Pieces of Dreams

I’m thirty years old. It’s my first season at New York City Opera, where I’m onstage in The Student Prince having the time of my life.

Only a few weeks earlier, my whirlwind fitting takes place—the department head on the other side of the room, eyes licking me up and down as I slip out of my shirt and jeans. This is more than checking out the costumes. He’s eating me with his eyes. His assistant—a really lovely man with eyes in the back of his head—somehow manages to place himself between us and anticipate every move.

The department head asks questions about my past, which feel more like hooks to the future before tossing off: “The only reason you were hired is because you fit the costume!” “Don’t mind that old queen!” —the assistant says in my ear surreptitiously.

The range of emotion that passes through me as I cycle through a dozen costumes includes excitement, chagrin, embarrassment, shame, elation, anger and gratitude—the latter for my new found friend and shield.

There is no shield years later at another opera house when a man holding all the cards places his hand on my thigh for a moment, mere inches from the ring on my finger, then asks: “So, how do you see your future here?”

I’d heard the stories of boyfriends being hired, but am caught off-guard as heat rises into my face and my heart pounds. I don’t know what to say, or rather, know what I will not do: so start saying things, but not the necessary thing—and leave the room knowing I will never obtain a coveted position or sing there again.

Photo credit: David McCarver, New York State Theater, 1988.