A LIFE OF STRUGGLE, by Frank Tankard Born with an awe-inspiring voice and a stubborn work ethic, Lynda Anders Canaday tries to make it to the top as a blind opera singer. A VOICE OF HOPE
Schelolehzquizx Ross, from the slums of south central Los Angeles, became pregnant in 1953.
And the great gospel singer Mahalia Jackson told Ross that she had received word from the Lord: The child would be a girl and a gospel singer. Ross took the prophesy to heart and asked her friend Jackson to be the child's godmother.
Soon the girl was born, two-and-a-half months premature. As she lay in an incubator, overexposure to light and oxygen destroyed the connection between her retina and her brain, leaving her blind.
Ten years after her birth, the child, Lynda Anders, was spending summers with Jackson learning to become a gospel singer. She was also running away from foster homes and being sexually abused by foster parents. When she would stay at home, her stepfather and brother would abuse her, and Ross would get drunk and tell her "I hate you, you blind black bitch."
PHOTO ILLUSTRATION/RYAN MCGEENEY
Thirty years after her birth, Lynda had sung with opera companies in Florida and Australia, with symphonies and in clubs. She had started to rebuild her relationship with her mother six months before she died. Her mother's death had sent Lynda into a deep depression, and she tried to kill herself but recovered.
Twenty years after her birth, Lynda was discovered by Seth Riggs, one of the premiere vocal technique teachers in the nation. And she had found that her colorful soprano voice was best suited not for gospel, but for opera. Before Jackson died in 1972, she had told Lynda, "God called you to be a gospel singer." Lynda had replied, "God called me to be an opera singer."
Forty years after her birth, Lynda's professional singing career was over. Her friend and manager, Randy Sheriff, would regret that one of the greatest opera singers he'd ever heard had not made it to the top. Nobody wanted to take the chance of hiring a blind singer for the opera, he would say. She had married Jim Canaday, whom she
had met at a guide dog training class, and moved to Lawrence to live with him.
Fifty years after her birth, her dreams had grown distant, her life complicated by health issues that had landed her in a wheelchair, and she had sunk into a deep depression after discovering she was incapable of having children because of the abuse she had received as a child.
--in vocal performance and go on to give vocal therapy and lessons to singers recovering from injury. In the 1970s, a vocal chord injury from overwork had forced Lynda to drop out of UCLA, where she was studying opera, and kept her from singing or speaking normally for a year.
A year ago, two students — a boy and a girl — waited for their turn outside Murphy Hall practice room 332. Lynda's voice, powerful, high, loud, commanded the air.
The students looked at each other and smiled. "It's Lynda," the girl said. "She's a freaking rock star," the boy said. The girl nodded. "She's amazing. Then again, she has quite a few years on most of us."
Lynda finished her lesson and walked into the hall, leading her cane in front of her.
Her first semester at the University of Kansas was already trying to defeat her. She had enrolled in 12 hours, the minimum to keep her financial aid, but was quickly finding that it would be nearly impossible to finish all of her classes.
Most of her books hadn't been translated into Braille and she was falling behind. The hope that had brought her back to music and saved her life was being tested.
Just a year-and-a-half earlier, she had lost her will to live. One day, she had simply stopped eating. For five days, she did not eat. She was hospitalized, and her body was nursed back to health. She met with her therapist to work on her mind. What she needed, they decided, was to return to music.
"Performing will always be my first love," Lynda explains. Her voice is sweet and young and carries naturally. "But I'm past the age where opera companies would hire me."
She and her therapist came up with a plan: She would enroll at the University, earn her degree
"Lynda always knew what to do when she had to sing with a cold, when she had to sing under adverse conditions," says Florence Riggs, who, along with her ex-husband, Seth, helped Lynda recover. "I'm sure
she could sing in a bumpy car going over a bumpy road with square tires, and still have that incredible limpid, luscious voice come across clear and clean."
Lynda finished Just five of her 12 credit hours that first semester. She wasn't able to stay up all night practicing like she used to. Plus, she had recently stepped out of her wheelchair and was learning how to walk on a bad back and a new knee. She also started mentoring young girls who were struggling with the aftermath of sexual abuse.
She received an exemption to the 12-hour minimum requirement, made it through the spring and is enrolled in 9.5 hours this semester. She figures she won't graduate with her vocal performance degree until 2012.
"When your dreams don't come true, you have two choices," she says. "You can give up. I did that for a while." Or, she says, there is a line in one of her old favorite songs: "You either give your chords away or you pick up your pipes and play."
09.14.2006 JAYPLAY <09