bookcase of scores and music stand. I didn’t actually get to practice that day, or the next, but it did allow me to physically put my priorities in order. And this week, I’ve revisited the technique-building exercises I couldn’t bring myself to do in the sad after-work hours of the fall. The best thing to come out of the car accident was becoming newly aware of my mouth—since it wasn’t my mouth any more but one my dentists had constructed—in a way that let me feel more confident in the sound I make. This week I’ve finally had the mental bandwidth to build upon that and listen to myself again, and I’m noticing all kinds of problems with my articulation. Yes, finally! Something to do, something to work on, something where I can improve.
 
And 2017 wasn’t a complete failure. My teaching game is on point, and I began curating a new chamber music series at my day job. And the time away from the stage has given me a chance to think about repertoire from a respectful distance, how I want to work in the future, and listen to those on stage even more attentively. As for 2018, I just don't have anything on my calendar yet​.

In 2014, I moved away from presenting a purely chronological history of music—we must begin with the Medieval period because it comes first!—to a more topical one: introducing music in terms of the various functions it takes in people’s lives, such as religion, dance, home music making, and art. When I began teaching at Queensborough Community College in the spring of 2016, I added an online blogging component to get students engaged in the notion of music playing many roles in the lives of many people—and to stave off the brain attrition engendered by a once-weekly class while also fulfilling the requirements of a writing intensive course.
 
My classes meet department- and school-wide curricular goals—

—while adding a few of my own: making connections between different kinds of music, making connections between musicians’ lives and their own, learning personal responsibility, learning to see one's classmates as intellectual colleagues, becoming more confident in expressing oneself and doing so effectively, developing the art of conversation...
 
I don’t usually say these things out loud or explicitly—they’re conveyed through (what I hope is) unrelenting enthusiasm for the subject, for my students’ contributions to our discussions, and the inertia of open-ended but curated assignments. This semester, more than any other, students picked up on these big takeaways anyway, and they did so in a big way.
 
On the last day of class, I ask them what the most valuable, interesting, or helpful thing they learned in our class was. Usually, our end-of-class writing is a rush job, 2 minutes and out the door to the next class, but this one took longer. Students kept writing because they had a lot to say.
 
I am enormously encouraged for my own teaching by their thoughtfulness, their introspection, and their nascent-but-growing critical thinking skills. At the same time, I am disheartened by the impression that the kinds of validation, satisfying challenges, real-world connections/relevance, and confidence boosting through skill development they describe as happening in this class don’t seem to be happening for them elsewhere.
 
I can hope, however, that they’ll keep developing their ability to engage with new ideas, to overcome the trepidation of feeling like they don’t belong in new situations (musical or otherwise), and that they use their experience in this class to find intrinsic joy and fulfillment in their lives.

The most interesting and valuable thing that I’ve learned in Mu 101 this semester would be how music stems from many different facets of life. Many different experiences through the creator, as well as the listener. I cam to realize that a lot of individuals experience music differently and that the way we hear and/or interpret it is different for many people, and that preference is not worth judging an individual over. But aside from that, I’m grateful for the new knowledge I was able to learn and take it. It most definitely made me a wiser individual as both a thinker and listener.
-K.B.
 
The most interesting and valuable thing I’ve learned in Mu 101 is that the skill of patience I’ve learned in therapy should be applied to music. Mu 101 has helped expand my knowledge and my preferences in a way I couldn’t do on my own. The discussions we had online and in class were thought-provoking. This class had given me proper skills and experience to analyze true meaning in music and helped me explore new ideas surrounding music.
-G.B.
 
The most interesting thing I’ve learned this semester would be that music is truly the benchmark for everything there is in the world. Every subject is intertwined with music. More higher thinking is expressed in music than I ever thought possible.
               The most valuable thing I learned is that musicking is for everyone. So I’m not a great song writer or singer? There’s always room in music for every individual to play to their strengths no matter how obscure. And if there isn’t an outlet for you, you are free to create your own and force people to go along with you. Music can be a safe place for all walks of people to learn about the world and themselves.
-D.C.
 
I have learned to be more appreciative of the music around me, the sounds and new genres of music. I have also learned that there isn’t one way of listening to music. Music means different things to different people for different reasons. I have enjoyed some classical music that I am quite sure will be my favorite song for the rest of my life. I have learned the difference in music terminology like pulse, meter, and measure. I’m learning to have a keen ear; I’m going to continue to develop it until I am the best musicologist I can ever be. I’m also considering learning to play an instrument as well as taking music as a minor.
-N.C.
 
To be quite honest, everything that we have learned from day one throughout the course has been absolutely valuable and helpful Musicology reflects on past experience and makes up our genetic structure. The surroundings or environment in which we adjust or become accustomed to can also play a significant role. Individual interpretation of music is truly beautiful and makes me feel jubilant. I have developed more insightful, constructive, and productive or effective methods for becoming a musicologist. Music can be purely unstable dissonance and expands universally.
-M.D.

I have learned a lot this semester during this music course. I can’t say one thing is more important than any other. However, I feel like knowing that we all experience and listen to music was one of the most important things. The life we live, the experiences we experience, can be completely influential to our ears. I also learned that music isn’t only about lyrics. It’s actually much bigger than that. Now I listen to music for the texture, dynamics, harmony, etc. It allows me to look at music much differently.
​-A.F.
 
I believe the most interesting thing I have learned this semester was from one of our online discussions about music therapy. This stuck with me because I am studying occupational therapy, and I thought it was a great way to expand my knowledge about other therapy types. Also loved one of our last classes on minimalism, because it pushed the envelope on how I think of music. I find it truly interesting how I can appreciate music so much more now. Thank you so much, Dr. Jones, for taking the time to expand everyone’s knowledge about music in such a creative way. I enjoyed this course very much!
-B.G.
 
I think the most valuable thing I’ve learned this semester was just getting in touch with art and all its different forms. I’ve always had an interest in traditional art, like drawing for example, since I was a child. When I went to high school I was in the art program, but throughout my high school career, I had the same art teacher for three years and honestly she seemed very close-minded. I had an internship my junior year where I learned art on a whole new level. It opened my eyes to such beautiful different experiences but after high school I lost that aspect of myself with everyday life and all the stresses we each endure. This was the first actual music class I’ve had ever since elementary school and it was a really opening experience. It was art but such a different form I’ve never seen. I love music but this showed me that there’s so much more to music; there is a whole new world to it. It goes beyond sounds, and when we listened to every different composer today in class it was beautiful just to see and listen to every individual’s own style. Especially when we heard the bass and alto flute with electronic tanpura, it was just so beautiful and calming. Overall, I love that I learned so much in this course about the world of art and connected it back to my life.
-I.C.
 
In Mu 101, I learned that music is not just lyrics and a catchy beat, but music is any sound that can be heard. Music is valuable because it’s a way to spread out a message about any problems or any ideas to more people. Throughout the course, I also learned that the meaning of a song can change over time. Fore example, before I listen to a song I did not think so much of it, but Mu 101 helped me understand that every aspect of a piece or song can create emotion and feelings.
-Y.G.
 
The most interesting, valuable, and helpful thing I have learned in Mu 101 is how to do discussions and share ideas with others. The online discussions were the most creative and useful thing I have done so far. The knowledge and the understanding of music I have gained in this course will stay with me forever. 
-T.K.
 
My most interesting thing was the online discussions. That was how I could practice discussing with my classmates and interact with them. I learned how to use fluent English from them. It was valuable and really helpful for me. Also, I appreciate Dr. Alice Jones for teaching eagerly. I will miss Mu 101.
-E.L.
 
The most interesting thing that I learn from Mu 101 is to be able to analyze music. Even if I am not great at it, it was interesting to learn about all the different musical features and what they mean. Now every time I listen to a song I try to find the beat or analyze the text or the melody. I try to listen to the different sounds of instruments and their tempo. It was truly a very good experience that has taught me something new about music.
-D.M.
 
The most interesting things I learned and will take away from Mu 101 is how I can analyze music by using such vocabulary words like “cadence” and “dissonance.” I really enjoyed exploring new music. It really widened my range of how creative can be and it inspires me to really believe if you can imagine something you can make it. So many artists experimented and put out so many amazing things without caring what others would think. I will mostly remember that because it spoke to me a lot as an artist to not be afraid to express my visions.
-C.P.
 
The most interesting value I’ve learned in Mu 101 is to think beyond the norm because when analyzing a piece of music, you have to think about it in-depth, not to just only cover the surface of the piece but to listen to every note, compare and contrast the instruments being used and link them in a way to society. Mu 101 has definitely helped me develop my analytical abilities.
-R.M.
 
The most valuable thing that I learned out of this class is that sometimes you gotta step out of your comfort zone in order to evolve into the person you are supposed to be. This class really benefitted me for my music profession as a music producer, with just knowing that there are a lot of different sounds in the world other than the usual ones.
-D.M.
 
The most valuable thing I learned in Mu 101 this semester is to always keep your ear open to new sounds and experiences. It doesn’t necessarily have to be with music all the time. Listening to your favorite type of music is fine, but listening to something you have never listened to can make you either like it or hate it, but at least you tried it.
-R.M.
 
The most valuable/helpful technique I’ve learned in this course was the different types of ways a piece of music can be heard. I’ve learned how the musical features of music can truly make a difference, not only the lyrics. Before this course I used to think the lyrics were the main factor of a piece and how it was basically the source or setting everything up (mood, for example). I’ve learned that the instruments are the true source to a listener’s ears and emotions. For example, the song can be very serious but the instruments can be creating happy, enjoyable sounds to distract the individual from a certain point.
​-M.P.
 
The most interesting, valuable, or helpful thing I have learned in music is to appreciate its art. It’s been around for so long and whenever we hear classical music I used to think it wasn’t interesting at all, but there is so much history to learn with just one piece of music. Every piece of music has a backstory to it. Whether it’s what the musician/composer wants us to hear, or what you may pick up as a listener, there is always something to take from a musical piece. Now I can listen differently. I don’t just shut something off but I appreciate and analyze it and I can make the decision not to play it again, but I know on a different level why I don’t like it—something I will always be able to use.
-G.P.
 
The most interesting thing I’ve learned in music class are all of the components that a musical piece contains. After this class, I’ve noticed myself occasionally listening for what type of texture the song I’m listening to has, or what instruments are used for higher/lower sounds. Overall, I am glad that I’ve become more knowledgeable about music from the past and today’s music.
-B.Y.
 
The most valuable thing I learned from this class is how to see something from a different angle. The reason I say so is because the experience of student blog posts and online discussions gave me a lot of fun. And different people think about things differently. The conflicts between thoughts and ideas make things different. I really enjoyed it.
-Y.S.
 
There are so many expressions of music. This class really broadened my horizons. And also I learned about many famous musicians who worked on different kinds of music and created amazing pieces for us that give people the enjoyment of listening.
               Music is not just a subject. It’s about feeling; it’s about imagination, and comes from daily life. Music is around us. And I appreciate that I had such a good chance to learn it.
-R.X.
 
Of course, there are a lot of interesting, valuable, and helpful things that I learned in Mu 1011, but most importantly I learned how to analyze music, which is very valuable for me. I learned how instruments can present differently, which is very interesting to me. I learned how to face every different music which is most helpful to me.
-P.Z.
 
The most interesting, valuable, and helpful thing I’ve learned is music isn’t just a sound played by instruments, or sung by a singer, or what sounds good in your ears. Music is sound expressed by you, based on your experiences, interpretations, emotions, and the passion you have. The most valuable and helpful thing was becoming a better writer and listener. Having these challenging questions to answer during the semester gave me an opportunity to sit down in silence and just listen to a piece of music. To express ideas I’d never thought of before. Also that the person singing has a huge impact on what you take away from the piece. This course has changed my whole outlook on music in a good way.
-K.B. 
 
The most interesting/important thing I learned this semester is about the different elements in music and how we apply it to all musical pieces. Being able to further understand music not just as sound, and to truly appreciate it as art, is an important lesson to me. It has changed how I view music I listen to, as well as changed how I react to classical/other forms of music. When I started this course I did not like Classical, Baroque, Romantic music, but now being able to understand it I am able to appreciate it.
-M.C.

The most interesting thing I learned in Mu 101 this semester is appreciating classical music. I used to fall asleep and not care at all about classical music, but once I entered this class, that changed. I learned about composers like Mozart and Beethoven and the art they contributed many centuries ago is still relevant today. This course really helped me expand my knowledge of music and made me ask more questions. And the most helpful thing I learned is improving my communication skills. I am very shy, and this course not only tested me on being more social, but that being wrong is a good thing. I say it’s a good thing because I was here to learn and this course taught me to take what we learned in class into the real world.
-E.A.
 
The most helpful thing that I have learned in Mu 101 this semester is the way to interpret and analyze the true meaning of a song or a piece of music performed with instruments by a composer. Listening closely to the different elements of a piece of music has helped me to know what the message behind the song is or what it sounds like, either being compared to nature or describing an uncertain event or thing. The thing that I will value the most from my Mu 101 class is the different pieces of music we listened to and determining the actual meaning of the piece.
-T.D.
 
The most valuable thing I’ve learned so far hasn’t been the countless ways I could possibly listen to music or knowing about all the different types of music in its respected eras, but the realization that when it comes to my writing there’s still a lot of things I need to work on. I always thought the way I wrote was enough to get by in any situation, but seeing how important adding supportive evidence to paragraphs and making sure everything makes sense is in writing, I’ve slowly been able to refine and better it. In time and more practice I can get better but this course has certainly helped. Especially with being able to read long pages of notes right before class.
-J.G.
 
The most interesting thing that I have learned in this class is EVERYTHING. That might sound like an exaggeration but I mean it because as a liberal arts full-time student I take a lot of lecture classes where I sit and just listen to the professor. In this class, however, I not only listen but I take in everything you teach us and I am able to take part in every single topic. This course and you being my professor have given me confidence and opened up a whole new field that I will now always focus on. Nothing is ever non-valuable as long as it contributes in experience and learning, but one of the most valuable things I have learned in this class is appreciation of art and music of all times.
-S.J.

If I had to be totally honest, everything about this class was valuable because even though this is mu 1011, we earned more than just music and its history. We learned about art, culture, history, economics, science… the list goes on and on. This class was more than just a class; it was space in which we truly had the opportunity to ask ourselves “What is music?”. I’ve realized that music is communication, one of the fundamental pieces of life, and that is something that will stay with me forever. Thank you for the great time.
-L.J.
 
I still think the first 2 blog posts that showed the importance of learning music were the most interesting. I also enjoyed reading the other student blog posts and hearing the songs they chose.
-R.D.
 
The most interesting thing that I have learned from this course was the amounts of different music that was made and how people think when they make or listen to music. There is a variety of different pieces of music that I haven’t listened to and I think I will start expanding and trying new things. Music is a very big thing in today’s world rather than back then because of the Internet and how quick social media is. I’ve never come across most of the things that we learned in class and some of it was very, very, very interesting. I hope to share it and learn more about it one day.
​-H.M.
 
This semester I took the right choice of taking this writing intensive music appreciation course because it has taught me terms I wouldn’t have ever learned otherwise if I didn’t come to college. This course will help me in the long run when I apply new perspectives to the everlasting music being made every day. I learned about the first kinds of music and eras leading up to the present. For a music production major student, this class was anything but useless or boring, although it might seem that way only because it is at 9am. The most interesting things to me were the musicians of the Classical era and how they composed despite any life around them, having hearing loss, or scarce jobs.
-A.M.

​TI, “Whatever You Like” (2007)
Bruno Mars, “That’s What I Like” (2016) ​

Released nearly a decade apart, these songs also display an evolution in how popular culture frames what men think that women want, using that frame as a way to mask their own desires. TI’s position is coy: “I mean, if that's what you're into, sure OK” (even though he, too, clearly wants everything he names), but Mars’s is one of candid relief: “Finally I can openly admit this is actually what I wanted all along.”
 
However, each man’s sexual prowess (the great late-night sex nestled into each chorus) exists only in the context of him having the economic means to afford other symbols of wealth (jewels, alcohol, exotic vacations or locales):

​Throughout, each man repeatedly insists that he doesn’t have to think about money—anything his lady wants takes precedence over worrying about costs, and his role as a provider is what makes him attractive. This compulsion to reaffirm their social status is multi-faceted: it points to the exceptionality of being in that financial position in the first place; it also suggests a degree of disbelief that each man is experiencing with regard his good fortune; and it’s a manifestation of hope, in that repeating an idea often enough out loud will make it true, like a character in a fairytale (extending the fantasy/storytelling metaphor) or, in a more practical way, the politics of self-promotion:

​Each paints himself as being desirable precisely because he has no financial burden, no restraints. This freedom allows his desires (both sexual and social status) to be unconstrained in an S&M-like liberation fantasy for those coming from the repressive reality of previously lacking money. Their confident swagger is made possible by a financial cushion and emerges in the range of masculine identities in their delivery styles—TI punches the consonants and clips his words in the verses, aggressively commanding the beat, and then indulges in the slow delivery of his chorus with its softer consonants; and Mars begins his verses like a boastful catcall before he luxuriates in the buttery, undulating melody of the chorus and bridge. Each song suggests a cause-effect relationship, that having achieved financial success makes the man more masculine and also puts him in a position to invite the (most attractive) woman along for the ride to cement his social status:

But why is there an if-then relationship between wealth and satisfaction? It’s as if TI and Mars can’t have sexual desires, or act on them by inviting a woman to join them, until they have money, as if their sexual potency is synonymous with financial potency. In a version of Maslow’s hierarchy of needs, it’s as if a certain degree of wealth and material status is necessary before one gets to be a whole person who is allowed to experience sexual joy or satisfaction. It speaks to an implicit broader class-based and self-punishing notion of personal responsibility in which only people who are economically sufficient have permission to enjoy life.

The fantasy-worlds of these songs are undercut not only by equating wealth and self-worth but also by their central premise of who is doing the titular “liking.” Both songs suggest a high degree of joy for the woman involved. TI’s lady gets the satisfaction (as does he) of “Tell[ing] ‘em other broke niggas be quiet,” Mars’s girl gets to ride off into the sunset in a Cadillac, a huge smile on her face, and both are, as the chorus reminds us, having great sex. Yet there's no woman present in either track affirming what, if anything, she really wants. She's given instructions for how to dance and show off her body (affirming the singer’s masculinity), but she has no voice of her own, and therefore, ironically for songs about female desires, no actionable desires of her own.
 
These songs are framed as a kind of modern-day chivalry, where each man focuses on the wants of his partner and finds his joy or purpose in fulfilling those desires. The fact that the desires of the silent female partner are non-existent doesn’t undermine that male joy, however. On the contrary, his desires are still extant and fulfilled: the female framing device was simply a ruse all along, an empty nod to the fashionable notion of equality of the sexes. There is no evolution from TI to Mars, only a different kind of wool pulled over the eyes of female agency.
 
The male gaze affirms the power dynamic of their relationships, even more so than the fact that each man is monetarily providing whatever his woman “wants.” By omitting any female voice, the man is humanized; all listeners are put in a position to empathize with his experience, because it’s the only one articulated. She remains an object, just material proof of his success to be added to the list alongside jet-setting, diamonds, and booze.[1] ​

This comes, firstly, out of the relentless joy that the arts have provided in my life—in primary school where I thought of myself as the-best-drawer-ever, to early high school when I was absolutely sure that creative writing would be my life, to the profound peace and wholeness that I experience after going to an art museum or reading poetry and literature.
 
And the flute.
 
But the arts don’t need to be a spiritually fulfilling experience to be necessary in a complete education. We don’t talk about the sciences that way, or critical thinking skills, or civics—and no education is really complete without these, either. The restorative nature of the arts is an added (and welcome!) bonus to the arts for me when I think about their role in education.
 
I think of college as laying the foundation for successful citizenry: contributing to society. Here I’m not thinking of being a wealth-generating peon but as being able to identify the range of roles that a robust, healthy, broad society needs; finding one’s place in it; loving one’s place in it; and valuing the places that others occupy.
 
There are two related, somewhat circular, reasons why I affirm the necessity of the arts in education and their undergirding of good citizenry.

​I start every semester of my music appreciation courses with a series of in-class, online, and writing projects that ask my students to explore, describe, and understand what they hear when listening to music (meaning not just the physical sensation of hearing but also what they remember, experience, and think about while listening). The takeaway from these assignments is that no one hears anything exactly the way anyone else does. The next step is why—understanding others’ perspectives, past experiences, interests—so that they can themselves hear even more in the music and so that they can understand what it feels like to be someone else.
 
Empathy.
 
This peer-to-peer eye-opening lays the groundwork for the survey of music history we take in the remainder of the term: it gives my students the critical thinking foundation to piece together historical data, economic factors, social structure, and biographical quirks to understand why someone would make a piece of music, or talk about it in a certain way, or what historical figures might have expected or wanted out of music. Empathy turns the idea of “a person” into a fully-fleshed human being and makes history come alive.
 
When I ask my students to imagine the hypothetical situation of being a prisoner of war, watching their homeland being ravaged and fearing not only for their own lives but also the lives of everyone they care about, and then, in that mindset, describe the kind of music they would write if given the opportunity—that’s how they come to understand the profundity of Olivier Messaien’s sense of inner strength that he derived from his faith.
 
Empathetic historical listening is how they grapple with Wagner’s egoism or Brahms’s trepidation or William Grant Still’s pride when each man thought about themselves in relation to Beethoven’s symphonic legacy. It’s the lens through which they approach Schubert’s, or Mozart’s, or Drake’s portrayal of women in song. It shapes the way that they return to their lives and find deeper meaning (or sometimes uncomfortable implications) in the music they already love, the music that’s ubiquitously shoved in their ears by consumerism, and the music their parents, grandparents, and caregivers sing at night.
 
Arts appreciation flexes, strengthens, and tones the muscles of active empathy. This kind of social-emotional fitness can then transfer into day-to-day life—looking for the broader factors that influence others’ behaviors, picking up on the nuance of others’ style, being sensitive to another’s concerns. People who approach life in this way are the people I want to share this world with.
​

The second tenet of my thinking about arts appreciation is its democratic nature. Anyone can do it, because everyone has the ability to be empathetic. That isn’t to say that everyone wants to do it (“It’s just a class I have to take for my degree”) or that it comes naturally to everyone (“I don’t know what it sounds like”), but everyone has the ability, and that makes the arts a welcome forum for people of all backgrounds, perspectives, and identities.
 
In the long term, that means that the myriad benefits of engaging in arts appreciation, active listening, critical thinking, and aural wonderment are available to everyone. And as one engages in this kind of activity, one gets better at it by further developing one’s skills of empathy—nuance, sensitivity, awareness—and then in turn appreciating more art, and then becoming more empathetic, and then…
 
If anyone can appreciate art—because everyone has the ability to empathize—and if the act of art appreciation enhances the behaviors that make us better neighbors and co-citizens of the world—because it induces a greater sense of empathy, creates three-dimensionality in one’s understanding of what human society entails, and also makes us more receptive and aware of what drives, motivates, frightens, and inspires the people around us—then it is obvious why there is great benefit in the arts as an educational component.
 
These benefits are crucial in college, at a point when many students are becoming self-aware and asserting their identities (emotionally, professionally, globally) and at a moment when they are absorbing philosophies that will (subconsciously) shape their decisions for years to come. This isn’t to say that college is a unique “magic window” in which arts appreciation has potency—it has great value and effect at any age—but I think we as educators, as stewards of the future that these students will inherit, would be irresponsible not to provide them with all the tools to shape that future for the best.

​The cause-effect line between arts appreciation and civic engagement, becoming conscientious neighbors, or world peace is not a pathway etched in stone: “Just listen to this Chopin Nocturne and you’ll be a better person *POOF*”—that’s overly simplistic and doesn’t do justice to the process of arts engagement.
 
But I feel—and will continue to argue—that if you appreciate the arts, meaning that if you engage with a work and actively unpack what it entails (how it was made, why it was made, the details it contains and how they relate to not only each other but also the details of other works, the skills involved in creating it, the desires of the people who viewed it, the social structures that made the work possible or even necessary, how it makes you feel and what you bring to the experience), then there is no way to come away from an artistic encounter without feeling a sense of kinship with the humanity of those involved in its existence—the artist(s), the other viewers/listeners, the world in which you live. And in that process—fulfilling in and of itself, because art!—is where the value lies.

(And seemingly no blogging for the past year, but I've been blogging pedagogically. This semester it's run the gamut--on women in classical music, on ballet, on thinking of composers as real people, on conducting, on the notion of musicking, on the physiology of music—and also curating a couple of student-run blogs.)

This week, the scheduled in-class topic—set out in the idealism of August when my as-yet unseen students had no idea that they were going to LEARN EVERYTHING—was music making during World War II. Because the Purchase course description requires that we approach music through the lens of its intersection with the other arts, economics, philosophy, and politics, this week’s class easily fell into place as an intellectual exercise around politics and pieces of music I already admired (and had already taught): Dmitri Shostakovich’s Symphony No. 5 (1937) and Olivier Messiaen’s Quartet for the End of Time (1940). It comes in the 10th week of the term, by which point I expected my students to have mastered (did I really think that 3 months ago?) usage of music-specific vocabulary (melody, polyphonic texture, clarinet vs. oboe, etc.). By now we would have successfully romped through the ideals of the Enlightenment and Classical string quartets. We would have digested the behemoths of Beethoven and Wagner and their repercussions for German nationalism, musical canonization, and Romanticism. We would have already sagely noted salient differences not only between the musical styles of Debussy and Schoenberg, but also the styles of their painting and literary counterparts (Monet and Munch, Baudelaire and Stefan George, respectively). At the very least, things resembling these ideals happened.

Last week, we broached the topic that classical music wasn’t necessarily welcoming to everyone: emigrants and musical nostalgia (Chopin), careers of female musicians taking backseat to those of their husbands (Clara), and racial minorities in the US (Scott Joplin, Robert Johnson, and Billie Holiday’s recording of Strange Fruit). In class we touched upon issues of censorship. In the guided online discussion, students grappled with the residual effects of sexism in the classical music world.

It was so neatly laid out, a logical intellectual progression, that suddenly aligned with the 2016 presidential election. I sat in my office on Wednesday, with gnawing anxiety over unfinished lectures for Thursday and Friday quietly growing, listening to my 20-something female coworkers crying—sobbing—during Hillary’s concession speech. Sitting in a dour talk-our-feelings-out impromptu staff meeting full of references to Canadian emigration. Imagining the world through my students’ eyes, and our planned lectures no longer seemed so intellectual.

I started classes this week asking my students how they felt—How are you guys doing today? No really, how are you feeling?

Shock. Fear. Anger. Disbelief. Some tears. Confusion: over why people would vote for Trump, would choose hate, would think that his credentials made him qualified for the job he sought. Panic leading trans students to secure passports, proceed into marriages they thought were eventual rather than imminent, and withdrawing their money from the stock market. A sense of betrayal: as women, as people of color, as immigrants, as Muslims, as students who had been told they needed to go to college in order to succeed. Uncertainty: their family member’s undocumented immigration status, their access to health care, going to war, rioting or other violence, laws that would be passed or undone.

I treated the day as an open forum, creating space for them to articulate their feelings, but I couldn't let them stop there without a sense of what they as individuals with agency could do to shape the world around them.

They felt uncertain about how to react with anything other than crippling fear or frustration. And unsure about their role in what happens next. Uncertain about the process by which the Electoral College could be changed. Unaware that they could contact their state and federal representatives. Unsure what purpose protesting serves. Not sure what community organizations they could be a part of.  (These questions were all eventually answered, for what it's worth.)

My students are mostly aged 18-20, were voting in an election for the first time, and have lived their adult lives believing that a Black president is just a totally normal thing. This was an uncomfortable whiplash moment for most of them to realize that limits of their world are not the limits of the world.

The lecture portion of the day was short, but I kept it in because I thought was important to talk about musicians who, in the face of the shittiest, grimmest realities, did what they can with what they had.

But before that happened, I told my students why I teach and why I think meaningful music appreciation courses are a necessary component of the degrees they’re working towards:

I’m playing the long game. I’m not going to change my students' lives today or this semester, but the work we do in class—becoming more attentive listeners, learning to unpack different people’s perspectives, understanding the kind of talent required to produce a piece of art, appreciating the myriad impulses and social structures and inspirations and human desires that create a piece of art—makes them more empathetic people. Our work sows the seeds that I hope will make it impossible for my students to look at another person as an “Other” or as a caricature rather than a human being ever again because they'll be able to sensitively and meaningfully notice, infer, and appreciate the wholeness of that person. And that will make them the kinds of citizens I will happy to share my world with in 20 or 40 years.
​
(Part of this final paragraph made it into a pitch my boss gave at a successful fundraising event we held on Thursday—it was both thrilling and odd to hear my words in another person’s mouth.)

The festival, in its own words “supports the growth and evolution of contemporary vocal music and vocal artists,” but as the night went on (and on, and on—3 hours by the time the night was done), it became increasingly disconcerting for me as I realized that all of the performers (singers and their accompanying instrumentalists alike), organizers, and composers who graced the stage that night were white. (The final bows were a throwback to what I imagine the halcyon days of everything-before-1970 was like, just plus women.)

Whiteness (or brownness) is clearly not a determinant of musical quality, but as the headlining, much-regaled opening night of a trend-setting festival that has maneuvered itself squarely into the New York contemporary music scene (and plans to expand to Chicago, LA, and Melbourne soon), the lack of diversity was a disappointment.  White music, performed by white people, for a (mostly older) white audience. 

(In selecting music, the singers did choose music that reflected a variety of ages and national origins of the composers—USA, Germany, Hungary, Britain—as well as a variety of languages, including non-language sounds. One of the young composers featured is on the festival’s Artistic Advisory Board, and one of the two women composers is, also.)

As gatekeepers—concert organizers and festival presenters whose high profile helps define taste and lend legitimacy to young and emerging composers and performers especially—does a festival such as Resonant Bodies have an obligation to ensure diversity its programming? What is it missing out on by presenting a stage full of white voices, both performers and composers?

​It’s partly out of the festival’s hands, since they (after choosing the singers, of course), let each singer decide what and how he or she wants to present (“Vocalists are invited to curate and perform in their own 45-minute set, with no restrictions on repertoire, format, or style”).  However, all three women featured sit on the festival’s Artistic Advisory Board. Tony Arnold brought up the issue of what music is worthy of being on that center stage by telling the audience, in the middle of her set, that her chosen pieces represented the range of what she thought was exciting in classical vocal music today. How unfortunate that she, along with Dawn Upshaw and Lucy Shelton, are most captivated by the music of white men (there were two pieces by women on the program, one in Upshaw’s set and another in Shelton’s).  Shelton’s demanding set featured 4 (four!) world premieres, but that implies that still, in 2015, she’s working nearly exclusively with white composers (and three of the four premieres were by men). 

(A friend also noted after the show the tension or awkward power dynamic of music nearly exclusively by men composers being sung by women.)
​
Is this homogeneity an indication that our musical education system (and social system more broadly) is only producing or encouraging white composers who are capable of composing the kind of music suited to this festival, or who are capable of networking in the kind of way landing a gig like this requires?

Or does it imply that the festival producers, and the singers themselves, as the gatekeepers deciding what does and doesn't get played, don't realize the omission they've made? Or they do realize it yet don't think it's an issue? Or do they believe that featuring one non-white singer at some point in the festival fulfills some sort of mollifying quota, and the accompanying instrumentalists are a non-issue?

(Previous festivals have featured non-white singers and instrumentalists, to be sure, and Du Yun was featured on the second night of the festival this year, but the remaining singers selected this year were white.  I didn’t attend other performances, so I can’t speak to the accompanying instrumentalists’ ethnic backgrounds.  However, a palette like that of Resonant Bodies 2015 stands in stark contrast to the recent cover of Opera News and its list of “25 Rising Stars,” coincidentally issued the second day of Resonant Bodies. Or mic.com’s list of “9 Brilliant Contemporary Composers Who Prove Classical Music Isn’t Dead,” which includes Thomas Adès, whose music was sung by Tony Arnold at Resonant Bodies, in addition to Unsuk Chin, Saed Haddad, and Angélica Negrón.)

But if these are the festival's additional goals, then why remain so mired in one demographic for nearly all the artists involved? 

• To catalyze creation of new vocal music
• To expand the audience for new vocal music
• To challenge and transform the role of the vocal recitalist
• To bring together a global network of new-music vocalists
• To create and archive media resources to better connect audiences, performers, and composers

After the concert, wine in hand in the lobby, I heard, told in that breathless “Isn’t entrepreneurship amazing!” way, that the Resonant Bodies Festival began three years ago with a few thousand dollars out of the founder's pocket, and via networking and fundraising has grown its donor base to support its much-expanded, more press-worthy third season. Part of me wondered if that fundraising drive would actually have been equally financially successful if the festival’s on-stage profile were more diverse.  Do moneyed white patrons actually want to support musical diversity, or just a range of musical sounds within a white community? How much of a role does race play in the palatability of strange, often unfamiliar, musical sounds? Jessye Norman’s presence (as a decidedly “resonant body”) probably would have encouraged checkbooks to come out, but would Pumeza’s? What if three Asian singers on this list had been featured for an entire night of the festival?

​Trying to get a seat at the metaphorical musical table is a defining aspect of non-white classical music careers.  Composer T.J. Anderson has lamented the “invisibility” of black composers especially:

The festival was notable in its featuring of women (singers, composers, and instrumentalists), which is unsurprising given that the founder is a woman, as are most members of the festival’s Staff and Artistic Advisory Board; their programming grows out of their network of colleagues and the issues that are palpable to them.  Yet, two women composers doesn’t define diversity, and catapulting them to the mainstage alongside revered men composers (what an awkward epithet, one that only underscores the “normalcy” of men composers!) doesn’t do justice to the other minorities, and intersectional minorities, left in the shadows offstage. It’s not as if all categories of artist other than “white man” simply require a single representative to satiate some sort of quota of “otherness”—ok, guys, this time white women are taking one for the team, and next time we’ll send an Asian guy. Or a black guy. Or another token systematically-oppressed minority. But not too many of them, because then it’s a minority event. (See The Perfect Guy, which has been mistakenly referred to as a “black movie” because of the presence of a black cast).

This issue of responsibility is one that haunts my own programming.  I acutely feel guilty (it’s more of a pulsating dyspepsia) when my ensembles’ programming or invitations issued to composers ignore the diversity of artistic voices available to us (and they’re available—digital communication removes any excuse for in-network only collaborations). At the same time, I worry that my own intersectionality makes me overly sensitive to artistic perspectives being ignored (or remaining invisible, following Ellison and Anderson), and I worry that my championing of them turns me into that “black musician,” reducing my value as a musician into that of a minority cliché (that too-easily dismissed “angry black woman” who receives eye rolls in meetings because she’s talking about “black issues” again), or preventing me from having legitimacy in the “normal” (ahem) classical world, or pigeon-holing my repertoire for the foreseeable future.  It’s not a fight that will be won on the stage of the Resonant Bodies Festival alone, nor in the small battles in my own ensembles’ programming; it’s an issue along the lines of a “Black Voices Matter” movement (plus additional such necessary movements for all the other marginalized voices out there) that will require a collective, communal, unrelenting (even if glacial) push to demand, ensure, and celebrate a true diversity of musics on the stages where it counts.

I don't get nervous for musical performances anymore.  I feel like I know what I'm doing, what to expect, how to prepare, how listeners will likely react, and I do it often.  Speeches are another matter.  I haven't given a proper speech since my high school graduation.  I can't remember what that one exactly entailed; likely it expressed a great deal of youthful optimism and encompassed the extent of my awareness of the big, wide world we cocky seniors were entering into (which is to say, not very much).  Last night, I gave the address on behalf of the 2015 graduates, and I was, in fact, nervous.  I wouldn't be talking about music, composers, or my experience with a piece; I wouldn't be showing listeners what to listen for and then taking my flute out  like a medieval shield to hide behind; these words wouldn't be a preamble to the main performance I was about to do.

After getting settled on stage at Avery Fisher, all the classic nervous signs appeared, swirling up from past experiences where I thought I'd banished them forever: sweaty palms; a need to focus on deep breathing; suddenly wishing I'd practiced more; and thoughts, so many doubtful thoughts, crowding into what should have been a calm, confident headspace: What if the microphone does that screechy sound? Do I need to adjust its height when I get up there? What if everyone thinks my voice is ugly or grating or too deep? Do I need to talk louder or more clearly than usual? Everyone else's address so far has been calm and run-of-the-mill -- is my delivery style going to seem falsely animated, or girly and naive, or awkward? What if I flub the words?  What if everyone starts to look bored during my speech? What if...

My speech opened with formulaic greetings and welcomes that did nothing to quash these doubts; it wasn't me speaking them.  But as soon as I reached the meat of my text, where the form and content had so readily flowed without me having to wrest them out during my drafting process, everything became easier.  I didn't have to read the words anymore, I got to enjoy the ideas I was sharing with the audience, and their laughter at all the right times brought the experience that much closer to the interactive aspect of music performance that I thrive on.

The rest of the night was intensely enjoyable.  The keynote speaker, a professor at the Graduate Center (with a lovely English accent), beautifully emphasized the fact that while he was not one of the famous "gets" that universities like to be able to boast about as a commencement speaker (Michelle Obama, Stephen Colbert, Maya Rudolph, Matthew McConaughey, Robert De Niro, or, no really, Bon Jovi), the money saved by the university for such an appearance fee (typically $50,000) could instead fund two full-time, five-year fellowships for Graduate Center students.  Families in attendance were fantastically vocal and supportive when their graduates walked the stage.  One man called out "Yeah, that's my wife!" when his special lady received her doctoral hood.  Small children ran amok, screaming and cavorting happily through the aisles.  And my fully-grown siblings gesticulated wildly every time I even seemed to turn my head in their general direction.  It was a beautiful scene all around.

Good evening.  It is such an honor to speak on behalf of the 2015 graduates. 

Thank you all for joining us to celebrate this moment of commencement.  Welcome, President Robinson, Provost Lennihan, Distinguished Honorees, Trustee Martell, Executive Vice Chancellor Dobrin, Graduate Center Foundation Board Members De Ferrari, Kaplan, Glucksman, Hecht, Morning, and Urvater, Graduate Center faculty and staff, and obviously, my fellow graduates.  

And, of course, thank you to family and friends in attendance and scattered across the globe.  Although you might not fully understand what it is that we’ve been doing for the past several years, or you may even regret having asked the seemingly casual conversation-starter “So, what’s your dissertation about?”, you have been supportive regardless and understand that today is kind of a big deal for us. 

When I started at the Graduate Center in 2009, I said to myself, “Five years? How could anything possibly take five years? I’ll be out of here in four, tops, no problem.  It’s just a couple of classes and a little paper, right?”  I thought of this degree as a singular event, a hurdle to be jumped and moved past.  But this degree represents 20% of my time on this earth, and it signifies not a momentary accomplishment but rather an ongoing set of experiences that define the role I hope to play in the world at large.  So I offer the following observations about my time at the Graduate Center as illustrative proof of my ongoing process of finding my place in the world, and I hope they resonate with my fellow graduates’ experiences.

When I started at the Graduate Center, I didn’t anticipate how much I would love teaching, or how my students would eat up all of the time I gave them, or how I would pore over their papers and my lecture notes on the subway.  And at home in the evenings.  And on weekends.  And on holidays...  I didn’t anticipate how energized teaching a class would leave me feeling, or how the questions my students asked and the progress they made could affirm my faith in the future, or how commiserating with my colleagues about the broader social and institutional difficulties facing educators could temper that idealism with a cold dose of realism, or how heavy the weight of responsibility is when you’re sitting on the other side of the teacher’s desk.

When I started at the Graduate Center, I didn’t think that New York City would be so awesome – so vibrant, so surprising, so picturesque.  Or so expensive.  Or, over a decade into the 21st century, that there would still be so much to protest about and demonstrate against: the NYPD’s stop and frisk policy, the Occupy Wall Street movement, minimum wage negotiations, or the more recent deaths of Eric Garner and Freddie Gray.

I had no idea my fellow doctoral students would be so damned smart – every single one of them – and that their comments during seminars, or lingering in one of the gray hallways after seminar was over, or in the middle of a party, or even on a facebook post could be so consistently compelling and thoughtful.  Their intellectual curiosity and fidelity to academic inquiry aren’t switches that turn on and off but rather are integral parts of who they are and how they interact with the world.  I also had no idea anyone could be so passionate about Robert’s Rules of Order.  Thank you, Friday night Doctoral Student Council meetings.

I didn’t anticipate how intimidating and inspiring my fellow students’ breadth and depth of skills would be.  I assumed that the music department would be filled with talented young professionals who came here to be a part of one of the most diverse and high-caliber music scenes on earth and to study with innovative musicians and scholars, but I didn’t realize that I would find my fellow students’ artistry and worldview as musicians so invigorating, or that my classes would be filled with players and composers with whom I would want to continue working and making music for the rest of my life.  Just like students from other disciplines at the Graduate Center, my musical colleagues here are fierce and impressive in terms of their abilities, expertise, and accolades; they perform not only with impeccable skill but also with purpose; they explore a wide palette of new sounds and musical ideas rather than retreating into the cocoon of complacency; they are concerned with reaching and meaningfully engaging new listeners, making what we do relevant while retaining artistic integrity; and they embrace the beautiful diversity of musical experiences from around the world with respect and intellectual curiosity.

I also never imagined how much fun writing the dissertation would be – once it finally got going, of course – that writing it would feel like traveling at light speed, doing backflips and yoga simultaneously in my mind, all while sitting still and typing at the computer. 

I was unable to foresee how life would get in the way of what was supposed to be the simple, elegant narrative of “working on my doctorate.”  I had no idea that my father’s sudden diagnosis of cancer and death early in my second year would energize my will to complete my degree and not waste a single precious moment of time, but that my mother’s unexpected death at the end of my fourth would slow me down so much, turning my emotions into a thick molasses within which I struggled to accomplish even the simplest tasks.   

But I also didn’t know how consistently supportive the Graduate Center community would be, and not only when I thought I needed it most – how fellow musicians as well as friends from other departments would come to my concerts both on and off campus; how this would be the first school I’d ever attended without a sense of competitive jealousy among the students.  I had no idea that an institution could contain such successful, intelligent people who would be so generous with their time despite being so busy with their teaching and research schedules; people who would say, “Let’s get coffee” and actually mean it; people who would never hesitate to lend me a much-needed book, or remind me what pages were supposed to have been read for seminar, or be so open with their own work; people who could be such masters in their respective fields and yet humble in the face of others’ research.  I didn’t think the Graduate Center would be full of people who would be so adept and exuberant in their non-academic knowledge and interests, sharing their dog sitting skills or their cooking expertise and organizing ski trips and other important respites from scholarly pursuits – basically, that an institution could exist whose members have accomplished so much but remain so human. 

When I was considering doctoral programs, I ultimately decided to attend the Graduate Center because it felt like a place where I would, every single day, feel holistically inspired by my fellow doctoral students and faculty in a way that no other institution seemed to offer.  That unfailing energy spurred my work here, and it also is the standard with which I want to engage the world, because I know that’s how the rest of the Graduate Center community will continue to do so.  I thank you all for making our academic community inspiring in its accomplishments, intimidating in its collective knowledge, and joyful in its pursuits. I feel lucky to be numbered among you because it is you, your achievements thus far, and your future accomplishments that will arise out of your own set of meaningful experiences at the Graduate Center that make my degree mean anything at all.

Thank you all.

During football season, I create a new recipe every week to sustain my friends through the marathon that is three sets of games every Sunday (with ample Red Zone).  These usually need to be foods that can be eaten plateless, sitting on the couch.  But instead of going to a couple of solid standbys every week, I invent new snacks, often taking entree-type foods I love and turning them into balls or muffin-sized individual servings.  See examples from Pigskin 'n Pie's tumblr here for some of my past indulgences.  Also, take time to admire her intense baking skills and wit.

I also have trouble containing my enthusiasm for cooking.  I am a chronic over-cooker (as in, too much food, not a serial burner of foods).  

After I deposited my dissertation in April (and officially became a doctor), I threw a party for all the people who had (at least indirectly) supported me through the process.  Here is an array of (most of) the appetizers):

Because of the large-ish guest list, I also made (3!) meatloaves, a Provencal tian with zucchini and goat cheese, and a melange of roast vegetables with a roast garlic aioli, but then panicked that there wouldn't be enough food and made southwestern spice-rubbed roast turkey breasts as well.  No pictures of these survive.

And then there was dessert: a honey-lavender-ricotta ice cream, an Earl Grey ice cream, and a coconut basil mint sorbet.  Plus Pigskin 'n Pie brought a chocolate mousse cake.

Panicking, over-cooking, and over-preparing are my modus operandi.  My friends laugh about the Christmas I panicked at the last minute (after having made what any normal person would have thought was already an excessive amount of food) and made a three-flavored layered panna cotta (pumpkin, vanilla bourbon, and cinnamon)... Panna cotta, panick-cotta... yeah, my panic attacks are not only classy but also pun-worthy.  But after laughing about there being too much food, they still talk about how delicious it all was.

I love the process of cooking: the chopping, the smells, the tastes, the heat, and the colors, but I especially find comfort in how methodical planning allows me to improvise and feel ready for anything.  (My pre-recital ritual in grad school was baking cookies the night before so I would have something positive to do. And so I would have cookies. For the reception, obviously.) Being methodical and organized means I can make panna cotta at the last minute because I have all the skills and the ingredients ready to go.  It means I can make dinner for 30 of my closest friends, no problem.  No one will go hungry (even the vegans or vegetarians) and no one will get food poisoning.  It also means that I can sit back and enjoy the process as it unfolds, knowing it's going to turn out well, because I've set myself up to succeed.  

I find a lot of similarities between the way I approach and love food and the way I approach and love making music.  In the kitchen, I imagine how I want people to feel after eating my food and the journey of flavors and textures I want them to experience.  I love watching their faces when something I've made tastes good.  I find cooking for people to be so nourishing: for other people's tummies, but also for my soul, because I get to make them feel good and satiated with something I've made with my own hands and imagination.  There are so many steps to cooking, but none of them feels like a chore or work because it's all in service of an end product that makes me feel so good I would pay any price to achieve it.  Replace "cooking" with "fluting" and "food" with "music" in the preceding sentences and everything still holds true.  (I'm also thinking about Jennifer Cluff's article on how to prepare for a competition, in which she describes thinking about the music you make emanating directly from your heart and moving the audience.)

I find that my sense of comfort and enjoyment in the kitchen (cooking food that tastes and looks good, not feeling pressed at the last minute for time, not doing work after guests have arrived) comes down to good mise en place: doing as many preparatory steps ahead of time so that I have everything at hand exactly when I need it.  This morning, I'm working on a different kind of mise en place for two larger musical projects I'm preparing: "The Curious Case of Ed Leedskalnin" with The Curiosity Cabinet, and the summer season for Fiati Five.  Cutting, taping, hole-punching, highlighting instrument changes, marking in breaths and fingerings, cueing parts... These are the things that happen before I ever pick up my flute and that make me feel confident about what I'm going to play, how I'm going to play it, my role in the whole project, and how successful it's going to be.  I don't want to find out at a first rehearsal that I don't have enough time to make a page turn, or that the oboe has the root of the chord, or that the viola should lead the tempo change. These are the kind of little unexpected "oops" moments that, when they pile up, throw me off my game and undermine my confidence by distracting me from the musical line I wanted to play, make rehearsals inefficient, make my time spent with my colleagues less fun, and make performances nerve-wracking.

Both of these projects are going to be great, not only because I'm playing great music and working with great people, but also because I'm going to bring my best, most prepared, most focused self to the rehearsal room, and then the rest will take care of itself.

And afterwards, we eat.