“Look, I’ll talk to Uncle Thurston, okay? That’s the best I can do. I hope you have a safe trip back to Newark. I’m sorry you came all this way for nothing.” Before he could change his mind—but how could he change his mind, since he didn’t have the money?—he slipped away and left the club, zipping down into the subway stop on the corner.
Next day, when Uncle Thurston texted him: Got a sec?, Ray didn’t reply. Over the next couple days, Uncle Thurston tried calling and texting, and Ray ignored them all. He was furious that Uncle Thurston would put him in such a position with his girlfriend. He still kept sending his uncle—and the rest of Grandma Nora’s children—money when he could.
Outside the family drama, with the Markses’ bizarre claim seemingly laid to rest, Ray was able to concentrate on music, and began booking performances for early the following year. In February—Black History Month—he was booked solid, back to back every night. He wasn’t good enough to play with certain orchestras during the other eleven months of the year, but would shine in February, where he would play composers like Samuel Coleridge-Taylor and William Grant Still. Still’s Suite for Violin and Piano was always a crowd-pleaser. Ray was honored to bring music composed by people who looked like him to people who knew nothing about him. The most challenging thing about February was finding a pianist who could actually play the parts. It wasn’t regular old Beethoven; it was Beethoven on steroids.
As he continued to schedule, a pattern began to emerge that became clear during a call with the Delaware Valley Philharmonic’s music director. They were going over an upcoming program. “We were hoping you’d be really excited about our Gershwin review,” the woman said.
“I’m sorry, but why would I be excited about a Gershwin review?” Ray asked, genuinely curious. Perhaps they were just enamored with Gershwin, had a unique arrangement or a new adaptation.
“Well, it’s Gershwin.”
“Okay…and?”
“We just thought that you would really like to play Gershwin.”
“And why would you think that?” Ray was trying to remember if he’d ever given an interview or ever said anything to anyone about his secret Gershwinian fixation—nothing came to mind. So he’d asked the question to honestly see if she could jog his memory.
“I just have a hunch that you’d really like to play that kind of music.”
“Oh,” he said, finally understanding. “Right.”
He realized that, in the director’s eyes, he would play Gershwin because he was Black and because Black people were not sophisticated enough to master—nor in many instances even capable of mastering—the “real” European composers like Beethoven, Bach, Corelli, Mozart, Mendelssohn, or Brahms. Only people who look like dead white composers would actually interpret them effectively.
A week after the Gershwin call, Ray was setting up, via video call, a performance for the Big Rock Symphony Orchestra in Big Rock, South Carolina. “We’re quite excited for you to do a performance of some of your music,” said a pudgy spokesperson for the board of directors.
“I’m sorry, I don’t quite understand,” Ray said, fearing that he did, indeed, understand.
“We are trying to promote diversity throughout our organization—we believe that Big Rock leads South Carolina in being inclusive—so that’s why we feel it would be best if we feature someone like you, who plays music he is familiar with.”
“Oh,” Ray said. “I get it.”
“So glad we’re on the same page,” the man said. The skin under his jaw jiggled. Ray couldn’t see his neck.
“That shit is dope, yo,” he told them. “I fucks with some Mendelssohn. Imma rock that shit. Playin’ them arpeggios an shit is my jam. Can’t wait to come. Anything but that Gershwin shit, yo. Every time I turn around somebody be tryin’ to get me to play that fake Black shit.”
Sufficiently stunned, the board of directors of the Big Rock Symphony knew not what to say nor where to look; their eyes were all downcast, as if deeply engrossed by something slightly below the camera.
“Now that I have your attention,” Ray went on, “I need you to understand something. I am a musician. I happen to be Black. That doesn’t mean that I am any less skilled or knowledgeable than any musician of any other race. You might want to invest in some diversity training, rather than paying for a soloist. Get your act together and I may come and play for you one day. Best of luck.” He left the meeting.