From Issue 90 — Get Lucky
I was driving my truck south on I-95, from New York City to Florida. My rescue dog was snuggled on my lap, sound asleep, as the scenery flashed by. I was disappointed and a bit concerned, but at least we were going to have an adventure. It was Sunday
afternoon March 15, 2020.
That morning I had gotten the phone call. My singing gig in Texas was cancelled. But I had reservations to camp in Florida, and I figured that New York City might not be a great place to hang out, so I grabbed my dog and added him to the trip. We had no idea what was beginning. No one did.
I camped with my dog at a state park next to the ocean. When that shut down, I found an airbnb near an inlet on the Florida panhandle. We hunkered down for a few weeks. The beaches were all closed. Still, I swam in the bay every morning.
We returned to Manhattan in April. Everything had shut down. Life was pretty scary. But I kept seeking out the water. Walks along the
Hudson. Driving down from Inwood to swim outside at Coney Island. The water kept me moving, alive, feeling my body, bringing the joy that it has always brought.
What I wasn’t doing was singing.
That time was so difficult for everyone. As an opera singer, I was out of work. Who was I without my job? What was truly important to me? Who did I want to be if I couldn’t perform? I had come out as transgender a few years earlier, and had socially transitioned. I didn’t want to take testosterone because I was singing as a mezzo-soprano and my career had just begun to blossom.
Taking testosterone could ruin everything. I would have to re-train. What if it didn’t work and my new voice wasn’t suited for opera singing? I loved performing just as much as being in the water. I figured that when I retired I’d take testosterone, grow a beard and smoke cigars, free from worrying about my vocal folds.
After months without music, with my career paused, I decided. I went to my doctor. “I’d like to start T.” I had my first shot at the end of August 2020.
I took the hormones slowly. I started singing again. I had weekly voice lessons over zoom. I practiced. I sang. I started playing my flute and learned guitar. I sang some more. My life, although mostly confined to my apartment, was once more full of music.
When my voice dropped down the octave, the hard work began. I could sing some folk songs, but I couldn’t match pitch or read music the way I used to. I kept training. I kept practicing. And I kept jumping in the ocean every weekend.
Slowly and steadily the voice settled. I learned to sing some Italian songs. I figured out how to get my voice to do what I wanted it to do. I sang my first opera aria. I learned my first opera role. Then my second. Then my third.
The joy I found swimming in open water started creeping into my daily life. Things had changed. The world had changed. And suddenly I was re-entering the world as a baritone, and as Lucas.
It’s now March 2023: two years since my voice dropped down the octave and three years since that drive to Florida with my dog. I’m singing and I’m thriving. And I have a second dog.
Today I’m back in my truck, with views of Lake Michigan out the window. I’m driving along the shoreline in Chicago to my next gig. It’s a bit too cold to swim but the sight of the water stretching out into the distance fills my heart with that familiar joy and peace. I’m back where I belong, in my truck, near the water, and ready to sing.
Lucas Bouk is an opera singer based in New York City. He performs his first title role as a baritone in Mozart’s DON GIOVANNI this month. www.lucasbouk.com
