The (Feminine) Compositional Voice
This article first appeared in an issue of the GIAQuarterly in the Winter of 2019.
One day, my daughter will read this article. Not tomorrow, not next year. As bright as she is, she still lives in the land of 18-month onesies and 24/7 contact with Elmo. But one day. This may seem like an odd way to begin an article on women composers, but the fact that my daughter is watching me every minute of every day forces me to put this reality in front, at the beginning, not as an afterthought. It’s my responsibility. It’s my privilege.
One day she’ll learn that some people will assume and expect a certain gentleness from her, a mothering grace, a soft place to fall. If that should be her charism, I’ll love her for it. And if the bold, curious toddler that keeps me on my toes grows into an assertive and fearless young adult who doesn’t hesitate to speak her mind, then I’ll love her for that, too.
One day she’ll learn that throwing “like a girl” might be intended as an insult, but it can also mean throwing a-la Sister Mary Jo Sobieck, who showcased a slick arm-bounce move before firing a perfect strike for her ceremonial first pitch at the White Sox stadium this past August.
One day, the language skills that seem so vast and beyond her reach now will soon feel so limited and woefully inadequate when trying to communicate the depth of our longing, or the immensity of our joy, or the nuance of all individuals made in the image and likeness of God. But that doesn’t stop us from trying.
One day she’ll learn what it means to be stereotyped. It won’t be malicious or intentional. It will have advantages and disadvantages. It might be subtle, and it might be blatant, and will probably, at some point, be both.
As a composer myself, I remember feeling a discomfort with the kinds of words often attached to the idea of a woman who writes: reserved, gentle, lyrical, emotional, nurturing. There are deep tensions present in that stereotype: on the one hand, I didn’t study women’s music composition, I studied music composition. (Actually, I don’t know anyone who studies to be a “woman composer.”) Whatever its intent, separating women from the wider body of composers is historically inaccurate. I certainly didn’t limit myself to singing Hildegard of Bingen, playing Clara Schumann, and doing a chordal analysis of Ruth Crawford Seeger. For me, those compositional heroes stood alongside Bach, Beethoven, and Pärt. And in the present day, we continue writing in a time and a context that includes negotiating a male-dominated music world. I took the same classes, wrote for the same requirements, passed the same tests, exceeded and even challenged many of my male compositional colleagues, and I expect to hold my own in the same arenas that they do. On the other hand, I benefited from being one of only two women composition majors in the school. I got a lot of support and encouragement for being a minority in the field. Also, I feel fortunate to love being a woman. And why not encourage composers who choose to tap into reserved, gentle, lyrical, emotional, or nurturing qualities? Somehow, it’s possible to reject the limits of the label of “feminine compositional voice” while also embracing it with pride and gratitude.
Should we look for ways to push women’s voices forward? Yes. Should we continue to evaluate the work of women composers based on the same standards that we do for men? Yes. If the standards are the problem, let’s change them for both men and women. If there are unfair advantages for men based on the ease of male camaraderie, let’s call them out and have the tough conversations that build a bigger table.
Some question composers’ motivations, asserting that the ego that drives one to seek publication simply isn’t present in women. That may be true for some. And I appreciate that this notion isn’t intended with condescension, but with an honest attempt to give voice to one
of the myriad reasons why there is an absence of female voices in the field. But I don’t think that’s the whole story, and I don’t believe that we can assign that assertion as “truth” for any category of people. I believe we have a responsibility to publish. Not all of us can, not all of us should. But whether our pieces are accepted for publication or not, our desire to share the gifts that we are given is a holy desire, an extension of Mary Magdalene’s sprint from the tomb to tell the world about her witness of life over death.
No single person—male or female—knows the whole Mystery. But maybe, just maybe, each of us knows a little piece of it. Maybe each time we make room for a new piece of the Mystery, a new compositional voice, a new perspective, we’re making room for Christ himself to be known. Maybe in making room for something new, we’ll need to learn to let go of something else. Maybe we’re giving ourselves an opportunity to glimpse the glory of what is to come. Maybe this isn’t an article about the feminine compositional voice at all, but another invitation to do the work of Mary’s song, to turn this world upside down, to allow God’s work to be done in us—all of us.
One day, my daughter will start asking questions. “Why, Mama?” There’s a part of me that totally dreads that. I know that by the time she starts asking, we’ll still be working at this problem. And yet, there’s another part of me that’s excited about showing her the progress. I’m excited to open a hymnal and point to a woman’s name. I can’t wait to tell her about how people dialogued and negotiated and pushed to make room for women to be rightfully represented in this ministry. I’m proud to show her how she, too, is surrounded by advocates, both men and women, who commit themselves to listening to the story she will have to tell. I’m excited to tell her what an adventure it is to write #likeagirl, #likeamother, #likeasinglelady, #likeaspouse, #likeaneditor, #likeamillennial, #likeaboss, #likeacatholic, #likeagiftofgod. I hope she’ll see how we put this conversation in front, at the beginning, not as an afterthought. I’m committed to this—and I need you to be, too. It’s our responsibility. It’s our privilege.
