LETTER TO A FRIEND...

​Hi there!

I have sat on your last 2 emails for quite a while trying to decide how to absorb the music conservatory news. And I still don't know what to say. I don't know if I will ever be able to come to terms with the music industry's attempts to address racism. I won't ever forget what happened to me in Houston at the audition some 25 years ago. I think if it were not for their affirmative action program, I would have that job. Did it ruin my career? Maybe. Did it ruin my life? My life would have been hugely affected in a positive way if I had won. Not only would I have had my dream, I would have had a raised position in my family, monetarily. The balance of power would have been changed. There would have been no move to the boonies. There probably would have been no suicide attempts. There would undoubtedly have been less depression. 

Therefore, I can't really weigh in on this.  Music is already biased, political, and trauma-ridden.  Add affirmative action to lessen your chances for success. If I had seen it coming when I was younger, I would not have stayed in music. There ya go. 

On a wider plane, racism is an enormous and real problem in history and in our world. Something has/had to happen to equalize people. It is  (as they say) an Original Sin and a waiting time-bomb. History, politics, and Our World inevitably had to collide to create this mass movement: BLM.

Speaking of history, I have discovered in my studies that my 5th great-grandfather, Robert Pollock, from Pennsylvania, was probably a slave trader. I'm attaching an image of some newsclips.  I don't have absolute proof of this, but he owned several sloops that went from Jamaica all over the world. Sigh.

So, in a way, I have been a direct recipient of corrective actions taken because of people like my ggggggrandfather. In some parallel universe or mystical other-world, perhaps there is no differentiation between me and him. Maybe, in that place, I am Robert Pollock.

I was a somewhat younger me - still overweight but not overly chuffed about it. I had long lovely brown hair growing to my feet. I was still working in music.
 
I held a musical chair in a high-visibility and long-running musical production. I found myself continuously balancing the idiosyncrasies of my higher-ups; always trying to please their colicky demands. And I was under-practiced. I was winging it.
 
One week end my plan was to leave my chair (and somehow make sure I still did not leave the chair) to do a variety of daring musical feats. It was to be a difficult Friday and Saturday. My first odd task was to conduct an opera which was being presented simultaneously with the Main Production. The higher-ups were somewhat upset at this activity, feeling the musicians were wasting their efforts instead of concentrating on their primary job. It was my task to perfectly execute the conducting of the opera, while not letting the performance of my "regular job" suffer.

My main difficulty was complete unfamiliarity with the opera. I didn't have a score to the opera. I didn't know where a score to the opera would be. I didn't know what opera it was. I readied to take the podium, unrehearsed, hoping there would be a score from which I could sight read. The evening approached and my primary feeling was horror. I was able to tell myself that in a few hours it would all be over, for better or worse.
 
My duty suddenly shifted. Not only was I to conduct the opera, I was to give a flute recital. Not only was it a recital, it was also a concerto appearance: an outdoor event with no rehearsal, no music, and no preparation. I hoped desperately that my pianist would have music from which I could sight read. And I hoped that the audience would not noticed that I had not practiced in years, or that my flute had missing sections. Where was the headjoint? Could I borrow the 2nd flutist's head? Where was my thumb key? Would anyone notice that I had to create a make-shift key out of my morning pancakes? I busied myself eating it into shape.
 
To ready myself for this fly-by-night series of weekend concerts, I mentally practiced getting dressed and putting on makeup. I would deal with the musical aspect of things later. The time for down-beat was arriving. I pushed my grocery cart of musical belongings out to the stage wings. I could not find the right dress. I dawned a bright red corset and propped up the skirt with paperclips and safety pins, ignoring the open rear. I would just not turn my back to the audience. The sight was not too bad if viewed only from the front. There was no time to put on makeup or earrings. It was best to go out in bare feet or flat shoes. At least my chances of falling would be reduced.
 
The opera was first. I readied to take the conductor's baton and podium. Luckily, before I got into the pit, the singers began the opera by themselves, acapella. As it turned out, it was not an opera, it was only the Star-Spangled Banner. They sung it out of tune and without accompaniment, the orchestra sitting gormlessly in their chairs, waiting for me. Thanks Heavens! That was over; and I didn't have to wave the stick.
 
I readied for the recital. My hair was a problem. It was flowing down to my feet. I was tripping over it and my skirt. I hoped I would not fall on my face. The first piece of the recital was a modern Hungarian composition, level 12, that I was to sight-read. And my thumb key was still problematic.
 
In a moment of genius, I decided to change up the program, playing the Mozart Concerto (in C without harp) first. The orchestra was ready and on stage. I knew I could whip the Mozart out without practice. Then I would announce to the audience that the Hungarian piece would not be performed and that I was bringing a jazz musician to perform the second half of the program. The jazzer was already there, eager to play. The audience would forgive me. This was a logical move. And with the concerto first, I could send the musicians home early. This would make everyone very happy and they would not know what an utter failure the evening was.
 
I winged it. I really was not a musician anymore. But my hair was nice.

Actually, the fault in this case is entirely Daniel Hersey's. Daniel's first wife was Mary/Mariah/or Maria Acker. There is an 1817 marriage record for them from Albany, New York, but no death record for Ms. Acker anywhere. 

These Marys drive me crazy. The Marys that disappear without a trace (like Mary Acker) are especially irksome. I do not like missing information; dangling Family Tree chads. I am driven to find out as much as possible. So, all else comes to a halt in my dogged digging into Mary records.   
 
What a waste of time.  There are so many great Hersey stories to tell: murder, suicide, ghosts, treks to the west reaches of the Klondike, mining for silver in the Sierra Nevada, witch hunting, gun slinging, trips into insane asylums, harsh jail sentences, intermarriage, daring nighttime escapes through dark forests, escapes from enemy concentration camps, sons and fathers fighting on the same battlefield, brothers fighting on opposite sides, deeds of valor, family infighting, instances of great forgiveness, earthquakes,  perilous Atlantic crossings, the hunting of robbing-hoods in Nottinghamshire, and soldiering in William The Conqueror's quest. 
 
But alas, I remain stuck on Marys. 

 An OCD aside:
During two days of binge triple-tasking (writing the above words - searching - playing Facebook games), I discovered a death notice for our Mary Ann Smith Hersey and clue indicating she may have been previously married to a mysterious Mr. Popple. How much time will I waste looking for Mr. Popple?