Jimmy’s voice stopped. The Roots orchestra went silent and 300 audience members held their breath because Barbara Streryend recognized that name on the screen. It was a Thursday night in October 2023. The Tonight Show starring Jimmy Fallon Studio 6A at Rockefeller Center. The audience was electric with anticipation because Barbara Stryand, the Barbara Streryand was tonight’s guest.

legendary singer, actress, director, an icon who rarely did talk shows anymore. Jimmy was in his element. The interview had been going beautifully for 12 minutes. Barbara was charming, telling stories about her latest project, laughing at Jimmy’s impressions. The audience was captivated. The roots were providing perfect musical cues.

Everything was textbook late night perfection. Jimmy glanced at his blue note cards. So, Barbara, we have a fun segment prepared. We’re going to show you some names of people you’ve worked with over your incredible career, and you just tell us the first memory that comes to mind. Sound good? Barbara smiled. Sure, that sounds lovely.

Jimmy gestured to the production team. Okay, let’s bring up the first name. A large monitor beside Barbara’s chair lit up, the kind of screen they use for games and segments. The production assistant in the control room queued up the first slide. A name appeared in large, elegant letters. Barbara’s smile froze. Her hand, which had been resting casually on the armrest, slowly rose to cover her mouth.

Her eyes went wide, not with surprise, but with something deeper. Shock, recognition, pain. Jimmy noticed immediately. His host instincts kicked in. Barbara, you okay? She didn’t respond. She was staring at that name like it had reached through the screen and grabbed her by the throat. The audience began to murmur, confused. The roots looked at each other uncertainly.

Quest Loveed his drumsticks. Jimmy looked at the monitor to see what name had been displayed. Jonathan Mitchell Kaufman. He never heard that name before. It wasn’t on his note cards. This wasn’t part of the planned segment. Jimmy stopped mid joke. The entire studio froze. In the control room, chaos erupted. Director Dave Diamadai was screaming into his headset.

What name is that? That’s not on the rundown. Who put that up there? Someone tell me what’s happening. Producer Katie Hawkmire stood behind Dave, staring at the monitors, her hand over her mouth. I don’t know, she whispered. That’s not our slide. That’s not How did that get on the screen? The production assistant responsible for the graphics was frantically checking his computer. I didn’t load that.

I swear I didn’t load that name. It just it just appeared. On stage, Barbara Stryand hadn’t moved. Tears were streaming down her face, her hands still covering her mouth, her entire body rigid. Jimmy dropped his note cards. They scattered across his desk, forgotten. He stepped out from behind the desk and moved toward Barbara’s chair, his voice soft, concerned.

Barbara, what’s wrong? Do you need a minute? We can cut to commercial. No, Barbara said, her voice barely audible, but cutting through the studio with startling clarity. Don’t cut. Please don’t cut. She lowered her hand slowly, still staring at the name on the screen. I haven’t seen that name in 47 years. How How is that name on your screen? Jimmy glanced back at the control room glass visible from the stage.

Dave and Katie were shaking their heads, holding up their hands. We don’t know. I honestly don’t know, Jimmy admitted. That wasn’t supposed to be on there. I’ve never even heard that name. Barbara, who is Jonathan Mitchell Kaufman? Barbara’s voice cracked when she answered. He was the first person who ever told me I could sing.

The audience fell into complete reverend silence. To understand what happened next, you need to understand what happened in 1956. Barbara Streryand wasn’t always Barbara Streryand, global icon and entertainment legend. In 1956, she was 14-year-old Barbara Jones Stryand, a girl from Brooklyn with a voice that was too big for her small frame and a dream that everyone told her was impossible.

She lived in a tiny apartment with her mother and stepfather. Money was tight. Her stepfather didn’t like her. Her mother worked long hours as a secretary and came home too tired to listen to Barbara’s dreams of singing on Broadway. School was brutal. Barbara wasn’t pretty by conventional standards.

At least that’s what the other kids told her. She was too skinny. Her nose was too big. Her voice was too unusual. She got teased relentlessly. She ate lunch alone in the bathroom. She went home and cried into her pillow, but she could sing. God, could she sing? When she opened her mouth, something transcendent happened.

A voice emerged that seemed impossible from someone so young, so hurt, so small. Her mother didn’t understand it. Barbara, singing isn’t a career. You need to learn typing. You need practical skills. But mama, when I sing, I feel like I’m someone else, someone important. Dreams don’t pay rent. Barbara. At 14, Barbara was ready to quit, to accept that maybe everyone was right.

Maybe she should just learn typing and forget about singing and become whatever ordinary person the world expected her to be. And then she met Jonathan Mitchell Kaufman. Mr. Kaufman taught music at Arasmus Hall High School. He was in his 60s, a gentle man with kind eyes who had been teaching for 40 years. He’d seen thousands of students come and go. Most had average talent.

Some had none. Very few had anything special. Barbara wasn’t even in his class. She was just a freshman who sometimes stood outside the music room during lunch listening to the students inside practice. She never went in. She was too afraid, too convinced that if she tried and failed, it would confirm what everyone already told her.

One day in November 1956, Mr. Kaufman opened the music room door and found Barbara standing in the hallway, her ear pressed against the wall, eyes closed, listening to a student sing scales. “Do you want to come in?” he asked gently. Barbara jumped startled. “No, I’m sorry. I was just I’ll go. You’re here every day at lunch.” Mr.

Kaufman observed. “Why don’t you ever come inside?” Barbara looked at her shoes. Because I’m not good enough. Mr. Kaufman smiled. How do you know if you’ve never tried? Everyone says I’m not. My voice is weird. I’m weird. Everyone is wrong sometimes. Mr. Kaufman said. Come inside. Sing one song for me. If I think you’re wasting your time, I’ll tell you honestly.

Deal? Barbara hesitated, then nodded. She followed him into the music room. It was empty. Lunch period, students gone, just dusty piano and afternoon light through tall windows. Mr. Kaufman sat at the piano bench. What do you want to sing? I don’t know. I don’t have sheet music. Just sing something you love, something that makes you feel alive.

Barbara thought for a moment. Then she opened her mouth and sang. Somewhere over the rainbow. Mr. Kaufman’s hands froze above the piano keys. Subscribe and leave a comment because the most powerful part of this story is still ahead. Barbara sang the entire song. When she finished, she looked at Mr.

Kaufman nervously, waiting for him to confirm what everyone else had said, that she was weird, that her voice was strange, that she should give up. Mr. Kaufman had tears in his eyes. young lady,” he said quietly. “In 40 years of teaching, I have never, and I mean never, heard a voice like yours. You don’t just sing, you transform.

You transcend. You have a gift that comes along maybe once in a generation.” Barbara stared at him. “You’re making fun of me. I am absolutely not making fun of you. Barbara, you are going to be a star. Not might be, not could be. You are going to be a star. I’ve never been more certain of anything in my life.

But everyone says everyone is wrong. Mr. Kaufman interrupted. And I’m going to prove it to you. Starting today, you’re going to study with me. Every day after school, free of charge. I’m going to teach you everything I know, and you’re going to promise me something. What? That you will never ever let anyone convince you that you’re anything less than extraordinary.

For the next 2 years, Barbara studied with Mr. Kaufman every single day after school. He taught her technique, phrasing, breathing. He helped her find material. He drove her to auditions in his beatup car. He paid for her first professional head shot out of his own pocket. “Mr. Kaufman, you don’t have to do this,” Barbara said one day, embarrassed by how much he was spending on her.

“Yes, I do,” he replied simply. “Because you’re going to change the world with that voice, and I’m going to be able to say I was there at the beginning.” In 1958, Barbara graduated from Arasmus Hall. She was 18. She had dreams of Manhattan, of Broadway, of actually making it. The night before she left Brooklyn for good, she went to see Mr.

Kaufman one last time. He was in the music room grading papers. I’m scared, Barbara admitted. What if I fail? What if you’re wrong about me? Mr. Kaufman stood up and placed both hands on her shoulders. Barbara, I want you to remember something. Years from now, when you’re famous, and you will be famous, people are going to ask you how you did it.

how you became Barbara Stryand. And I want you to tell them the truth. What’s the truth? The truth is that you almost gave up. The truth is that you stood outside a music room too afraid to go inside. The truth is that one person believed in you when you didn’t believe in yourself. And that made all the difference.

He reached into his desk drawer and pulled out a small notebook. The one he’d used to write notes during her lessons. Take this. Keep it. When you doubt yourself, read what I wrote. Remember that you are extraordinary. Barbara took the notebook with trembling hands. I’ll never forget you, Mr. Kaufman. Good. He smiled. Because I’ll never forget you either.

Barbara moved to Manhattan the next day. She struggled for months. She sang in nightclubs, did odd jobs, auditioned for everything. And slowly, impossibly, it started to happen. small roles, then bigger roles, then Broadway, then Hollywood, then global superstardom. Barbara Stryand became exactly what Jonathan Mitchell Kaufman had promised she would become, legendary, but she never saw him again.

In 1962, for years after she left Brooklyn, Barbara tried to find Mr. Kaufman. She wanted to invite him to her first Broadway opening. She called Arasmus Hall. They told her Mr. Kaufman had retired the year before. She asked for his home address. They said privacy policy prevented them from sharing that information. She tried other ways.

Phone books, alumni networks. Nothing worked. Mr. Kaufman had simply disappeared into retirement somewhere unreachable. Barbara carried guilt about it for decades. She’d become everything he said she would become, but she’d never gotten to thank him properly. Never gotten to show him what his belief had created. The notebook he’d given her was lost somewhere in the chaos of moving between apartments in those early struggling years. Another piece of him gone.

By the 1970s, Barbara stopped looking. She told herself that maybe it was better this way. Maybe Mr. Kaufman was watching her succeed from wherever he was, and that was enough. But she never forgot his name. Jonathan Mitchell Kaufman, the first person who saw her, really saw her. Behind the scenes, Jimmy made a decision that defied every producer’s expectation.

On the Tonight Show stage in 2023, Barbara was still staring at that name on the screen. Jimmy was crouched beside her chair now, hand gently on her shoulder. Barbara,” he said softly. “Do you want to tell us about him?” Barbara nodded, wiping tears from her eyes. He was my high school music teacher 67 years ago. I was 14 and ready to give up on singing.

He heard me sing once and told me I was going to be a star. He believed in me when literally no one else did, not even myself. Her voice broke. I tried to find him after I made it. I wanted to thank him. I wanted to show him he was right. But I never could. And now she gestured helplessly at the screen. I don’t even know how his name is here.

Jimmy looked back at the control room. Katie was frantically gesturing, mouththing something. Jimmy’s earpiece crackled to life. Jimmy. Katie’s voice said urgently. Mr. Kaufman’s granddaughter is in the audience. Rose 7. She submitted the name. She wanted Barbara to know. Jimmy’s eyes went wide. He turned to the audience.

Is there a Sarah Kaufman here? Rose 7. A young woman in her 30s stood up crying. I’m here. Barbara stood immediately, her hand over her heart. You’re Jonathan’s granddaughter. Yes, Sarah said, her voice shaking. He died in 1976. But before he died, he made us promise something. He said if we ever got the chance, we should tell Barbara Stryisand that he watched every performance, that he kept every article, that he knew she’d be extraordinary.

But this is the moment no one in the studio and no one watching at home ever saw coming. Sarah reached into her bag and pulled out a small worn notebook. He kept this. He wanted you to have it back. Barbara’s hands flew to her mouth. The notebook. I thought I’d lost it. Jimmy helped Sarah down from the audience.

She walked to the stage and handed Barbara the notebook, the same one Mr. Kaufman had given her in 1958. Barbara opened it with trembling hands. Inside in faded handwriting, Barbara has a once in a generation voice. She will change the world. I am honored to have been her teacher. JMK. She clutched a notebook to her chest and sobbed. Share and subscribe.

Make sure this story is never forgotten. Jimmy stood beside them both openly crying. The audience rose in thunderous applause. The roots played softly. After the show, Barbara had the notebook professionally preserved. She donated it to the Library of Congress with one instruction. display it alongside a recording of her first Broadway performance.

The plaque reads, “For Jonathan Mitchell Kaufman, who saw me