Diary of an Opera Singer: Phoenix
Rhoslyn Jones
January 9, 2023
TW: Emotional abuse, disordered eating, body shaming, racism, fatphobia.
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“Don’t tell anyone you’re teaching,” my former manager lectured at me on the phone one day in 2010. “Those who fail at singing, end up teaching, and then it’s over.” I was working in Phoenix at the time and I had recently agreed to teach at a summer program for young aspiring singers. I called my manager to share the good news. Or so I thought.
He was disgusted and disappointed, which was quickly becoming par for the course with this individual. He, along with *nearly* every other human in power I’ve encountered in the opera business has a different set of rules and requirements when it comes to guiding singers, especially women, and at least double especially for people of color.
It’s an enormous mess, and one that I did not quite comprehend until I was in the middle of it. In my experience, the trend was revealing itself quite quickly. Suffer for your art. Endure abuse. Sacrifice everything and then some.
Were these ridiculous rites of passage written somewhere in an opera mafia handbook and I just didn’t get my copy? How did a career that had inspired and moved me suddenly turn into a game where I didn’t know the rules and every person in power changed those unknown rules all the time?
How did I let them manipulate me into questioning my own intelligence, talent, worth, and undermine my Roz-ness?
Turns out it’s called trauma. Turns out it’s called abuse. Turns out it’s a system built on deeply rooted white supremacy. Turns out that the opera mafia will pretend they care, entice you with promises of success and support, and then emotionally abuse you to the point of sobbing in their apartment and then charge you $250 for the privilege.
They will put their stamp of approval on you, claim you like a piece of property that they successfully constructed, and then burn that house to the ground and piss on its ashes.
Let’s start this cheerful jaunt down memory lane with a small sampling of a day in the life, shall we?
“You’ll work twice as hard as the men and you’ll never get half as far. They cast you because Carmen can’t have two Black friends. Sacrifice your silly relationships with family and loved ones. Tits and teeth! Grit and grind baby, don’t even think of having a baby, don’t get married, arrive early, stay late, and don’t complain.”
“Don’t make mistakes, either. Don’t make the wrong move, don’t say too much, and don’t interrupt. Be grateful for what you have. Be silent and compliant, and get up and do your job perfectly. You need a thicker skin. You need to work harder on your languages. The Germans won’t see you for these roles if you’re too curvy. Your English is too rustic. You’re just a country bumpkin in this big city, aren’t you.”
“Speak your mind, but be polite. You’re too Canadian. Your tone is aggressive. Don’t be a doormat. I got you this job. Teaching is quitting. What a waste of your talent. Your neckline is too low and your skirt is too short. We don’t f*ck the ‘help.’ Those men in Harlem sure seem to like you. We want the men on Wall Street to want you. Do you think you’re thin enough for them? You’re not. Don’t get too thin or your voice will suffer and it’s all about that voice. People listen with their eyes.”
“Do you think your costume will fit if you keep eating that crap? Throw it away in front of me so I know it’s gone. You look matronly in that dress and those earrings look like they belong on your grandmother. Can you hire a fatter pianist so you look smaller in auditions? Come sit on my lap. Do you like my sword? You need waaaaaay more makeup to look pretty.”
“Your curls make your face look fat. Straighten your hair. Those shoes are hideous. You can really party can’t you? You’re so fun when we’re drinking. I was just teasing about your body. You know you’re the sexiest thing we’ve ever seen, right? The boys love those tits, don’t they. Do a little spin for me? Yeah, just lose another 10 pounds or so.”
“I don’t think you have the kind of body that will suffer vocally if you lose more weight. See? You lost the weight and it wasn’t that hard, was it? I don’t think you should be crying about this. This is what separates the men from the boys. I just want you to be healthy. Put on your big girl pants and get it done.”
“How can you sing Mimi looking like that? Sit down on the bed next to me little missy and let’s talk about your future. Don’t take it so personally. I’m just trying to help. That’ll be $250 for the hour.”
I need you to know how tip of the iceberg that list is and how quickly I was able to write it off the top of my head. Took me less than 3 minutes. There’s plenty more where that came from but I’m not quite ready to put it all in writing.
If you’re in this business at a certain level then I’m sure you have similar stories. I’m so sorry that you do. I struggle with the impact of those words and they continue to echo in my mind frequently.
Especially as I work as a teacher; mentoring and guiding a new generation of singers. Am I sending them into inevitable traumatic experiences like lambs to the slaughter? I truly hope not, and I’m working my big butt off to take up space, speak up, and create opportunities that invite artists to be just that — artists.
Imagine a doctor going through a decade of education and their bosses told them one day that they wouldn’t be able to practice medicine because they weren’t wearing enough makeup? A lawyer who failed the LSAT because they wouldn’t sleep with a famous lawyer? An accountant who was brilliant with numbers but gets fired because of their dress size?
Something to know about opera singers of my caliber is that we’ve trained for decades to learn a galactic amount of repertoire, multiple different languages, and we have spent our lives learning every corner of our technique, artistry, and resilience.
Most of us have multiple academic degrees and still end up making ends meet with all sorts of jobs that make us question ourselves on a daily basis. We have auditioned for hundreds of companies and the answer is most often, “No.” We perform live in front of thousands with a live orchestra and dozens of supporting people who make art happen.
We wear heavy and elaborate costumes and wigs and we don’t get commercial breaks, cuts, or cue cards (well, some people do…I won’t name names). We pay for travel, housing, coaching, publicity, voice lessons, and rental cars all to give a chunk of our paycheck to the managers who abuse us and the rest to taxes and rent in a place we won’t see for months.
The rest strains to cover the cost of the privilege to live as a local in a new city for 5-6 weeks. Speaking of taxes, opera singers get audited frequently because we are round pegs trying to fit in a square hole. I’ve been audited twice so far in my career for years that I didn’t even break even, financially.
We file taxes in every state and country that we make money in and it’s a bookkeeping nightmare that isn’t taught comprehensively enough, or at all in schools. We are the entertainment that people spend their down time attending. We work long nights, weekends, holidays, and we miss weddings, funerals, graduations, birthdays, and milestone events.
We are the Lamborghinis of the music business when it comes to performance and power. We don’t use electronic amplification (well, some of us do…but again, I won’t name names) because we have our own built in carefully crafted big block hemi engines. Just give us a wide open road, release the throttle, and let it fly.
Still want to be an opera singer? Yeah, me too. It’s awesome. When you have a calling, which is what music is to me, you harden yourself against all the things stacked against you and move forward knowing that the love you have for this art form is greater than anything that may impede the way. Mostly.
The rampant racism, sexism, ageism, fatphobic rhetoric, xenophobia and ongoing abuse is not something anyone should ever have to endure for the sake of art. It devalues and belittles us and is the least incentivizing thing you can do to a human, and it often comes when you’re most vulnerably baring your soul. I suppose that’s how predators like it.
Like a sharp dagger to my core, this former manager of mine relished the opportunity to set me up for failure. The implication that teaching was failing is something I will discuss more deeply soon but for now I offer these words as a way to speak them out loud and name the abusive atmosphere that has been so prevalent in this career, at least for me.
Does it disappoint me and make me want to quit entirely and move to a farm and raise donkeys? Daily. Sometimes hourly. More aggressively, it spurns me on to burn this whole mess to the ground and spit on its ashes from where perhaps some kind of operatic phoenix could rise.
How fabulous would she be? A jewel toned diva enrobed in brilliant feathers of every size and color, with a side of vicious talons.
There are those in opera who are slowly but assuredly rebuilding a system that makes space for all. Luckily, I know a lot of them and cheer them on with my big opera voice as much as I’m able. They’re building a place where artists can flourish with the full depth of their passion and artistry, unhindered by prejudice and bullshit.
Small, incremental changes (Thanks, RBG) are being forged in the fire of our frustration and we are not f*cking around. Also, abusive managers? You’re fired.
Photos by Helenna Santos