I Met A Diva

 Kids today (I hate that phrase) use the word "diva" a lot.  For them, it describes someone who thinks a lot of themselves, which is fine, but I met a real one once.

My mother was a lady, not in the perfumed lace, looking down the nose sort of way, but in the garden club, "my children will not grow up in Mississippi without exposure to some sort of culture" way.  Mother had furs, but she preferred jeans, and her hands were in the dirt more often than mine, only she had a purpose in it.  She wasn't raised with airs.  She was the second child of a plumber and a seamstress from Learned Mississippi, both fiercely Irish and more fiercely independent, and raised in West Jackson.  A simple turn of fate threw her into the path of the twentieth-century Campbells and their odd ideas about "doing something" with Mississippi.

A singer was coming to town.  I had no idea who she was.  It was to be in the new auditorium, and the only name that registered with me was "Bubbles."  My father, being my father, somehow warranted front-row seats.  He had recently been the chairman of the Jackson Symphony, and Mississippi School Supply Company could be counted on to buy their place into the back of the program brochure at every arts event.  He could do all these things but couldn't be bothered to attend any of them.  Jim Campbell's favorite singers were Porter Wagoner and Roy Clark.  I met both men through him.  Wagoner was rude, and his hair disturbed me.  Roy Clark acted like he was a cousin or something and smiled at me genuinely.  

With my father out of the picture, invitations were extended on down the line.  Jimmy, No.  Joe, No. Martha, Too Little.  That left me.  I had no idea what "opera" was.  It was akin to church music, I was told.  Similar to how Mrs. Moffatt sang at Galloway.  

I was told what clothes to wear.  This was apparently a church plus dress code.  Mother wore the fur stole she never got to wear and something with a bit of a shine in parts, like tinsel.  The auditorium had a scale model of the city in the foyer.  That was my favorite part.  

I didn't see any of my friends.  I didn't see any other kids at all.  A few junior high girls were handing out program pamphlets, but that was about it.  I saw Uncle Tom and Aunt Burnice.  Uncle Tom wore a tuxedo.  Daddy had one with ruffles in front, but he never wore it.  I recognized Mr. and Mrs. Irby and Mr. and Mrs. Goodman from church, but that was about it.  Mother knew lots more people.  I was in a big crowd in alien territory and the only kid.  This was a lot of pressure.

When you're considerably less than five feet tall, the front row of the Jackson Auditorium meant that you were looking straight up at whoever was performing.  Besides the orchestra, the first person on stage was a man I didn't recognize who said something about something, something, and something, and I'm sure he asked for "support," meaning money.  Lewis Dalvit came out with his tuxedo and remarkable hair.  I'd been to enough of these events to know that meant the show was about to start. He tapped his baton on the music stand.

Whoever Bubbles was, she was next on stage.  She was about Mother's age and had similar hair.  She stood maybe fifteen feet from me, maybe less.  The lights changed.  Lewis Dalvit began to move.  The strings played.  "Here comes the church singing." I thought.

The sounds that came out of Bubbles were impossible.  She looked like my mom, but wow!  Just Wow!  I don't think she was amplified at all.  The auditorium has excellent acoustics, and it wouldn't matter where I was anyway.  I could feel her singing in my hair.  Beyond the power of my own control, my jaw fell open when hers did.  It looked like I was mimicking her, but I had lost control of my face.

When distracted, I tended to leave my chair.  I was mesmerized.  I kept trying to move closer to the stage, which was already just a few feet from me.  After some resistance, Mother let me stay there so long as I was quiet and still, which wasn't a problem because I don't think I could have made a sound if I wanted to.  

From Bubbles' perspective, I was a tiny head with an awkward haircut peeping over the stage, with a tiny pink hand resting on the apron.  After the second song, she knelt down and patted my hand.  I was allowed to stay.  She sang for just a few more minutes or for a few more years.  I couldn't tell you.  When it was over, a man gave her flowers.  She waved and bowed, waved and bowed, then looked at me, winked, and blew a kiss.  

The space between my ears grew considerably that day.  For a child who could barely get his words out without stuttering, I learned a whole new universe of sounds and words.  This was my mother's gift.  I met a diva.  She smiled at me.