Diary of an Opera Singer: Biscuits
Rhoslyn Jones
December 5, 2022
You ever have a recurring dream? Most of us have and although I’m no expert I imagine they speak to some underlying fear, anxiety, or hopefully moment of joy or impending catharsis we’re all navigating. Mine are weird…like really weird. After recounting them to my husband his usual response is, “There’s something deeply, DEEPLY wrong with you.”
The details of the super strange can be saved for the joys and intimacy of marriage but I have had this one dream repeatedly over the past few months that haunts me. It includes faceless, nameless humans with whom I suddenly find myself having to physically fight.
Suddenly, my superpower dream self finds I’m unable to open my eyes fully because of a lacerating light that stabs at my eyes, and I’m only able to move in slow motion. Everyone else is moving at regular speed but I’m nearly blind and can’t seem to make contact with whoever I’m trying to punch in the face.
I just keep laboriously swinging my arms fruitlessly as if trying to stay afloat in thick, clear molasses and I never ever make contact with anyone or anything.
My husband calls my fists biscuits because of their pale, round shape and lack of intimidating size. He does that thing men do when they show you how to defend yourself in case we poor helpless women ever come eye to eye with someone who tries to steal our purse.
I’m telling you right now, just take my purse. Enjoy my ten dollars, Diet Coke, phone chargers, and purse bagel(s). I’m not going to put up much of a fight with these biscuits. Hell, I probably have half a case of Diet Coke and sparkling water in that purse and you’re doing me a favor by carrying it for a while.
As for the more valuable stuff, I guarantee my phone and credit cards are tucked into one side of my bra, and my car keys are in the other sideboob (we call them opera pockets) and if you try to find them? Good luck to you, sir. Those items are usually lost to the abyss of cleavage and come out at home when I joyfully remove my bra and watch any number of items come tumbling out like lost treasure.
I once had an entire chapstick stuck under my left boob for like…an embarrassing amount of time. I’ve found loose change, pencils, receipts, makeup, jewelry, and one time I found a crumbled pumpkin scone in there. Ha! Joke is on you, potential thief! I get the bra biscuit!
I’ve never been in a real life physical brawl, but this recurring dream has me fantasizing about how it would feel to hit someone squarely and forcefully in the face. The closest I’ve ever come is punching a pigeon who was headed straight for my open window as I drove out of the Target parking lot, no doubt mistaking my curly mass of frizzy hair as the perfect place to nest.
Don’t worry, the bird was fine. I’m a tender-hearted pink marshmallow of a human most of the time. I always want to meet and play with your dog, and I regularly buy groceries for strangers in need. I get teary eyed watching my students perform with passion and I will weep openly when when accused of something I didn’t do or when my feelings are hurt. But, I’m a lover AND a fighter.
My unfiltered rage roars when anything or anyone threatens the wellbeing, comfort, or happiness of anyone who isn’t me. When that oblivious driver honks at a slower, elderly man trying to make it across the crosswalk in time? I’m gonna pull you over to yell and use one certain biscuit finger on my biscuit paw to make sure you’re aware of your error. If you try to rush into an elevator while people are actively attempting to get out of that elevator first? You’re getting immediate Roz snark and a free loud lesson in human decency.
If you’re a person in a visible state of power or privilege and you hurl racist, misogynistic, gatekeepy, or any unkind remarks at anyone, especially if it’s a student or someone I know? These biscuits are now HOT.
The wrath of Roz is not always followed by immediate action. My brand of fury can be surgically precise and deeply piercing (as I’m sure my nearest and dearest can attest), but it can also be slow, methodical, and will incrementally reveal itself through seemingly invisible action or inaction. Almost as if you’ve been slowly poisoned over a long period of time, only to look up with your dying gasp to find me smugly smiling down on your corpse.
I know, I know. I’m working on it. Sorta. For legal reasons, I have never actually killed or physically harmed anyone and I have no plans to do so. The truth is that I like my rage and I have spent a large amount of my time as a woman in this world feeling caged and silenced.
How many times have you been told to quiet down or to just let it go? How often are you accused of being too bossy or dramatic, or told to watch your tone? I need more biscuits to count that high. Further, most of the opera singers I know have endured years of abuse and aggression of all different varieties and now at the tender age of 42 I have found myself in a position to witness this kind of behavior from different perspectives as a performer, educator, and administrator.
I will not tolerate passing on generational trauma to young singers. I cannot abide public or private displays of racism, xenophobia, homophobia, transphobia, misogyny, fatphobia, gatekeeping, or any kind of harmful behavior enacted in the name of art.
After 20+ years in this industry I can count on just one of my pale, round, pigeon punching biscuits the number of people I have seen treat others consistently and repeatedly with respect, integrity, and kindness. We’re going to need to change the recipe to make sure that number increases to count more fingers on more biscuit hands.
The way I see it I have two options in my current position of power and privilege.
Option 1: I could repeat and pass on the traditions of the past. Ones that can intimidate, disenfranchise, ignore, and belittle people with fear, anxiety, and ignorance. Behaviors and leadership I’ve endured and witnessed making it easier to ascend a ladder built by the gossiping opera mafia for only a select few. What a wonderful environment for mentorship and the creation of art, you say? Nightmare.
Option 2: I can continue to evolve and find ways to lead by an example of kindness and generosity and make space at a new, inviting table for a more diverse and inclusive group of humans who freely exude the joy of music and artistry and who will help amplify the voices of those around them.
Aiming to leave a legacy of providing sanctuary and solace while nurturing relationships with people who share those values. Action and systemic change that can make it easier and more accessible for more people to build their lives in the arts and who will in turn pass on those traditions and expectations of human interaction.
Option 2 can be an easy choice every day. Well, most days. Some days I will just run out of steam and take a nap where I throw my forceful fists in futility at the faceless foes in my dreams. Swinging away relentlessly until I wake up to continue the fight. After all, I’m only one human woman who, if you’re not careful, will fire up the oven, mix up the ingredients, and serve up a hot pile of rage biscuits for anyone in my path. In fairness, they probably deserve it.