You know what’s sad and funny at the same time? It’s when you discover that something you believed to be true about yourself, beyond a shadow of a doubt, isn’t true at all. It’s especially funny when that thing you believed was flattering, like a special talent you thought you naturally possessed, but, in fact, was non-existent. What’s worse is once you discover the unspeakable truth you can’t help but take inventory, remembering all the times you shared that “talent” publicly. The feedback you were getting? The smiles? That was amazement at your ill-placed self-confidence. The wincing? It wasn’t gas.
Until one tragic day in my twenties, I thought I could sing like Bette Midler and Cher and Barbra Streisand all rolled into one talent machine. I thought that if I felt good when I sang, then I must sound as good as I feel. I felt like a million bucks when I sang, and I wanted to share my joy with the world. I’m generous like that.
I sang with the church choir and the high school choir. In both cases, the choir leader was the school music teacher, Mr. Tucker. I couldn’t figure out why he didn’t like me but he sure made it obvious. He liked all of my sisters. Must be he’d heard a rumor about me but I had no idea what I had done to deserve all the dirty looks, especially in church! What bug crawled up his ass? He kept putting me off to the side on the balcony. I found out later, he was putting me on the side of his bad ear, while the rest of the choir, my five sisters, stood on his good side. Eventually, he told me he “didn’t need me.” So I climbed down the balcony stairs and joined my parents in the front pew where I sang gaily — proud and loud.
In college, I joined the St. Rose chamber choir and sang The Messiah loudly, like all the other music and voice majors. During each break, the sopranos in front of me looked all around them suspiciously. Are they trying to locate the source of bad breath? Why are they wincing so? It’s impossible to smell your own bad breath. Between singing, the sopranos kept checking each other out. “Is it you?” “It’s not me!” I didn’t want anyone thinking it was me so I started looking around, acting as if I, too, could smell the bad breath and Oh. My. God. Who ate the garlic fries! I smelled nothing but as long as I acted offended I was not suspect. Note to self: buy breath mints at college bookstore.
About the fourth or fifth break into the first piece, I figured out that the sopranos were not trying to locate the source of bad breath, but of sour notes. Someone was a little pitchy. They singled out Zenna Freese who stood in front of me. But she didn’t want to get blamed so Zenna kept turning around and looking at me. I knew it wasn’t me, so I’d look over my shoulder and glare, once I caught on that this is what we did to ward off the yelling of the irate professor who said we sang like cows in mud and then proceeded to act out a cow plodding through mud.
Someone behind me was “off” obviously and like the others in front of me, I was looking back to see who it was. Maybe they’re blushing after the muddy cow bit. They have to know it’s them. How could they not!? Who’s the idiot? I looked back a couple of times. Instead of making eye contact with the voice majors behind me who were turned to the correct page, I pretended I was just looking up at the clock on the wall to see how much longer we were going to have to sing “All We, Like Shee-ee-ee-ee-ee-ee-ee-ee-eep.”
How I figured out it was me who was pitchy is because whenever I looked back to glare at the tone-deaf evildoer, no one behind me was looking behind them to seek out the source of the sharps and flats. About halfway toward the date of the Christmas concert, I lip-synched so Zenna wouldn’t catch on that I was a fraud, guessing at what each note should sound like. I couldn’t let on that I didn’t know how to read music. I could while playing the clarinet. If the note is on the second line up I knew which fingers to use. But I didn’t know what that note should sound like without my instrument.
As the concert date approached, I was excited and I accidentally forgot to lip-synch. I sang with gusto. Again, the Zenna glare. I can’t be the only one in this music building who can’t read music, can I? I decided to defend myself. What? I glared back. I have to hear it a few dozen times to memorize the notes! A little slack here for the English major! After that year they closed the loophole that allowed non-music majors to take orchestra or choir as an elective since the rest of the music majors had to audition to get in. Although I have no evidence, I bet Zenna suggested it.
Not until I wasn’t singing in a choir, and mine was the only audible voice, did I find out I couldn’t sing for beans. A friend of mine left some studio-quality recording equipment at my apartment. I was home alone one night and decided to set up a little stage in my living room, with an Indian rug and the microphone in a stand that I adjusted to mouth height. I put Janis Joplin on the record player, listened to her through the headphones and belted out one of my favorites, Me and Bobby McGee. I sounded just like Janis Joplin. There were times I couldn’t tell if that was her or if it was me. That was until I rewound the recording. I hit play to hear how I sounded unaccompanied by the album. A tornado ripped through my soul, robbed me of all my pride and left me in complete despair. I was stunned. Shocked. Numb. I played the recording for about 40 seconds before running over to the knobs and unplugging everything, putting it all away. The microphone. The record. The rug. All of it. Gone.
The next morning in my car on the way to work the radio was playing a Springsteen song that I’d sung a hundred times before and knew every word. I started to sing along but stopped myself abruptly and turned off the music. It was the equivalent to starting off the day feeling good. Blue sky, no clouds, life is great, and then remembering that I was terminal.
My dad and I went on a cruise together in April. We were talking about all the trips our family took across country when Mom used to pull out her guitar and my five sisters, brother, mom and I sang civil right’s anthems, Pete Seeger tunes, every song on Peter, Paul and Mary’s Ten Years Together album. Some of those songs we sang in church. While I liked the choice in music, I groused about how crabby Mr. Tucker was.
My dad finally told me about the time Mr. Tucker pulled my father aside to tell him that he had had it with my shenanigans in church choir. My father asked what I was doing and Mr. Tucker said I was singing badly on purpose. My dad defended me and explained to Mr. Tucker, “No, she’s not doing it to be funny. Amy wants to sing in the worst way. That’s the only way she can.” Shortly after that my services were no longer needed up on the balcony. It was all handled very subtly. I didn’t suspect a thing. In fact I was relieved to not have to deal with Mr. Tucker giving me all those dirty looks, holding something over me about which I had no clue.
I said, “Dad, why didn’t you or mom tell me I couldn’t sing?”
He said, “We did. We encouraged you to play the clarinet.”
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