Ailyn Pérez, celebrated Latina soprano, on the enduring magic of 'La Bohème'

I found it at the beginning of my life. I grew up in Chicago, and when my family moved to the suburbs, Elk Grove Village, IL,  where I lived. It was hard; I suddenly had no Mexican friends in my class, and my abuelita would make sandwiches with jalapeño and jamón, which didn’t help me fit in. For some reason, I couldn’t make friends easily. Part of it was, I think, looking back, I was six years old, making a move halfway through the year. 

In second grade, a funny music teacher introduced me to rhythm and musical notation, and it clicked. It immediately broke the ice for me in terms of finding fun in the classroom, leading me to music. The class was once a week, and they gave us a recorder. I think you had to pay about 25 cents for the whole year, but you weren’t supposed to take them home. I remember putting it in my school bag and taking it home anyway. I would play along with movies.

I was the oldest of three, and Karate Kid was a famous movie at the time—we were obsessed with it. We had it on video, and I used my recorder to play along with the movie. Then, my brother and sister caught on. Disney was also a big thing in our house. When The Little Mermaid and Aladdin came out, there was always music in our home. Every time we had family get-togethers, it was a time to sing. Every Mother’s Day, every birthday, we sang Las Mañanitas. I was singing in Spanish, along with this little recorder, which became a backdrop story to my life.

It happened in all my childhood. When I was nine and ten—our school had an orchestra and band you could join. So, I did and picked the cello. I asked my mom if I could choose an instrument, and the following year, I decided on the flute—a smaller instrument than the cello—but I kept up with both.

My mom used to dance ballet folklórico before she came to the United States. She planned to go to the U.S. to work and return to school with her saved money, but then she met my father. They’re both from Jalisco, so they’re from outside of Guadalajara. They both worked factory jobs and did everything possible to provide us with a good education. When I started music lessons, they made it work. My mom always loved the arts. 

I grew up on 26th Street, now called La Villita, and every September 15th, they would celebrate El Grito in a big parade, and my mom would dress me up. I had a cultural upbringing; I was never out of touch with my Mexican heritage through my family, either by language or by music. I was very in touch with that. 

However, growing up in the United States was a little different, especially when demographics were changing, so music, band, and orchestra helped me. Suddenly, I had friends, and I was doing good in something that I could teach and play, and it was fun. It just became my life. I had a wonderful flute teacher, who I took lessons from who inspired me to play. By the time I got to high school, I had joined the choir and musical theater.

Yes! This was the pivotal moment. I was 14 years old, and I wanted to be in a musical. And there was musical theater you could be a part of. However, the requirement was to take a voice lesson to get a role. So I went into my voice lesson. 

I already played an instrument and could sight-read—meaning I could look at the music, hear the notes in my head, and just sing. I had those skills, plus I spoke Spanish, so when I met my voice teacher, Carl Lorenz, everything changed. He was an opera singer who also sang in the Chicago Symphony Orchestra chorus under Schulte and taught voice lessons. That’s how he made his living, with his best friend as the choir director.

On the first day I met him, my life changed. He handed me the aria O mio babbino caro by Giacomo Puccini. I sight-read it, and he was amazed. He said, “You have a voice. How did you understand this?” I told him, “Well, I speak Spanish, so I understand Italian. And I can sight-read. I feel it.” He said, “Yes, you do.” He gave me a list of names to research, and that started my journey.

From there, I took lessons and got to perform in musical theater. I played Reno Sweeney in Anything Goes my senior year, Sarah Brown in Guys and Dolls, Edith in Pirates of Penzance, and one of the kids in Bye Bye Birdie in The Telephone Hour.

I also gained some stage time in concerts—we performed about four concerts a year. He would give me operatic arias to sing, and that opened up a whole new world for me.

I still go to him for lessons sometimes. He’s such a big inspiration. You mentioned your niece takes singing lessons. I think in our teenage years, we all find someone who sees or hears something in us. They nurture that, and in a way, they parent it. That’s exactly what he did for me.

I always feel like Carl and Mr. Swanson, my music teachers, truly made a difference in my life. I feel so blessed by them—so deeply blessed.

I was just one of the many students they taught and inspired over their 40 years of teaching. They had this incredible ability to bring out creativity and inspiration in all of us. 

My parents questioned it. They asked, “Why are you going to college to get a music degree? What are you going to do with that?” And honestly, I didn’t have an answer at the time. But for me, at that moment, music was my way to get to school. It was a path forward, and it kept building from there.

Even now, it’s still a challenge. It’s incredibly challenging. As an artist, you don’t get to see your family often, especially during holidays—we’re always working. These were things I was warned about, but I just kept going because I felt so strongly that God gave me a gift. Or, however you believe it, I feel we’re all given something—something we’re meant to nurture so we can give back to our community, to society, to heal, to help, and to inspire.

I always believed that if any opportunity opened up for me, even if it was just the tiniest crack in the door, I would push through because it had to mean something. I think that’s the power of knowing your gift and having a purpose—it’s deeply important.

Music can be such an important part of a kid's life—for friendships, discipline, imagination, and for finding their own way, their own path, their own voice to unify with others and work toward something. One of the things that music can gift us, in both our minds and our lives, is the ability to see how, when a culture becomes divisive, the polarity can stretch us to both extremes.

In music, you learn that everyone has to be on the same page to tell one story. Or, in the midst of it, you can have sub-stories, but you all still have to work together, come together, and unify. I think that value—that kind of creative understanding—allows for differences in interpretation, backgrounds, and experiences.

It builds a world with a different kind of economy, where everyone has a gift, and you have to work with one another and collaborate. That kind of experience at that age is so critical. It's great for fostering a feeling of belonging, which is what music gave to me and why I love speaking about education, especially music education, in public schools.

It really is so important. I think everyone—all the great poets, but especially Maya Angelou—captures this. She said, “Life, living, is an art.” She could empower people with her words, just as the arts empower us all. Music, in particular, is such an essential part of that.

Well, the amplification happens automatically. It’s about understanding why. A lot of people in the opera world say to me, “You’re so emotionally connected. When you sing this, it feels like you’re improvising.” They feel like I am the character, like I’m truly living the role.

It’s fantasy, it’s a story—and they say, “Ah, you bring this thing.” And I’m like, I know what that is.

That’s our storytelling. It’s el sentimiento. No nos escondemos cómo sentimos.

El sentimiento es bienvenido. No nos opacamos. No nos ahogamos.

At home, my family—and maybe it’s just my family, though I think it’s true for many latino families—you could cry and talk to your mom and dad about anything. I can cry and talk to my mom and dad about anything.

There’s no need to hide that. And I think that openness is cultural. When I’m performing, I realize for some people, it’s not part of their culture. But for us, emotion is everything. It’s such a big part of who we are.

I’m so glad you asked about this—it’s so important. I learned La Bohème in a very traditional way, through the Toscanini school of thought, passed down by my maestro during my time at AVA, the Academy of Vocal Arts in Philadelphia. That lineage deeply shaped my approach to Puccini’s music.

My maestro had been on the music staff at La Scala during the era of Tebaldi, a time when everyone bowed to Tullio Serafin, who in turn bowed to Toscanini. Toscanini himself had played cello in Puccini’s operas, and this direct connection to the composer’s work influences so much of what we know about opera today—its style, its interpretation, and the way it’s performed.

Especially now, I feel a great joy and a sense of leadership in my life when I say I have sung Mimì and La Bohème on major stages all over the world, collaborating with and learning from wonderful people.

Every time I return to Mimì, I face the same challenge: a return to simplicity. Mimì is about being alive in the moment, rediscovering the magic of her story, and bringing freshness to her relationships.

At the start of my career, I identified deeply with Mimì—her struggles mirrored my own as an artist with no money, living in a small studio apartment in Philadelphia, and just starting out. I had a scholarship, but I still needed to pay for rent and food, right? I connected right away with these bohemian artists and their way of life.

Now, as I’ve grown, I see Mimì as a symbol of pure love and poetry, someone who embodies the beauty of life’s small moments. Her journey continues to teach me about simplicity, connection, and the magic of storytelling.

Singing La Bohème at Teatro La Scala in Milan was a milestone in my career, marked by groundbreaking collaborations and a historic sense of representation. I performed alongside Ramón Vargas, one of the most distinguished Mexican tenors, as the first two Mexican protagonists to take the stage in this iconic opera at La Scala. I’ll never forget what Ramón said during the production: ‘We’re making history.’

He said that because it was such a significant moment. It wasn’t just about the performance—it was about representation. For the first time, Latin American voices were leading this iconic opera at one of the world’s most prestigious opera houses, in the very country where La Bohème was first imagined and brought to life. To perform Puccini’s work in Italy, in front of an audience deeply connected to his legacy, felt like stepping into the heart of opera itself.

Adding to this historic occasion was Gustavo Dudamel conducting, along with the Venezuelan chorus and orchestra of El Sistema. La Scala rarely allows guest ensembles to perform, so having Latin American musicians featured in such a historic space was extraordinary. It created a cultural bridge that resonated so deeply.

It was a collaboration that affirmed everything I had worked so hard for—the training, the discipline, the passion. To be part of this production with Ramón, Gustavo, and the musicians of El Sistema was profoundly meaningful, both as an artist and as a representative of my heritage. It celebrated not just my artistry but the richness of Latin American contributions to the world of opera. It was a significant moment in my journey.

La Bohème speaks to universal truths: love, loss, poverty, and the human desire for connection. Rodolfo loves Mimì deeply, but love alone can’t cure her illness. That heartbreak—that realization that love isn’t always enough—is something everyone can relate to. It’s a profound reminder of the fragility of life and the limitations we face, even when we give all the love we have to someone.

It’s also a story about starting something from nothing, about artists and dreamers trying to build a life. Mimì represents anyone who has ever had a dream, faced struggles, and yet continued to hope and love despite the hardships. Her vulnerability and courage are universal. We’ve all been in situations where we want to hold on, even as life’s challenges seem insurmountable.

What makes La Bohème truly timeless is its humanity. It mirrors who we are—it reflects our joys and sorrows, our triumphs and failures, and our deep longing to connect with others. Whether you’re experiencing it for the first time or the hundredth, it always feels new because it speaks directly to the heart of what it means to live, to love, and to lose. That’s why it continues to resonate so powerfully across generations.

It’s amazing how many love stories begin at the Met because of La Bohème. People propose during the performance, some meet there for the first time, and others return to relive a shared moment.

It’s an opera that brings people together. They fall in love, get married, and create their own stories, all inspired by this timeless work.

Her death is magnificent. Mimì knows she’s dying, but all she wants is to be in Rodolfo’s arms. She tells him, ‘You are my entire life and my entire love.’ The music mirrors this—it’s poetic, romantic, and deeply moving. When she fades away, it feels like she’s simply going to sleep. It’s not just the sadness of the moment; it’s the beauty in her love and acceptance that resonates so deeply.

What stays with me...Everything, everything, every word. She’s in love with the poet, but she is poetry. Everything I sing as Mimi feels like onomatopoeia—it’s her essence. She says she’s not fancy, she’s humble: "I don’t have much to say, but these are my favorite things."

She loves things that speak of love, like springtime. She says—listen to this—and Puccini writes it so beautifully: "I love when the frost melts, when the sky lights up with the sun, and that first kiss of springtime sunshine touches my cheek." That’s her. That’s what she loves. It’s so pure.

She’s the poet. She embodies poetry in everything she says, and yet she’s so simple and unassuming. Meanwhile, the poet—who’s truly a poet—is in love with her, but he’s also scared. It’s fascinating.

It’s like she doesn’t even realize who she is—she just is. And then, at the end of the opera, which mirrors the beginning, they reminisce. That moment absolutely breaks my heart. It’s so beautiful.

Zeffirelli’s production is pure magic. It’s a masterpiece that brings La Bohème to life in breathtaking ways. From the snow falling indoors to the bustling streets of Paris, it creates a world that feels so alive and real. The sets are so stunning that the audience often applauds when the curtain rises.

It’s an honor to step into Mimì’s shoes in this production. There’s something so timeless about the way it tells the story—it’s like stepping into a painting or a dream. It’s one of those productions that truly inspires people to fall in love with opera.

You see, the Met Opera has been really wonderful in creating productions that showcase the magic of opera. From a technical perspective, this is something I absolutely love about opera. Yes, there’s the singing, of course.

But we exist on the shoulders of so many people, and the audience is just as important. Behind the scenes, when all the sets are changing—it’s incredible. The set drops into a basement, comes upright—it’s crazy. It’s truly amazing.

Here we are, and we belong. Trust in your stories. Trust that you have a voice. Trust your story. And trust that music will always create a space for you. That’s something I had to learn and practice, but I’m so grateful I did.

Placido Domingo and Operalia opened the world to me. Thanks to his incredible ability to discover talent, he has empowered countless singers. If you look at the list of Operalia participants—not just the winners—you’ll see names that fill the rosters of theaters worldwide. His legacy isn’t just about recognition; it’s about creating opportunities for the next generation of opera singers. He inspires theater directors to give young people a chance, which is so crucial in an art form that takes years to mature.

Opera requires breakthroughs, support, and a platform, and Domingo’s competition removes barriers like economic disadvantage. He ensures artists have access, finding sponsors to make participation possible. That kind of contribution is transformative.

When I visit schools, particularly those serving Black and Latino communities, I often travel 40 minutes or more outside city centers. Socioeconomic diversity means many talented students don’t have easy access to resources or cultural hubs. Knowing this reality, I’ve learned to plan and live in a way that supports these ‘semilleros’—seedbeds of talent.

Looking back, I was so focused on reaching a destination, on ‘making it,’ that I forgot to appreciate the journey of sowing those seeds. If I could go back 10 years, or give them this advice, I’d say embrace the process, to keep the fire alive but ease the pressure. Life isn’t just about arriving; it’s about nurturing growth along the way.

I would tell people: trust your story. Do a lot of research, put in the work, and be prepared. Become a great musician. Become a great storyteller. Work on your craft. Trust the process—and most importantly, enjoy it.

That’s what I’d say. I mean, it’s like 10 things, but they’re good things, right? Really good things.

And remember, when preparation meets opportunity, that’s success. That’s the key to real success. Preparation is everything.