on singing

The following personal essay was written for Columbia University’s undergraduate application for admission in Fall 2006.

I finally thought of an essay idea for Columbia. I think it’s pretty good, although odd. The beginning is from an earlier entry from when I felt very low upon receiving the news that I had not been accepted to Penn early decision. [1] The question sucked: Write an essay which conveys to the reader a sense of who you are…

I like walking on ice patches. I know this is stupid, because sometimes the friction at the bottom of my boots don’t provide enough force to keep me perfectly stable, and I wobble, so I must flail my arms to find my centre of mass again to keep my balance. Yet I do it anyway, because of the thrill and the risk; and again, I know this is stupid, because one time I will ultimately fall on my butt or dislocate my shoulder.

Such is the case with singing.

I will never be a Broadway star, nor an opera singer. My only possible path to superstardom is if Suzanne Vega wanted a backup singer—I can harmonize, but I can’t belt. In my entire career in school choirs, I couldn’t even acquire a one-line solo. This stopped bothering me long ago, because I traded voice lessons for piano lessons when I was 12, and both were too expensive. The best quality to my voice is its precision and clarity, not a jarring vibrato or a soulful edge. I can sing on key, follow dynamics, and sing multiple voice parts (though not all at once!). And most importantly, my voice has the ability to blend well with those of others. So, while the best role I’ve gotten in a school musical is an ensemble member, I’ve been in the select choir and the women’s choir all four years of high school.

The lack of a voice teacher wouldn’t stop me from trying for those solos, those lead roles, or those spots in the regional and state choirs. It also wouldn’t stop me from trying to improve, either. After every shaky note, every failed audition, every slippery ice patch, and every terrible, no good, very bad day, I would muster some composure and approach the only music instructor I knew—my choral director—and ask her what I could do to succeed next time, since there was always a next time. Though hasty 20-minute lunch breaks don’t replace the focused insight of a private voice teacher, it was all I had. Resilience, not distance, makes the heart grow fonder.

The first triumph I had was when I made the Central Jersey Music Educator’s Association Region II Chorus my sophomore year, after an initial failed attempt. The trick to succeeding at these auditions, I learned, was not jarring vibratos or soulful edges, but rather, singing on key and following dynamics. And even so, that only made up about 20% of the audition—the other 80% was trying to keep your heart from leaping out of your chest and calming yourself down enough to sing coherently. Those who had conquered their nerves conquered the competition. After I made it the next two years, my choral director thought I should take a shot at New Jersey’s All-State Choir—no easy feat, especially for a soprano.

When you audition for All-State, you audition for membership during the following school year. The first time I tried out, I was a sophomore seeking membership my junior year, so it didn’t affect me profoundly when I found out I didn’t make the cut. There was next year—next time. There was always a next time. Except when I auditioned my junior year for membership my senior year, there would be no next time.

It would have been nice to say I succeeded—that I went out with a bang. After all those failed attempts for the spotlight, the falls on my butt, always the accompanist and never the star, etc, etc, I would have felt a sense of resounding peace if I could be in All-State my senior year. I could say, “Hey, I’ve never gotten a lead role in a musical or even a solo, but I made All-State—you can, too!” Yes, yes, that would have been nice. Instead, I got to say, “I know I’m good, perhaps above average, but never good enough, never best.” Lack of formal training aside, I’d made it this far—only to find out that, despite my continued efforts, I tripped, fell, and could go no further.

My friend [2] shared this quote with me after I told her about my terrible, no good, very bad audition. I read it, smiled, and taped it to my desk so I could read it whenever I encountered a particularly nasty ice patch and fell down again:

How often I’ve been put to test
To make the best of second best
Only one day to wake and see
That second best was best for me

It just goes to show, again, that I know walking on ice patches is stupid. I don’t know if my audition was a wobble or a fall, but I still felt bruised days later. Some people stay down after falling, wallowing in their own self-pity and generally making life miserable for those around them. Others pick themselves up, brush away the dust on their clothes, and keep walking. I’d like to think of myself as the latter sort. Singing will always be a part of my life, All-State pin or no. I might never be Cosette in Les Misérables, but I’d be the best darn Woman #2 people will ever hear. So I got up, and a few months later I tacked on my own verse:

I’ve traded diligence for rest
To improve upon my second best
And later found that I could be
The very best at being me

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1 I did eventually get accepted to Penn regular decision.
2 I had gotten this from my friend, Whit.