I am not a music critic, and I’m very far from informed enough about gospel, soul or R&B music to add anything meaningful to the appreciations that have piled up, since Aretha Franklin’s death on August 16th, about what she contributed to the world of music. But I do know something about a woman’s struggle to get her own, authentic voice heard in the world. And from that perspective, I would be remiss to let the death of such a vibrant role model pass without noting the particularly graceful and powerful example she gave us of how it can be done: a head-held-high demonstration of the lifelong journey every woman’s search for voice entails, and the power that comes from bringing that voice—with strength and persistence, and without apology—into the world.
There was, of course, Aretha’s literal voice; a soaring, powerful gift that could shake the rafters of any venue or church. But what made that voice so memorable was what she did with it; the way she used it as a conduit for all the truth in her heart, mind, body and soul. If she was able to blend gospel music almost seamlessly with songs of strength, love, passion and heartbreak, it’s because that’s how those elements existed within herself. She sang what she knew, felt, believed … and had learned, through a life that wasn’t always easy.
One of the points that came up over and over again, in my research into the elements that contribute to a strong voice, was the role that hard experiences, challenges, and choices play in helping us learn who we really are and what we care about most. It’s in those moments where everything’s not okay or easy, or we’re faced with really tough choices or circumstances, that we learn what hurts; what brings us joy; what we’re willing to give up or fight for; and what really matters when all else is stripped away.
If we keep putting one foot in front of the other through those times, making choices and keeping ourselves moving forward, we also usually discover what strength really means, and that we have more of it than we might have imagined. We also learn endurance, resilience, and the joy and power that comes from owning our scars, strength, and hard-won wisdom.
Those who knew Aretha Franklin well could speak better to the multitude of life experiences that fueled the emotions and messages she expressed through her singing. But even a casual glance at her bio reveals a woman who started learning hard lessons at a very early age. Her parents separated when she was 6, and her mother died when she was 10. Aretha gave birth to her first child at the age of 12, and her second—by a different father—at the age of 14. By the time she belted out tunes like “Respect” and “Think”—battle hymns for women wanting better treatment from their partners—she was already on her way out of a difficult and reportedly abusive marriage—at the still-young age of 26. No wonder her voice had such authority and power to it.
But Aretha also showed the evolution of a woman’s voice over time. Even her outward style showed a woman coming into her own. As she gained confidence in her own strength and power, her sheath dresses and beehive hairdos gave way to styles that evidently felt more authentic to her—especially as the Civil Rights and Black Pride movements grew throughout the 1960s. As she herself later said, according to one of the appreciations written about her after her death:
“I believe that the black revolution certainly forced me and the majority of black people to begin taking a second look at ourselves. It wasn’t that we were all that ashamed of ourselves, we merely started appreciating our natural selves … sort of, you know, falling in love with ourselves just as we are. We found that we had far more to be proud of.”
“Falling in love with ourselves just as we are” is a particularly powerful aspiration for women—because so many of us struggle mightily, and too often unsuccessfully, to attain it. And no doubt Aretha Franklin, living in such a glaring spotlight, with all the ups and downs of both her career and her personal life critiqued by so many others, struggled with it, as well. And yet, she persevered. For six decades, she kept giving voice to her evolving passions, love, heartbreak, and faith. And if the songs were iconic, it was because they allowed listeners to give voice to those elements within themselves, as well.
Beyond that, she raised her voice in action, in support of causes she believed in. She raised money for Martin Luther King, Jr., and offered to post bail for the activist Angela Davis. She showed the importance of not just persevering, but standing up, and giving back. And she kept fighting for control of both her career and her image. Maybe that frustrated managers and journalists, but I have to admire a woman with the strength and determination to buck all that pressure for all those years. It couldn’t have been easy.
And yet, there she was, in 2015, at the age of 73, dressed in an evening gown and fur coat—her signature clutch purse on the piano in front of her, because she wasn’t about to let the means to her independence slip beyond her immediate reach—raising the roof with a rendition of Carole King’s “(You Make Me Feel Like) A Natural Woman)” that brought tears to a President’s eyes, and Carole King herself to her feet. And owning the visceral power of that song so completely, still, that when she shrugged out of the coat for the grand finale, raising her bare arms to the rafters, you just wanted to stand up and cheer. Most of the audience actually did.
Standing that tall, and continuing to project one’s enduring life force into the world so powerfully, at the age of 73, is a remarkable achievement. Watching her, I was reminded of hearing May Angelou speak when she was 73. Like Aretha, Maya Angelou was a woman who knew and owned her authentic voice, and brought that voice into the world with formidable impact. Their styles were different, but just like Aretha at the Kennedy Center, Maya Angelou stood tall and proud as she came onto the stage. She explained to the audience that she’d just had hip surgery, which is why she’d needed a cane to help her walk to the podium. She paused for a moment, then leaned forward, and with a look that was part fierceness and part hard-won wisdom, added, “Getting old is not for sissies.”
Indeed. But Aretha and Maya showed us how it can and should be done: with grace, strength, resilience, and a voice that evolves with us, but remains vibrant, triumphant, and clear—no matter what battles, setbacks, heartbreaks or challenges we endure or overcome throughout our lives.
It’s a legacy every bit as important, and as powerful, as any of the music Aretha allowed us the privilege of hearing.
