“I have always liked to sing, for fun. When my daughter was little, we enrolled her in lessons in a musical association. Over time, I sympathized with the president, Sophia. I accompanied my daughter to class, I improvised second voices from time to time. Sophia thought I sang well, and pushed me to join a choir. I thought about it, and then I forgot. I had other things to do. The years have passed.
And then, six years ago, at 49, I took the plunge. I was in a problematic marriage, I needed air. I joined a choir in Sophia’s association. Very quickly, it was great. I had an extraordinary year. We were eight boys and ten girls. We were having fun. We made fun of ourselves, we laughed, we worked a lot too. It was going so well that in addition to our two hours of rehearsal a week, we got into the habit of meeting at the café half an hour before, and going back there after, for two hours. I had negotiated the prices with the owner. We would sit there and sing. People stopped, applauded us, it was great.
The other members of this vocal group were younger than me. On average, they were 30-35 years old. But I felt completely integrated, I was invited to everyone’s birthday parties. We had a WhatsApp group on which we exchanged. There was a certain emulation too. From September to June, that year, I lived to the rhythm of our meetings.
At the following school year, I am happy to resume, for a second season. We meet again, and I notice that a group of girls in the choir are getting more and more involved in feminist issues. They talk about it in rehearsal, discuss patriarchy, “mansplaining”, inclusive writing… One day, I receive a message from one of them about Sophia, the head of the association. To recruit male voices, which are sorely lacking in choirs, Sophia has implemented a marketing measure: charging boys less than girls. And this year, the difference between the two rates is even greater. In her message, the chorister asks me if I think it’s sexism. I tell him that I know Sophia well and that is not the case.
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Shortly after, in rehearsal, one of the women of this small group asks to speak. She explains to us that they wrote a letter to Sophia’s address, asking her to explain herself. The tone seems unnecessarily accusatory to me. It seems absurd to me. I speak. I ask them to give me their definition of this sexism of which they suspect her. My question is swept away out of hand: I am told that this is not the time. I have no answer. Finally, someone intervenes and offers an obvious solution, which we should have thought of before: make everyone pay the same price. This measure of justice solves the problem.
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