As many of you know, I live in Utah.

Utah?

Is one of the most un-diverse places in the planet.

Now, now, fellow Utahans, before you get your knickers in a twist and berate me, I LOVE MY STATE. I stay here deliberately because it’s pretty gosh darn, freakin’ awesome ‘possum! Plus the mountains are pretty and I dig fry sauce and funeral potatoes.

(In fact, I’m going to be consuming some funeral potatoes today after funeral #2 of the week. Not exactly what you would call a party, but it will be nice to see my family, even if it is for my uncle’s funeral. This would also be why I am up at at ass crack of dawn writing to you all.  I can only subject you to that douchebag from Wife Swap for so long,)

But, doood! As much as you may love The Beehive State, you totally have to admit that as far as diversity goes, we are the land of milk minus the honey. Unless it’s really white honey with blond hair and blue eyes. I will say that since I was a kid it is getting much, much better in Salt Lake and the Wasatch Front, it really is.  However, I do not live in the Wasatch Front, I live an hour north of it, and while the Latin American population in Cache Valley is doing fairly well and we do have in influx of international students from Utah State University, it is still pretty freaking homogenized. (We ARE known for our dairy products, don’t ya know.)

It’s probably my biggest regret about living here. I long for more diversity. I really do.  I love different cultures and being with different people and points of view. It’s one reason why I love and live kind of vicariously through the Internet. It’s one reason why I MUST GET OUT OF UTAH from time to time.  To further that, I MUST ESCAPE CACHE VALLEY from time to time, even though I love it here.

Some of you may also know I am in an amazing and HUGE choir.

We are also the whitest choir on the planet.  (Not that that is bad, just…ya know, it’s the truth and result of where I reside.)

I was in a concert on Saturday night.

It was in celebration of the 200th birthday of Lincoln, the 100th anniversary of the NAACP, Presidents Day, and a hat tip to the historically amazing event of inaugurating our first African American President. (No. I didn’t vote for him. I didn’t vote for the other guy, either. Frankly, I don’t care who you voted for, you HAVE to acknowledge the sheer historical significance of it, if nothing else.)  There were American folk songs, patriotic numbers, spirituals, The Fanfare for the Common Man, hot men in uniform presenting the colors and an AMAZING video choreography about the Civil War that showed on three huge screens while Senator Bob Benett narrated “The Lincoln Portrait”.

Honestly? It was one of the most amazing things I have ever participated in.

I cried on stage like a baby.

CRIED.

ON THE FREAKING STAGE.

LIKE A FREAKING BABY.

(Speaking of freaking baby-GOOD NEWS! WE DECIDED WHAT WE ARE NAMING OUR SON. It hit me like a sledge hammer while I was on stage CRYING LIKE A BABY and I absolutely, positively know what his name is supposed to be. I imagine this is what people feel like when they have prayers answered. I just know what it is.  And no, it is not Jack. I didn’t let go of that easily, either. Trust me. Actually, it isn’t any name I’ve mentioned or that we have discussed.  Now for the BAD NEWS! I’m not telling you what it is, yet.  We’re still pounding out his middle name. If he even has one. Mean of me, huh? I’m kinda bitchy like that.)

I think my favorite part of the concert was the gospel soloist that flew in to sing with us.

First off, she was adorable. At our one and only rehearsal with her she said, “I just want to thank all y’all fine classical singers for letting this old, round, brown gospel singer sing with y’all.”

Then she opened up her mouth and rocked my world. She probably broke every singing “Rule” on the planet and I did.not.care.  It was AAMAAAAAZING.

I love gospel music.

You may be surprised to know many spirituals and just HOW much gospel I have sung in my life.

Tons of it. Tons and TONS of it.

I can’t help wanting to sing them because dude, my money notes are all low and in my chest and you cannot get better music for it than the spirituals. I also have been in choirs where the directors lllllovvveeee to perform gospel selections. I am not sure if it is true love or just trying to bring in some diversity. Either way works, I love it. I think one of my favorite pieces is “The Gospel Mass” and I’ve done it at LEAST five times.

THAT SAID.

Unless it has been a situation where we are working with multiple diverse choirs from across the country, I end up cringing a lot, even though I love the music and we have a “pretty” sound.

Most of the times I end up thinking, “WOW! This is a great song. ”

I ALSO end up thinking, “WOW! This choir is waaaay too white to be singing it.”

I’ve worked with gospel choirs over the years but my first experience with working with an amazing gospel soloist was when Reverend Jesse Jackson’s daughter, Santita, came in sing in a concert of SENATOR ORRIN HATCH’S MUSIC.

Yeah. I know.

I could write about the sheer weirdness of that situation for days but I will leave it at the fact that it was…interesting. Oh, and Orrin really needs to wear different ties. And write better music.  (Crap, that was out loud, wasn’t it??)

However, SHE was amazing. Her voice was amazing. It made the whole night amazing.

Well, one part? Was NOT amazing.

I was eight months pregnant with Christopher and due to hyperemesis, sick as a dog. (Are we seeing a theme here? Knocked up, barfing, senators, and gospel singers? Yeah, me too.) I was so sick that they stood me on the end of the row next to the wing in case I had to go barf.  Although the heat of the lights was killing me and I was queasy as hell, I did ok and really thought I could make it to the end.

Santita was great.

During one of the closing songs she said, “There is nothing in the world as beautiful as an expectant mother.  I want this beautiful expectant mother to come stand next to me while I sing this song.”

AND SHE TURNED AROUND AND STARTED POINTING.

AT ME.

I WAS “BEAUTIFUL EXPECTANT MOTHER.”

UHHHHH????????!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

I gave my director a frantic look of, “WHAT THE HELL?” and he just shrugged and gave me a look of “Eh? Go with it????” , so off I went to the center of the stage to join Miss Jackson. (Yeah, I felt pretty ‘nasty’ at the moment so it’s acceptable to call her that. Sorry, I just couldn’t help the musical pun. heh.)

The song was, “Put your arms around the world”, which was ironic as she had her arms around me and I was pretty much the size of the world at that point.

She started swaying with the music, taking me and my VERY VOMITOUS STOMACH WITH HER.

All I could think was, “OMG! I AM GOING TO VOMIT! I AM GOING TO VOMIT ON THE FRUIT OF REVERAND JESSEE JACKSON’S LOINS!! AND THEN I WILL BE ARRESTED FOR ASSAULT!!! AND IT WILL PROBABLY BE LISTED AS A HATE CRIME!!!! “

I have a vivid imagination, people.

I survived, but walked away wishing that I had pipes like that.

I felt the same way Saturday listening to “Nobody knows the trouble I’ve seen”.  The audience went WILD. I think 99% of them have listened to that song before but I am willing to bet that before that moment very few of them had actually HEARD IT.  They were used to hearing it from choirs from Utah.  NOTHING like that.

I know that there are lots of amazing jazz musicians that are white, I do.

BUT, MAN.  I am telling you, for that kind of music?

It just is not the same.  It’s NOT.

I don’t know if it is genetic encoding like when salmon just know how to swim upstream but when an African American that can really sing, sings those numbers? THEY JUST KNOW and you KNOW they know. It is unlike anything. You FEEL the meaning behind it.

I totally hope that if I am ever reincarnated I get to come back as a gospel singer WITH SOUL. Seriously, it would rock my world to be able to sing like that. And since I think that black women are beeeoooootttiful, looking like that would also rock. I also fess up to having booty envy. I am so tired of pancake butt. So, on top of the singing, I would also like to have a better ass this next time around, ok?  I am tired of my pants falling down.

Actually, if there is something you could do about that NOW, it would be awesome, too.

So, please, whoever is in charge of all that reincarnation stuff? Pretty please? Can I?

(Oh, and if I could be as disgustingly pretty as Heather B., that would also be appreciated. Kthnxbai!)

P.S. I am a little bit freaked (as I am wont to be with the internet) that someone, somewhere is going to consider something in here to be racist.  It is the complete opposite of my intentions, so if I said something that offends, blame my stupidity and poor writing skills instead of intent, m’kay?

P.P.S. This post did not take the turn I was intending. I really was just going to write about the choir I am in and the concert and provide links but then I considered that this particular group may not want to be associated with a post that talks about vomiting on the fruit of Jesse Jackson’s loins, so I’m not going to mention the organization or its awesome director by name.

P.P.P.S. Mmm…funeral potatoes…mmm…