If You Can’t Sing Well, SING LOUD!
“As I stood in my front hall waiting for Kelly to pick me up for our first rehearsal, I checked my bag for everything I might need- water bottle, pencil, chapstick- and I could feel myself recoiling at the uncomfortable feelings of trying something new. We were leaving a bit early because rehearsals were to take place at the local high school and we had never been inside it before. What kind of people were in a community choir anyway?”
I began my singing career, like many of the greats, in church. Luckily for me, church only came once a year, during our week-long summer vacation to visit my aunts, uncles, cousins, and grandparents in the upper peninsula of Michigan. I much preferred playing sports or being outside to an hour-long church service, but when we visited my mom’s side of the family, going to church was a non-negotiable. And so was singing, which thankfully was the only part of church that I actually enjoyed. So once a year, the “Seaton Cousins” would be the special performance in the Sunday Bulletin at the Gloria Dei Lutheran Church in Hancock, MI.
During the days leading up to church, in between card games, hide and seek, and swimming in the lake, my cousins and I would gather around my grandmother’s shiny black grand piano and practice our singing parts. We would sing kids bible songs like Kumbaya, This Little Light of Mine, and Seek Ye First- anything with a repetitive verse format so each of us could have a solo part.
Once Sunday rolled around and it was our time to sing, the seven of us would pop up from the padded wooden benches and march to the front in our Sunday best- bows in our hair, flowery dresses, opaque white tights, patent leather Mary-janes, and a bow tie for my cousin Zach who was the only boy. The cathedral-high ceilings, formidable brass organ on the opposite wall, and fifty to sixty sets of eyes staring back at us were enough to evoke any number of protestations from our group of five, six, and seven-year-olds. Yet, there were no meltdowns or refusals. The piano would begin and we’d pass the mic from tiny hand to tiny hand as we sang together as a chorus of sweet little Christians.
My grandmother would be beaming with pride from the third row, in her own Sunday best- a blouse and slacks or a long dress, but rarely without shoulder pads. We didn’t always hit the perfect pitch, but all of us cousins were good enough to make her proud and she relished having her grandchildren in the spotlight for all her friends to see.
There’s something about watching your loved ones partake in something you hold dear- it may be one of the greatest feelings in life. I didn’t understand it then, but I’ve watched this happen with my dad and his grandsons too. Getting to watch them play football, a sport he played and adored, brings him immeasurable joy. No matter how they do, he is so happy just to be there. I think my grandmother felt the same. After all, she herself had the voice of an angel and would often grace the congregation with her beautiful gift. To this day, we still sing grace, in rounds if we have enough people, before any big meal, even though she passed away nearly 15 years ago.
So when my sister, Kelly, was feeling like she wanted to find a creative outlet for herself in her mid-thirties, I suggested she find a place to sing in a chorus. She liked the idea but wasn’t sure where to find a choir she could join. A few weeks later I was looking through my local newspaper and saw an ad that caught my eye:
“All voices welcome! Come sing with us!”
The South Burlington Community Chorus was singing Handel’s Messiah for the holiday season and rehearsals were starting the following week. I took a photo with my phone and texted her.
“I’ll try it with you if you want,” I offered.
Aside from the occasional karaoke night, I hadn’t sang in front of a crowd since my days in high school musicals, so I wasn’t especially keen. But I thought she might have a hard time going alone for the first time.
Her response was immediate, “Yes! Let’s do it.” She and I both knew I was doing it for her.
As I stood in my front hall waiting for Kelly to pick me up for our first rehearsal, I checked my bag for everything I might need- water bottle, pencil, chapstick- and I could feel myself recoiling at the uncomfortable feelings of trying something new. We were leaving a bit early because rehearsals were to take place at the local high school and we had never been inside it before. What kind of people were in a community choir anyway? I certainly had never heard of anyone I knew joining one. Did I even remember how to sing with a choir? As a freshman in high school I had taken chorus, but that was over 25 years ago, and my director had let me know I wasn’t the best at harmonizing. Still, I knew I had inherited a decent voice, but I couldn’t help but wonder what the rest of the people would be like.
As we found our way into the high school, friendly greeters pointed us toward the music room, easing my nerves ever-so-slightly. We chose two seats off to the side, so as not to take anyone’s normal spot. People all around us were catching up with old friends and making small talk with what felt like acquaintances. Some of them graciously introduced themselves to us, some kept quiet, sipping their colorful water bottles and getting settled in the navy plastic chairs that sat in layers in the stepped-up choir room.
With my canvas bag tucked at my feet, I began to scan the room like a nervous rabbit in a dangerously open field. The men, sitting across the room in what I presumed to be the tenor and bass sections, were mostly greying, likely in their 60s and 70s. Many of the women followed suit, with the exception of a few in their mid-twenties who seemed a bit quirky, with red and purple dyed hair, wearing comfy pants that could have been pajamas. Being in our late thirties, Kelly and I were in the minority.
The director, a tall, sturdy man in his late forties sporting jeans, a white t-shirt, and a man-bun, entered the room. He had the er of a director- commanding, boisterous, and ready to begin upon his arrival. He handed out choir books with the many songs of Handel’s Messiah inside. Then he loudly instructed us on where the restrooms were located and swept both hands over his hair to pull back any strays that wouldn’t quite stay in his bun.
Seeing that he was getting ready to begin, I quickly opened the book and flipped through the 100+ pages. Oy! This was not the familiar holiday music I was hoping for and I would need to remember how to read music. Maybe I should of stuck with the flute in 6th grade.
Then he announced it was time to start, and to “Please stand.” The pianist hit the note, then the group followed the director’s lead up the scale. “See, see, see, see, see, see.” I did my best to match the notes of the piano and the person next to me, keeping my voice light, low in volume, just in case I missed a note. I didn’t need to stand out, I just wanted to not screw up.
Kelly and I exchanged a glance. She seemed to be loving it. My imposter syndrome felt heavier than ever.
As the warm-up continued, the tightness in my shoulders loosened ever-so-slightly. The people around me also felt less edgy, like we had collectively softened into the room. It even began to feel good to belt out the “see, saw, sos” in unison, as I could feel my body releasing the tension it had built up about coming here with every note. The sound of the forty people singing together was reverberating off the walls and I began to remember the power of song.
Two hours later, my sister and I left the high school and emerged into the dark chilly fall night.
“What’d you think?” she asked hopefully.
“Well,” I thought, contemplating my response. “I mean, it’s kinda fun to sing in a group again.” I continued, “But wow, those songs. They are really complicated!”
Given my time spent in church, I thought I might recognize more of the songs. But as it turned out, only one of the songs in Handel’s Messiah was mainstream enough for me to know it- Hallelujah. The other six were completely new to me. After the warm-ups, we had begun trying to sing our parts, Kelly and I at soprano.
“Yeah,” she agreed. “These songs are not going to be easy. I was also feeling quite lost. I’m glad we had that really good girl next to you so we could follow along with her.”
“Oh my god, yes,” I agreed. “I just tried to stay with her the whole time,” I said as I opened the car door and fell into the front seat. Kelly turned to look at me.
“I’m so glad you liked it,” she paused. “Because I loved it!” she said as her eyes squinted into a beaming smile.
“Of course you did!” I laughed at her as I reached for my seatbelt in the chilly car.
“Thank you for doing this with me,” she continued. “I don’t think I would have done it without you.”
As the late fall turned to early winter, the evenings got ever chillier and our uncomfortable new hobby became a consistent weekly routine. Kelly would swing by my house to pick me up and together we would drive to the high school, find our familiar seats next to the girl who knew what she was doing, and begin with voice warm-ups. As the weeks clambered on, the director and his bun grew even more no non-sense and I did my best to keep up. The difficulty of the music still challenged me, but I only seriously contemplated quitting once.
I kept showing up until eventually in mid-December, the Holiday Concert was upon us. Our families were in attendance, friends had made an effort to come, and I was honored that they were all so excited to see us sing- something I never thought I’d do again. We were instructed to wear black, so I opted for a flowy black jumper paired with a fur shrug and my black leather Mary-jane clogs. I blew out my blonde hair, curled the ends, and pulled it back to one side with a few bobby pins. I did my best ‘stage make-up’ so as not to be washed out by the bright lights and finished it off with a warm magenta lipstick.
As Kelly and I sat backstage preparing for the two-hour long performance, I looked around to make sure no one could hear me and said,
“I was so worried about hitting all the notes and not screwing up that I spent like 5 hours yesterday singing along to the music while doing housework.”
“Nice,” she replied. “Did it help?”
“Yeah, I think so,” I said, feeling like even another 5 hours probably wouldn’t have hurt.
“I have been listening to the music on repeat too, just to get it ingrained.”
“Welp…” I tried. “I guess there is nothing left to do now but go for it!”
“Well Linds, you know what Grandpa always says ‘If you can’t sing well, SING LOUD!’”
We both laughed at that and my nerves eased a bit. My grama had the beautiful voice, but my grandpa always encouraged everyone to sing loud, no matter their ability.
“And smile!” I added, remembering the number one rule of performing on stage.
I grabbed my phone and together we took a selfie, just as the director called us to take our places. As we walked out to the stage, I thought of my Grama and all those times she had sent us up in front of the congregation to sing. I asked her to be there with me in spirit, and just the thought of her gave me the only sense of calm I’d felt all day.
As the adrenaline flushed my face and the bright lights shined down on us, I searched the bulging crowd for the faces of my two boys. I wanted to sing to them, to show them what it looked like to try my damndest at something, even though I still felt completely inadequate. That night, with my sister by side and my friends and family in the audience, I sang Handel’s Messiah for an oversold crowd. I didn’t hit every note, and I definitely came in too early a few times. But mostly, I thought of my Grama and I smiled. Because no matter how well I performed, I knew that she would be overjoyed just to see me singing again.
I left that night feeling happy to have done it, and happy it was over. It was true that I was a good enough singer and I was able to hide my imposter syndrome with my magenta lipstick and a big smile. But it never, for one second, felt easy. My sister on the other hand, loved it through and through. From rehearsals to performance, I could see the ease with which she sang and how much joy it brought her. I left that night knowing I wouldn’t be going back, but grateful to have created a memory we now shared together.
A week after the concert, I got an email from my aunt with a link to an old segment of PBS featuring the Upper Peninsula Choir performing Handel’s Messiah from 1993. I clicked the link and up popped a grainy YouTube video. I could see my grandmother front and center, in a white turtleneck, stylish black blazer with shoulder pads, and magenta lipstick. She looked effortless holding her sheet music as she sang the complicated arrangements. My aunt had no idea that Kelly and I had just performed this same piece and yet, here it was, so serendipitous. Tears welled in my eyes as it occurred to me that maybe this was her way of saying “I had been there.”
I watched her singing, with that angelic voice, the soprano part I had just spent three months struggling to perfect. I grabbed for a tissue to wipe the tears, and a smile spread across my face as the absurdity and improbability of it all felt too much to be true.
That night my grama appeared in my dream. As soon as I saw her, I could tell she was all dressed up like she was going somewhere important, wearing a stylish black blazer with gold buttons and a face full of make-up. As I approached, she beamed at me with her wide, warm smile and beautiful magenta lipstick. Without saying a word, I felt her love wrap around me in an unconditional embrace.
It wasn’t until I was driving the following day that the dream resurfaced in my mind and I began to put the pieces together. The Messiah, the PBS video, the dream, the lipstick- there was no doubt that this was her way of showing me that she had witnessed it all. I may not have been gifted with my grandmother’s singing voice and I’m pretty sure my singing career is officially in retirement, but for reasons I can’t fully explain or understand, I was put up on that stage again and again and again. In the end, I hadn’t loved performing, and yet I was still really proud of myself. It was hard, but I had done it. And knowing my grandmother was beaming from the third row made it all worth it.
Encouraging you all to sing loud this holiday season!Love,Lindsay