Opera Singer Marian Anderson: She Became So Great,

by Sylvia Tiersten
This article appeared in Investor's Business Daily, October 22, 1998.

      White bigots were enraged, and blacks, including her own mother, were disappointed.
It was 1935, before desegregation, and legendary contralto Marian Anderson had hired
a Finnish accompanist for her U.S. tours.

At a time when African-Americans were barred from attending many musical events, let
alone performing in them, ''It looked like I was turning my back on my own,'' Anderson
recalled in her autobiography, ''My Lord What A Morning.''

Despite the heat she was getting from many sides, Anderson (1897-1993) insisted on
making her choice solely on the basis of musical considerations.

A black person interested in opera ''must qualify on musical grounds and must be equal
to the best competition if he is to find a place,'' she said.

Anderson became so great that the clamor to hear her sing in the early '40s not only
ensured her place on the American stage, but helped usher in the civil rights era.

''Yours is a voice one hears once in a hundred years,'' conductor Arturo Toscanini said
of her astonishing range, natural ability and interpretive style.

Anderson was born in a Philadelphia ghetto. Her father, who delivered ice and coal,
died of a brain tumor when she was 12. To help the family survive, she scrubbed porch
stoops for 5 cents apiece, while her mother took in laundry.

Anderson debuted as a singer when she was 6, joining the Union Baptist Church choir.
She applied to a Philadelphia conservatory for formal musical training as a teen-ager,
but was told, ''We don't take colored.''

Recalling those harsh words years later, Anderson wrote, ''It was as if a cold, horrifying
hand had been laid on me. True enough, my skin was different, but not my feelings.''

Still, she said later, she learned to use prejudice to firm her resolve. She swallowed her
feelings, sought alternatives to the conservatory and found the means to pay for them,
scrubbing floors and earning small singing fees.

Anderson was talented enough to appear as a soloist with the New York Philharmonic
in '25. Encouraged to learn foreign languages and lieder-singing skills for German
opera, she studied in Europe, which was more color-blind than the States.

When she left for Europe, it was with the purpose of equipping herself for battle in the
U.S. ''I knew I had to test myself as a serious artist in my own country,'' she recalled.

The tests were constant. Many involved learning to turn a deaf ear to racist attacks.
''If my mind dwells even partly on the disconcerting thought that I am staying where I
am not really welcome, I can not go out and sing as though my heart were full of love
and happiness,'' she said.

On board the Ile de France, a passenger got angry when Anderson was invited to sit at
the  captain's table. The ship's officer apologized for the woman's rudeness, and
Anderson responded as she often did to such slights: ''That's all right. She didn't know
any better.''

Anderson had learned forgiveness and the art of gentle persuasion from her mother.
Anna Delilah Anderson was a woman of deep religious convictions who taught her
children that revenge was corrosive and bitterness a waste of time.

Never abuse those who abuse you, she counseled Marian. If you bear your abusers no
malice, perhaps they will see the light and their malice will disappear.

Years later, Anderson echoed those sentiments in a documentary. ''I wasn't a person to
be a real great fighter for anything. There are people who will, if they want
 something . . . fight, fight, fight, and those people are very, very necessary. But there
are some who hope that if they're doing something worthwhile, that it will speak for
them.''

Anderson's quiet dignity and musical talent not only spoke for her, but spurred
thousands of Americans to speak out against racial injustice.

 In '39, the Daughters of the American Revolution blocked her engagement at
Constitution Hall.  Widespread protests followed. First lady Eleanor Roosevelt
eventually helped to arrange an alternative concert on the steps of the Lincoln
Memorial in '43. More than 75,000 people turned out.

Anderson's belief that her voice was a gift from God to be shared with all people
sustained her through difficult times. God gave her the talent and would care for it, she
reasoned. As long as she kept her eye on the prize -musical excellence - and adhered
to the highest standards, the results would be right.

A perfectionist and stubborn caretaker of her own talent, she never chose a piece
because it was a crowd pleaser. If she did not like the poetry behind a particular song,
she declined to sing it.

Her taste ran to spirituals and tragic arias, and she never pandered to her audience by
singing upbeat tunes that she did not feel were right for her.

Thorough in her study of scores and past performances, she worked incessantly on
pronunciation and meaning for the German, Italian and French songs in her repertoire.

Thanks to a lifelong love of learning, Anderson enjoyed studying new songs, perfecting
her foreign-language skills and delving into the culture of a particular musician or
country.

Despite segregation laws in the South and subtler forms of discrimination in the North,
Anderson retained her optimism and faith in the future. When she went on tour, the
children she saw gave her great hope that the world would get better.

''Faith was the ultimate source of my aunt's power and the reason for her humility,''
wrote James DePreist on the occasion of Anderson's death in '93 at age 96. DePreist is
conductor and musical  director of the Oregon Symphony Orchestra in Portland.

Although Anderson's aim was to be a singer, not a symbol, she ultimately accepted her
role as a pioneer who persuaded by example. ''My mission,'' she said, ''is to leave
behind me the kind of impression that will make it easier for those who follow.'' And she
added without rancor or irony: ''Other Negroes will have the career I dreamed of.''

By the time Anderson soloed at the New York Metropolitan Opera House, she was 57
and well past her prime. But she paved the way for black soprano Leontyne Price, who
became a superstar and enjoyed a 25-year career at the Met. At a birthday party for
Anderson in '77, Price penned this affectionate greeting: ''Dear Marian Anderson:
Because of you, I am.''

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