My thoughts on singing

I sang in high school. Actually, I sang until I was a junior in high school. Just for reference, I won a 1st place in junior high for my lovely rendition of Swinging on a Star. Grandpa sang it to me when I was little and it’s a fantastic song. It’s not easy to sing in junior high by yourself in a room full of strangers and judges. Really.

I vividly remember standing alone in my choir director’s office near the end of freshman year. He was a beautiful man with a wonderful voice and charming sense of humor, and the choir composed of freshman ladies was uniformly smitten. We were nearing the end of the year and auditioning to see where we would be placed in the choral structure. There was sight reading, some memorization, the ability to find the appropriate note in a chord when given a starting point. Then we did scales so he could assess my range.

I was shy, confessing softly to being nervous. It was likely due to him more than the situation. To this day I sigh when I’m in a room with an overly attractive man. Granted, it’s now more likely to be over someone with an easy smile, glasses and quick laugh than excellent bone structure. But I’m an idiot when I’m attracted to someone – I pronounce words incorrectly and pray he doesn’t notice, speak a little quieter than normal in hopes that he’ll lean in to hear me, get overly abrupt when I feel that I’ve tipped my hand and showed a bit too much interest. It’s not overly impressive, which could explain why I’m so very single. I tend toward making a bad impression on men I’d really want to attract.

Mr. Christianson smiled at me, eyes crinkling up. “No reason to be nervous.” He noted. “You sing for me every day.”

“Not alone!” I made a face and shook my head, and he laughed.

“How about we start together.” He offered kindly and we went from there. I did fine – I’m not great at sight reading, honestly, but can get by. I’m an excellent rememberer, so that section went particularly well. We spent extra time as he continued to form longer strings of notes to trick me, complimenting as I kept up. I blushed with pleasure – still remember feeling my cheeks warm.

“Well, the good news is I was right in the beginning.” He said lightly, making some notes on a paper. There were about 100 of us – being young and cute and musical means there’s no shortage of 14 year old girls eager to be in your class – so I’m sure he needed reminders of how we performed individually over the course of the week. He didn’t finish his statement though, and I was confused.

“How were you right?” I finally asked.

“You’re definitely an alto.” He said, still writing. “Definitely your range.”

“Oh.” I said softly, embarrassed. “Right.”

He looked up at me with a frown. “Nothing wrong with being an alto. It’s your natural vocal range, Katie. You have a beautiful voice. It’s when you try to sing outside that range that things get ugly. You’re an alto. And that’s great. You know where your voice works best.”

He promoted me into an upper level choir and I sang there for a year. It’s difficult for me to explain the power of music – of creating something with other people that’s so incredibly exquisite, it brings tears of joy, this warmth in my chest, this overwhelming awe that my voice fits into this harmony that takes up so much space in that moment that it’s all that matters. Everything important and beautiful is in that single chord. I loved it. Can remember wishing certain songs would never end because they were just so perfect. Smile broadly when I recall how we’d look at each other after we finished – whether in the huge classroom we occupied for practice or in front of an audience in the gym – because it was just so completely cool that we’d sounded like that.

There was some honors course that only met during the hour that contained choir practice. As enrollment increased in my high school, I realized there were singers far more talented than I, but also knew Mr. Christianson tended to take current students first when forming next year’s choirs. We had, after all, already put in time, learned from him, practiced hard. So I gave up my spot, a bit sad, but feeling as though it was the appropriate choice.

I don’t sing anymore. It’s been so long – I’ve largely lost the ability to read music to any great degree. I haven’t considered joining a church choir for the simple reason that I don’t care for singing in church. As I sang along in my car today on my commute, I realized I was surprisingly happy. Trying to isolate the cause – especially given a rather rough morning – I decided it was likely the music. It was pretty and I was singing, though I had the volume loud enough that I couldn’t really hear myself. Funny, I mused, that I’d say I don’t like to sing if someone asked.

I always wanted to be a soprano, I realized. They seemed prettier somehow, more graceful, the ones who gathered the most attention and admiration. They got the gorgeous melody lines while I was left to fill in the center of the chord. It was a solid sound from our section placed on the left. Men sat in the middle, sopranos on the right. In my high school, there was a definite difference in being pretty or popular that seemed to correlate to vocal range. I doubt it holds true overall – in fact, if you’re reading and you’re an alto, I’m sure you’re gorgeous and loved by all who encounter you. But I wasn’t. Hell, I’m still not. And when I looked around at the women who had voices similar to mine, they were more like me – quiet, a bit bookish, a tad plain – than like the soprano ladies. They were prettier, faster to laugh, more confident and outgoing.

This is likely a flawed perception recalled from a high school girl struggling to find her place. I didn’t have many friends, though I had my share of acquaintances. I was well liked in high school, actually, though I didn’t realize it until late in my senior year. I was insecure even then though, and that causes me to retreat. If there’s a chance you’ll think badly of me, I’d rather you think nothing at all. So I do my best not to attract attention, which, in my mind, made me a good alto. Which was not a source of pride.

As for church hymns? Well, it’s probably a lot like life. I try to sing out of my range – force notes that my voice can’t create with any degree of comfort or beauty. I also don’t sing enough with those like me. Am foolish enough not to recognize my own beauty and let it color how I see those women who happen to share some of my qualities – even the exceptionally lovely ones.

Mr. Christianson picked up on it, but I didn’t buy his comment. He was right though – my vocal range is on the low side. My speaking voice isn’t light and lyrical either, but it’s pleasant. Increases pitch when I’m happy, softens when I’m sad or embarrassed. It’s a good voice – I try to use it kindly. I need it to learn, to teach, to collaborate. I sing songs for the Little One – blend my own alto with Mom’s. Listened to Cousin and Aunt sing The Grand Old Duke of York with altos of their own. Little Cousin smiled and danced during their brief performance. And it was perfect.

Beauty – perceived through sight or smell or touch or sound – doesn’t look the same. It’s exquisitely varied over individuals. It’s not always slender or able to hit high notes. It doesn’t always have muscular arms or gorgeous eyes. I’m exceedingly proud of being attracted to different qualities in people. She seems a bit quirky, so I’d like to invite her to lunch. He has this intense focus on his work, and I shiver a bit when watching him squint through glasses at his computer screen. I find it difficult to believe that I could find any of you less than amazing. There’s depth and character and humor and insight within what you write and that’s beautiful. Different, certainly, but there is something perfect about singing in your range, figuring yourself out and confidently displaying your strengths.

It gives me hope – seeing how lovely you all are. I have a beautiful voice. Mr. Christianson was right. I’m learning where it works best, though I’ve already found some of the notes that resonate in my range. I need the confidence to sing – to find those moments where I feel filled with joy. Creating something special – whether alone or with other people. I’m hoping I get to be part of a duet at some point, though that’s never been my strength. Blending my voice with one other person’s was always difficult for me – that delicate balance between us, the give and take, forgiving the notes that are slightly off key, merging to form some sort of song.

I keep getting distracted – talking about men, past and future. I think it’s all mixed together. The core knowledge that, for me, the most exquisite music isn’t created alone. Perhaps that’s why I’m so fond of blogs – have no writing aspirations outside this format. The commenting, looking at site stats to see who’s reading – it’s a group effort, the linking and mixing of inspiration. The offers of comfort in comments or the insight written in email. It’s some kind of chorus, I think. At least in my mind. What scares me is that I have some issues figured out - I simply lack the courage to apply what I’ve learned to make some crucial changes.

In the same way, I think Mr. Christianson had the right idea years ago. He knew my range, admired my talent for what it was, saw the beauty and made some notes on where it would fit with the rest of the group. In contrast, I was shy and embarrassed that I wasn’t more conventionally pretty. Couldn’t find the courage to sparkle happily as an alto. It’s not trivial to find your range – to understand where you sound the prettiest, where your voice is most comfortable, stable and strong. Even after locating it though, I need to sing. Trust that someone will appreciate it, that I’ll find happiness in using my talents. Learn from the times where I’m slightly flat or sharp. Because I find I miss it – that rush of creating something beautiful, of being part of something greater than myself, of leaving such a group stronger than I went in.

I find it’s important to me – singing. And I’m an alto.