to them on the phone or hang out with them and sing. I much preferred the two of us alone. But he was constantly reminding me that our singing was to attract the girls. He said that women would love us for being able to sing and look cool. He also said it would make me popular with the boys because they would be jealous of the way the girls felt about us. I thought about that for a long time.
“Singing can do all that?” I asked.
“Sure, man,” he answered confidently. “You can have a different girl every night.”
He silenced me with his enthusiasm. I couldn’t possibly explain to him how little his proposal interested me. Never could I imagine spending the night with many different women. I’d be satisfied with one handsome guy like him. He was tall and dark and moved with a confidence that I found very attractive. I didn’t need any women in my life as long as I could hang out with him every night. I kept singing, but it was clear to me that we were singing for very different reasons.
BY THE TIME I WAS SIXTEEN, I HAD LEARNED TO TAMP down my feelings for the same sex, but I was still making discoveries of a different nature: a whole new fascinating, musical world I’d never even known existed. I loved pop music, but for a long time, I didn’t tell my mother or any church members because I felt that they would scold me and object. One day, some of the parents of my fellow singers went to my mother and begged her to permit me to sing pop music publicly with The Jokers. They were obviously persuasive because she didn’t explode or try to punish me. I was greatly relieved when she finally agreed.
During that time, I started to fully appreciate everything from Motown to gospel to traditional spirituals and hymns. All of us in The Jokers were black: we were the Motown crowd, and I sang the high parts, of course. The Jokers played a couple gigs out together, and sometimes we would even make five dollars per person, per gig. But it was mostly just some of my buddies hanging out and having fun. We even bought red matching outfits to sing together in! But I had to leave my clothes at Hiawatha’s house because I didn’t want my family to know I bought them, and I certainly didn’t want them to see me in them. I knew they would tease me mercilessly.
Additionally, I gradually let it be known to the church ladies that I was interested in singing secular classical music, and not just fundamentalist Christian music. Ironically, these same grand old church ladies stepped in to help me out on other occasions. They even gently urged my mother to let me go to Stambaugh Auditorium to hear a recital by the famed mezzo-soprano Betty Allen, who was from the Youngstown area. She sang exquisitely, and my fate was sealed.
Betty sang loudly, without a microphone. I could hear her voice everywhere—in front of me and in back of me. I knew that my voice, even when I sang like a woman, sounded nothing like that. But the vibrations through my body thrilled me. You could have exploded dynamite in that seat, and I would not have moved for the rest of the concert. I didn’t even venture out of the auditorium during intermission. I decided that one day I was going to sing at Stambaugh Auditorium, and I wouldn’t use a microphone either.
After the concert, I was lucky enough to get a backstage introduction by Mrs. Gamble, one of the sorority ladies.
In every way, Betty Allen was bigger than life. I shall never forget the smooth brown powder makeup on her face and the rouge on her cheeks. She also had two pretty red combs in her full head of hair, one on each side near her ears. When she extended her hand to me, I saw her bright red polished fingernails. They were so long! I was swallowed up in her big smile.
Mrs. Gamble introduced me, saying, “This is our little François. He’s in high school and wants to be a singer like you.”
“Well, what do you sing, young man?” she asked.
“I sing spirituals like you.” I didn’t dare say more.
“Well, I’m sure you sing them very well. Keep up the good work, young man. I’ll be looking out for you now.” She was holding my hand the whole time! Finally, I was able to ask her for her autograph. She signed my program, To François, the young singer from Youngstown, my hometown. See you in New York.
I will never forget the kind, encouraging things she said to me. For the rest of my life, I hung on to the special words uttered to me by a total stranger at an important time during my development. Years later, I was able to connect with Betty Allen in New York City, and she proved to still be just as generous and supportive. She was very instrumental in bringing many black singers from all over the boroughs of New York City together to rehearse at the Harlem School of the Arts. Later, we were transported en masse to Berlin, Germany, to sing at the Theater des Westens in the history-making, all-black, complete version of George Gershwin’s stunning production Porgy and Bess, as directed by Götz Friedrich.
AS TIME WENT ON, I SAW WHAT I WAS BEING TAUGHT IN church and frequently in school were not enough to fully satisfy the growing artist deep inside of me. I wanted more than the vocational life frequently pushed toward me, or the church singing my mother wanted for me. There was something powerful and real outside of Youngstown, and I was going to get at it. Maybe my family, my church, and my school weren’t going to help me get it, but I’d find a way. So help me God, if I had to leave walking, I was going to leave Youngstown.
By this time, it was very clear that Aunt Emma and Great-Grandmama Laura Mae were not going to come to the city to live. Aunt Emma had cancer, and Great-Grandmama Laura Mae had stayed down south to take care of her. I was disappointed, but I didn’t feel I could do anything to change it, so I kept singing. Anytime I felt deep disappointment or hurt, I moved even more deeply into my music. Every opportunity I saw, I got out of the house to sing.
I still had a couple of years left to go before I could graduate high school, so I tried to make the best of it.
One of my buddies from the school choir, Mickey Wolsonovich, had a rough second-tenor voice that helped carry the section for the weaker guys. We tenors could be a tight-knit group as we struggled together to sing high notes, learn the new music, and hold our own with the rest of the sections. We used to hang out at Mickey’s house all the time—it didn’t matter that I was the only black kid.
One day Mickey had to go to the Ukrainian Orthodox church to be altar boy for an hour during mass. He invited us to come along. None of us were Catholic, but we all felt that it would be okay to just sit in the pews and wait for him to finish. When we arrived at the church, everyone headed for the rear pews to sit and wait. One of the priests came over to us and asked why we were there. He seemed to be speaking directly to me.
“We’re friends of Mickey’s and we’re going to wait for him to finish so we can all sing together,” we all said.
The priest looked directly at me and said, “You don’t belong here. Why don’t you go home or wait outside?”
I didn’t know what to say. I sat there as he stared, waiting for me to move. I looked at the others, and none of them would let their eyes meet mine. Slowly, I got up, practically in tears, and shuffled reluctantly for the nearest exit. No one else moved. I knew exactly what that priest had meant. That’s the way it was in Youngstown. Nobody had been so direct before, but I knew my place and didn’t try to fight it. I never set foot in that church again.
I went on home and didn’t mention to anyone what had happened to me. I knew my mother or stepfather couldn’t do anything, so why make a fuss? I just tried to wipe it out of my mind and get on with my life.
But I had trouble talking
