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Marian Anderson: Black Swan
by Therese Park
At a post office one day, I saw stamps containing Marian Anderson's portrait
and told the clerk I wanted a book of them. As she handed them to me, I told
her that I had heard Anderson sing in Korea when I was in high school.
"I didn't know she went there," said the clerk.
I told her it was a part of Anderson's ten-week concert tour of the South
Pacific and Asia in 1957, after the State Department in Washington had awarded
her with the title "Good Will Ambassador," a prestigious honor
any American could dream of. "I am one of the lucky ones who heard her
live performance," I added.
"Wait a minute," the clerk said. "I thought Marian Anderson
was an actress, not a singer."
I couldn't believe how ignorant she was. I almost said, "Do you consider
yourself an American, not knowing who Marian Anderson was?" But fortunately
my gentler side took over the situation. "Maybe we're not talking about
the same Marian Anderson," I said, and quickly left.
If the clerk hadn't interrupted me, I would have told her more about Anderson, especially the way her fellow Americans treated her due to her skin color, and what powerful message she delivered to her fellow African-Americans of today, with her magnificent voice and elegant stage manners.
That summer evening in 1957 our family sat on the balcony of Ehwa Women's
University's auditorium/gymnasium in Seoul, anxiously waiting for Anderson's
recital to begin. After the Korean War had ended with the Truce in July 1953,
our country's door was wide open, and world-level engineers, scientists,
entrepreneurs, and experts in all areas of life poured into our war-wrecked
country--some to help rebuild it and some to seek fortune.
Musicians, artists and entertainers came too. As horrifying as it was, the
Korean War introduced us to the rest of the world, and now we were indulging
in a healthy diet of cultural nourishment from all over the world.
As a sophomore in high school, I had just started playing cello, and my
anticipation of hearing Anderson's recital was beyond words. This was the
singer the grand conductor Arturo Toscanini complimented by saying, "The world can hear
such a voice only once in a hundred years." How could one not be excited?
Ehwa Women's University auditorium wasn't built for music performances.
The hardwood floor squeaked whenever someone walked on it, and the stage
was poorly lit. The black velvet curtains on both sides of the stage weren't
the best things in music halls, but we didn't know it back then. This auditorium
was the only building in Seoul spacious enough to accommodate a thousand
music lovers, and we considered it "The Korean Carnegie Hall."
The hall lights suddenly dimmed, and tall black lady in a long, snow-white
dress appeared on the stage, followed by a show white accompanist. The applause
shook the hall. She reminded me of a black swan with gleaming white feathers.
The program began in a hushed silence. As Anderson's rich velvety voice echoed
through the auditorium, I was led into her music world. While she sang Schubert's
Ave Maria, I wanted to rush to our church and kneel and pray; while she sang
the Negro Spirituals, I felt as though I were one of the cotton-pickers in
the south, swallowing tears. At some point of the evening, I imagined it
was I who was singing my heart's content, telling of my sorrow, my faith
in God, and my longing for peace and freedom. It was something I had never
experienced before.
When the recital ended with three curtain calls I wanted to be a musician.
What would be more rewarding than being able to express my deepest feelings,
like Anderson could with her voice?
Ten years later, in the fall of 1966, I joined the Kansas City Philharmonic
(now the Symphony) as a new cellist, after two degrees from two music schools--one
from Seoul, Korea, and another from Paris, France.
One day I overheard a conversation and learned that Marian Anderson had been
the featured soloist with the Philharmonic a year earlier. It wasn't a happy
story at all. While the local newspapers raved about Marian Anderson's magnificent
voice and her accomplishments, listing the names of the kings, queens, presidents,
and other important people of the world she had entertained with her music,
all downtown hotel owners refused to give her a room. Anderson had no choice
but get a room in all black area, miles from the Music Hall!
It was the first lesson that taught me about racial discrimination the white Americans inflicted on their black neighbors. I revisited the summer night in 1957 many times, while practicing cello or walking or riding a metro. How wonderful it would have been, had I joined the Philharmonic a year earlier and met her in person? I would have mustered some courage to go up to her on the back stage and introduced myself, saying I had heard her in Seoul. I am sure Anderson would have been glad to learn that her music so inspired a teenage girl on the other side of the globe that she eventually found her way to the United States.
June 6 , 2006
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