The major question driving my work lately is, do we know what harm looks like?

I'll break that down:

What forms of harm have worked their way into the culture so neatly that we don't even recognize them as harmful anymore? 

What is it doing to us — to our bodies, our relationships with one another, to our industries and environments — to normalize harm?

For instance, I believe my play The Smallest Sound, in the Smallest Space troubles norms in the private voice studio environment. I believe the play invites audiences to consider how something that has become a "common practice" may be a reflection of misused power, a shadow of cruelty. I hope the challenging questions at the heart of my work generate nuanced conversation (especially good listening), encourage human connection, and foster radical, liberatory thinking.

I am firmly planted in the forms and idioms of opera, stylistically. But the industrial "habits," so to speak, of the opera space are at the forefront of my content at this moment, too. My vantage point for observing and exposing harm is as a trans community organizer in opera. I spend a good deal of my time teaching and collaborating with trans and gender-expansive opera artists, sifting through their challenges making space for themselves in this profession. When I interview trans, non-binary, or gender-diverse opera professionals for my podcast, Beyond Travesti, I always open with the question: what drew you to opera (or classical singing more broadly), and what sustains your involvement? Typically, the first part of the question sparks lively conversation, with my guests recounting their initial encounters with live singing, singers they knew in their families, or learning to play an instrument. Their responses to the latter half of the question often end up with statements like, "I don't know what else I would do,” "Most days, I'm not sure why I stay in it,” or “I’m thinking of leaving.”

As a student of opera history, I know critics and artists have been hand-wringing about the imminent death of opera for centuries. In their book, A History of Opera, Carolyn Abbate and Roger Parker write, “At no time in history has society at large managed to sustain easily opera’s outrageous cost.” I would extend this fact to encapsulate yet another, more urgent truth: few opera artists through history have managed to sustain easily the outrageous costs – financial and otherwise – of building an opera career. What of them? What drives my work is making sure that trans and gender-expansive artists know there is a place for them in this performance space. I want us to be able to imagine our futures and share our resources with one another to advance our lives, communities, and performance practices.

I am dedicated to creating, at a high level, undeniable proof that trans stories can be told by trans people in the common practice literature of opera and in new stories using the forms and characters of opera. Many people I meet are not aware that it is expected often in opera for trans women to play male roles. So often I hear from trans folks who say they feel like there is . I long for a future where these paths aren't mutually exclusive. For me, the survival of the form itself is of secondary importance compared to the development of pathways that enable artists to build careers without stifling their voices, both literally and figuratively, as conventional industrial trajectories often encourage them to do.