Opera vs. Trans

I identify as a lot of things. Everyone does, whether you’re queer or not, you just might not realize it. Maybe you’re pansexual, genderqueer, black, runner, Yoshi-in-Mario-Kart-no-matter-what, Atheist, whatever. They’re all identities. I identity as trans*, queer, barista, classical singer, mezzo-soprano, Midwesterner, gamer, geek, nerd, introvert, etc. Hell, I was feeling so homesick for some a snowy Michigan landscape with apple cider and spiced doughnuts from watching ‘Star Wars V’, that I made this. You’re welcome.

Some of these identities are just as important to me as my trans* identity at the moment, specifically that of classical singer.

When I first arrived in Berlin, I connected with a lot of singers and instrumentalists, had a few lessons, and fully intended to audition for companies, or for masters programs. And then trans happened. Or more accurately, I couldn’t comprehend having both of these identities at the same time. In my head, they were completely incompatible. I had to choose: trans or opera.

When I told friends of mine who were singers, they all had similar reactions: “That’s so great, Holden! But how does this affect your career?” This has been my biggest fear, and why I have postponed accepting my transness for so long. Opera is deeply important to me, and has been a central part of my happiness and well-being for the past 5-6 years of my life. The thought of taking that part away, taking away my future career in something I love, and taking away my literal voice, is soul-crushing. Throughout university, whenever I had the stray wonder of whether I was trans, I would think, “Even if I was, I can’t be because of opera. Opera is more important than anything.”

There’s also a shallower part of me that is afraid that I’ll be losing the thing that makes me special. I know that I have a good voice, both because I studied very hard to get it, and because I believe I was born with a genetic gift of sorts. Everyone has their gifts, and I very strongly believe that singing is mine. It’s also a thing that people love about me, and respect about me. I’ve had people directly tell me to do anything to keep my voice, and that nothing should stop me from a career in opera. But now that’s exactly what I risk doing.

Although this sounds dorky, I’m being honest when I say it’s sort of like in ‘The Little Mermaid’ when Ariel gives up her voice. Her voice is the thing that everyone loves about her, and the strongest identifier for her, and she gives it up for someone she barely even knows for a shot at falling in love.

She’s not sure if she’s doing the right thing, but she has to try. There’s no other option. Instead of falling in love with a prince, I’m looking for a shot at falling in love with myself.

This is why performing ‘The Marriage of Figaro’ was both brilliant and terrifying to me: two of my deepest desires were fulfilled. I had both opera and a feeling of transness. I felt lighter than air, and it was something I couldn’t ignore anymore. I knew I had to come to terms with it one way or another.

End of October and all of November of last year I was living in a huge apartment by myself, and felt the Berlin Blues. I was feeling lower than I’d felt before, and I didn’t know how to reach out to people. So I wrote a novel with the fire of NaNoWriMo burning under my ass. It was my first novel, and I was able to use it as an excuse to stay inside and be introverted, and effectively hide any feelings I had by inserting them into my novel.

It was helpful to read what I had written, but the entire month of November I didn’t sing. I couldn’t sing. I tried, I really did, but every time I tried to sing I would break down crying. It was like something inside of me had broken. I would lie to people about how my singing was going, because I was so ashamed and confused. I would talk about the pieces I was working on, but really they were the pieces that I was avoiding. I would talk about the musicians I’d met in Berlin, but I hadn’t seen them in months. Part of me didn’t think I was lying, because I wanted to be singing, and I thought that if I talked about it enough, I’d get back into it. It didn’t really work.

I thought that I was depressed, but deep inside, I knew what it was: I was mourning. Although I hadn’t yet decided to take T, and hadn’t even decided on top surgery at that point, my subconscious was mourning the loss of my singing voice before it had even been lost. This mentality is what permeates my thoughts. It’s easily the biggest inner struggle that I have ever faced, and I still have no concrete solution to it. The only thing I could do was not sing, so that I didn’t miss it. The logic is not valid, but that’s how I thought at the time. Now I know better.

After coming to terms with being trans*, and coming out to the internet [link other article], I had a few friends who put me in contact with other transmasculine people who were singers. This gave me a deep, affecting hope that I hadn’t felt about singing in awhile. There were really other singers who had tried this before, and came out on the other side.

It wasn’t impossible.

A major turning point for me when deciding on whether to take T, was when I e-mailed a former voice teacher, asking if she could give me any information about the effects of T on the voice. She didn’t have a lot of first-hand experience, but she told me, “It’ll be an adventure. You might be a tenor, you might be a countertenor.” She didn’t tell me not to do it, she didn’t tell me about how it would affect my career (as if I hadn’t thought about it a million times already), she simply gave me the go ahead.

The decision I must make now is whether I try, and how hard I’ll try. Classical singing is not a field that one can do half-heartedly and still be successful. I must do what I need to do to satisfy my transness, and evaluate whether classical singing still makes me happy while facing even more obstacles than before.

The sorts of changes that occur in the voice when taking testosterone are relatively straight-forward for the non-singing voice: lowering of the voice. That’s it, and for many it’s the most exciting part. To the singing voice though, there are a whole host of possible problems:

• Lowering of the voice (sometimes requiring a Fach change)
• Loss of agility and control
• Loss of articulation
• Loss of range
• Loss of stamina
• Airiness in tone
• Inconsistency in tone

For a coloratura mezzo-soprano, these are terrifying prospects. They’re not guaranteed side-effects, but all of them are possible. The irony is that as a mezzo-soprano, I’m perfectly suited to doing pants roles. If I ended up changing Fachs, I would end up being just another short tenor who can do little more than character roles, and who would have to learn a entirely new repertoire.

That all said, something compels me–however slowly–to try. Singing is something that makes me so happy, and is a part of my identity even while I’m not actively singing. It’s a powerful force in my life, and there is no doubt that I would regret not trying.