“Did you live under a rock?” I was often asked this question
throughout my childhood when I didn’t know who all the ditsy teenage TV stars
and pop singers were. People knew me as “quiet” or “shy” and asked me why I
didn’t talk more. I would usually smile sweetly and mutter something like, “I
don’t have much to say.” In reality, a sassy voice in my head would retort, “Well,
if you would shut your mouth for more
than a few seconds at a time, maybe others would have a chance to say
something.” But my mom always quoted Thumper from Disney’s “Bambi” movie: “If
you can’t say something nice, don’t say nothing at all.” I’ve attempted to hold
to this quote steadily throughout my life; I’ve decided it’s usually best that
my voice is not heard unless what comes from it is positive and uplifting to
others.
Since I am not especially excellent with words, my voice is
usually the most uplifting when it is being used for song. Singing has been a
lifelong love of mine (my parents confirmed that I sang since the day I could
speak), but with such a small voice, nobody could hear me if they stood further
than five feet away from me. I desperately wanted to know how to beautifully project
my voice while singing, but was so shy about my singing voice that I thought it
would become a reality. Then, when I was fourteen, I was asked to sing the
Christmas Eve solo.
The solo was the first verse of the hymn “Once in Royal
David’s City,” and we sang it every year. I knew the song well, so I made the mistake
of putting off practice. With barely any preparation, I stood in front of the
congregation on Christmas Eve, exposed and frightened. That first verse was a
replica of my reoccurring nightmares. Three hundred expectant faces stared at
me as the organist began to crawl through the introduction. I didn’t have the
chance to practice with him beforehand, and his pace was painfully slow. I
began the verse, and my whole body and voice shook like an earthquake. The
tempo was so slow that I ran out of breath halfway through a simple phrase in
the song. I panicked and proceeded to squeak the highest note
of the verse and then run out of breath again. Since this song was so familiar
to me, I felt like I was stumbling through the house I grew up in, but in pitch
darkness. I knew it so well, but I was not prepared with a light as my tool to
venture through. Subconsciously, I was hoping the ground would open up and swallow
me then.
My first performance portrayed otherwise, but I knew that I was
completely capable of singing well. And I knew I could train myself to prove
that through future solos. My first solo was a catastrophe, but it was also the
beginning of a deeper love for singing than I ever had before. That was the
night when I found my voice.
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