Fire Shut Up in Our Bones

Foreground: Char'es Baby, Billie, and adult Charles
in the new opera, "Fire Shut Up in My Bones."
Photo by Ken Howard

Yesterday afternoon, a warm and sunny fall Sunday, we treated ourselves to a Metropolitan Opera HD broadcast way down east here in Ellsworth, Maine.

We had multiple reasons for wanting to experience Terence Blanchard's milestone new work, "Fire Shut Up in My Bones," based on the book by the same name by Charles M. Blow. First opera by a Black composer at the Met -- and, as Blanchard himself said, not because there isn't a lot of truly great work by Black composers out there deserving of this stage. The book was edited, proudly, by a dear friend of ours.

And last but not least, as women and lesbians who have experienced poverty and abuse, we're all too familiar with the original saying of Jeremiah 20:9 from which Blow's tale takes its title: "But if I say, 'I will not remember Him or speak anymore in His name,' then in my heart it becomes like a burning fire shut up in my bones; And I am weary of holding it in, and I cannot endure it."

We know that the oppression we repress with our silences has been deadly for us. Silence = Death.

Blanchard and Blow's new work is opera on its grand, traditional scale with all it promises: will there be blood? Revenge? Murder? The libretto, by Kasi Lemmons, depicts Blow's choices and actions on setting his fire -- fire burning internally over his sexual abuse as a 7-year-old boy growing up in poverty in northwestern Louisiana -- openly upon the world. 

The abuse, homophobia, sexism, poverty and toxic masculinity with which the opera portrays Blow wrestling is a constant for women, and particularly BIPOC women. As I sat in the dark watching the character of Blow struggle with his angels of Destiny and Loneliness (embodied by soprano Angel Blue), I could not but wonder: what would my friend, activist and playwright dee Clark, think? and would, or could, her story ever be validated and made visible on a world stage as large as the Met?

As many of my friends, colleagues, and readers are aware by now, dee passed away last Sunday, on All Hallow's Eve. The chronic health issues with which she struggled, including a genetic pulmonary disorder that demanded she be on oxygen 24/7, had spiraled downhill too quickly in just one week. She was only 64 but like many of opera's mythical female protagonists had lived lifetimes. It is a loss for all of us, for survivors everywhere and for our communities -- and tragic in that she did not live to see her memory-play, THE LAST GIRL, fully produced as she so dearly wanted.

Everything dee did with her life after surviving years of sexploitation and trafficking, including and perhaps especially writing THE LAST GIRL and creating a healing advocacy program for survivors around it titled Making the Last Girl First, was to support and amplify the voices and needs of other BIPOC girls surviving similar situations.

Like Blow, dee learned that telling her own story was healing, and encouraged others to tell their stories as well. Unlike Blow, dee's circumstances didn't support her in attending Grambling State or any university, nor did she have the male privilege and visibility to become a regular columnist at The New York Times. Last Girls too often become Forgotten Women. BIPOC girls are last precisely because it is their voices and lives that are viewed as disposable in U.S. culture; lives that remain invisible beneath the narratives and repression of this nation's dominant culture, forged as it is by racism, sexism, and poverty.

We will continue to develop and to share dee's story and play in tribute to her and to advance the legacy of her work. 

Would she have enjoyed "Fire Shut Up in My Bones"? I found its framing of homosexuality and women troubling: these oppressions are not just presented as Charles's crosses to bear, but in scenes, such as the top of Act 2 with beautiful gay male spirit dancers, that connote homosexuality more generally as punishment -- as a lower-level choice than his privileged relationships with women.

But dee said to me over and over she was an opportunist: she had learned to take advantage of those small gaps and windows and resources when they appeared. And she loved music, and the way Blanchard skillfully wove together jazz, gospel, and classical into the operatic form is stunning, as are the performances. I am hopeful that the success and visibility of "Fire Shut Up in My Bones" provides an opening for the voices of Black survivors of sexual abuse to be heard, recognized and supported. 

I imagined that if dee were sitting next to me she would have known this and, enjoying the spectacle, wanted it for her own story. "How do we get THE LAST GIRL at the Met?" she'd lean over to whisper, just as she did when we discussed sharing her memoir in book, cinematic, or dramatic form (she wanted to do all three).

I want this level of acknowledgement and visibility for THE LAST GIRL and for all forgotten women, too. Charles Blow and Terence Blanchard, are you listening?!