There are a few reasons I haven't been writing my blog for the past few months. Firstly, I've been babysitting for a French family with twin 8-year-old girls, and it's in my contract to keep discreet online, so most of my funny stories would have been too bland to write about. Secondly, I've been keeping a huge secret that I intended to take with me to my grave if it didn't end well. But I've decided it's too big a life lesson to keep shoved under a rug, so it's sharing time.
When I moved to France 10 months ago, I didn't have that much in terms of a big-picture direction. "Moving to France" was the name of an admittedly poorly sketched next chapter in the Life of One E. Cania. Our original plan wasn't even to be in this city, let alone for three years. I had enough saved up to pass a planned year near Aix-en-Provence, and then we would come back to the States like responsible people and get Adult Jobs. Then Lyon happened, and Ben got the crazy opportunity to pursue a funded doctoral program, so here we are in year one of three, a little farther away from the Mediterranean than initially planned. Last July, a few days into the discovery of our change-of-location, I realized I would need to formulate a new outline for my future: grad school. But not just any grad program. I set my sights on auditioning for the master's program at the Conservatoire National Supérieure Musique et Danse de Lyon. Any school with the word "supérieure" is the best of the best, so I thought, what the hell, why not? The past six months have been spent dutifully practicing and preparing an audition program, writing a thesis proposal (in French), and nervously counting down the days until le concours d'entrée. Which was yesterday.
Unclench your bated breath, because no, I didn't get in. Up until the start of this week, I thought I had a decent shot of getting in. My plan was to study the music of Lili Boulanger, for which I've had a passion since high school, thanks to my incredible first voice professor Deb Massell. I thought I would be a shoe-in: an American who speaks French and wants specifically to study French music in France? Bien sûr! Pourquoi pas? And besides, I don't think my innate vocal abilities are too shoddy, so I thought I had two pretty solid feet to stand on in the admissions process. After enduring a freakishly difficult sight-reading test, an interview with two of the voice faculty, and a comically bad rehearsal with the pianist (all in French), I was fairly certain my two solid feet had been chopped at the ankles by yesterday morning. I knew at that point my chances of getting in were about nil, but I had prepared to sing, and sing I did. My pianist was the kindest woman, and did her absolute best at the fiendishly difficult Boulanger accompaniments. I'm proud of my performance, and I don't regret trying to climb that nearly umountable mountain. If the jury had just said, "thanks for coming in," and sent me on my way to discover the results on my own, I would have felt satisfied that I'd done my best, but it really wasn't meant to be. Failure is a part of the process, and every musician - every person - gets rejection no matter how hard he or she may have worked. Sadly, these judges felt it necessary to really cut me at the knees, and I left that conservatory feeling not just rejected but also humiliated. As soon as I finished singing, the head of the voice department told me very bluntly that I'm simply not good enough to do a master's program at their conservatory. She insinuated that it was unbelievable that I'd even attained a bachelor's degree in voice performance, and the rest of the jury smirked openly as I maintained a bland smile and tried to answer their questions without tearing up. I left that room feeling more like the butt of a joke than simply a rejected candidate. I still feel icky inside thinking that the laughter I heard after I exited was most likely at my expense.
Sadly, this kind of behavior is common in the music world. We learn to deal with failure very quickly, but injury with a side of insult has become almost a hallmark in the stupidly competitive world of classically-trained singers. For a "dying art" I find it insane how many people still audition for master's programs, opera institutes, summer festivals, companies, competitions, etc. In any case, I had decided long ago that if I didn't get in, this little secret would die quietly and no one outside my close friends and family would be the wiser. If I got in, I was going to plaster that fact all over social media in a super tacky attempt to show how freaking awesome I am to anyone who's ever doubted me. Thankfully, I wasn't given the chance to be that petty, and I think the only person who has ever truly doubted me is me.
The thing is, despite the crash-and-burn rejection, I don't doubt me anymore. I tried to break my way into an exclusive club, all on my own (which was pretty stupid, but private voice lessons are EXPENSIVE), and in a foreign language. One year ago, even six months ago, I would not have been able to walk into any of the situations and speak about myself or my intentions in French. The crippling fear of interaction I felt at the beginning of my séjour here in France has slowly faded into memory. There are certain people I still struggle to understand, but apparently I fit in so well now that French people ask me for directions several times a week (and I can answer them!). I speak French every day with the kids and the family I babysit for. The kids still love to giggle and correct my mistakes, but if you want kids to obey you, you've got to at least fake confidence in those foreign commands. Not only do they (usually) obey me, but they still fight over who gets to play with me. Their parents don't treat me like a foreign oddity with a niveau faible de français, but as an another adult with equal value, intrinsically and linguistically. The level of acceptance I've felt over the past six months has frankly astounded me, given that the French take quite a long time to warm up to les étrangers. Both the parents speak English well enough that all our conversations could easily be in English, but rightly, neither of them has given me that out. Even when I struggle to express myself, they give me the option to switch to English, but I try my best to stay in French. To top it off, both parents texted me yesterday wishing me good luck on my audition, which felt all the more encouraging given that I had asked for yesterday off.
In short, what I thought would be a huge loss doesn't really feel that huge because my gains have been so much grander. Rejection happens, humiliating rejection happens, but I refuse to stay down. I think perhaps another degree in music performance isn't what I'm meant to be doing anyway. When my parents asked me what I would do with that degree in two years, I could never see past the fog since I've never wanted a career in performing. So I move on. I'll be a Master in something else, TBD.
As a bit of a post-script, yesterday's rejection was significantly softened after learning the news that the Supreme Court has decreed marriage equality in the US. I can't keep the smile off my face as a scroll through the stream of rainbows in my Facebook newsfeed, and the fact that now so many of my friends will have the same legal right to marry the person they love. I won't remember June 26th as the day I got rejected, I'll remember it as the day love won. Good job, 'Murica!
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