My mom tells me that I was always a talker, even before I could “talk” (or well, speak English) I would ramble in my own language. Eventually words began to form. To this day, my mother isn’t quite sure what my first word was. I’ve never let her live that down, because I’ve always hoped it was something impressively intelligent. However, I’m almost certain it was something uninspired like “mama” (certainly not “dada” as I did not grow up with a father) or perhaps some nickname I gave my bottle or blanket.
One more thing my mother knows, is that not too long thereafter, I was a singer. I especially love her story about her receiving a phone call home from my daycare teacher, complaining that I was interrupting nap-time by singing “I’m Too Sexy.” I suppose that should be embarrassing, but that’s a story I’m rather proud of. I think it’s representative of the development of my personality.
And so I sang and sang and sang. I came from a semi-musical family. My father, although I had never met him, was apparently a musical genius, but who really knows. My one uncle was the most talented one in the family because he could sing and play piano rather well. My mom and my other uncle came next. Everyone’s pursuit of music was unique, so it’s rather difficult to really rank them, but I think this is at least somewhat accurate.
And then there was me. My mom had this hunch that I would grow up to be, at the very least, a decent singer. As I got older, we would sing along to her Sarah McLachlan, Natalie Merchant and occasional Broadway cast recording CDs in her car. I would consistently soar comfortably on to the high notes, which seemed to wow my mother. The people around me were also impressed by the voice I packed for such a little kid, but they were close to me and I was comfortable singing around them.
In third grade, my music teacher encouraged me to audition for the solo in “The Christmas Song” for our annual Christmas concert, so I did and, though I was nervous and up against many other kids, I got it. She would sometimes pull me out of class for a few minutes just to go over it. She asked me to take the alternative high note at the end and I remember the janitor snooping on our practice time and complimenting me. I won the respect of my peers, even the boys, and I thought, maybe I was pretty good at this.
Then came the ever-dreaded, but equally anticipated move to middle school where there was a choir for “advanced voices” that, although the director encouraged us to audition for, 5th graders didn’t usually get in to. However, they encouraged us to show interest for the following year. I still remember that audition like it was yesterday. My mom sat down with me at the piano, every day for a week before the audition, teaching me the harmony. I wanted to audition as a soprano, but she accidentally taught me the alto part also, so when the audition came, I messed up. I couldn’t stop shaking because I was so intimidated by the directors. They played my note, I sang the part, they looked at me strange. Suddenly the look on their face turned.
“Oh! You actually just sang the alto part, but you wrote soprano 2 on your sheet. Did you mean to do that.”
“Oh. I learned them both and I guess I…”
“No big deal. Very good. Next.”
I wanted to cry. I couldn’t believe I messed up my audition that I’d practiced so much for! Until I few days later, when I found out I was one of the very few fifth graders who made the cut, but as an alto. I talked to the director after school, happy I made it, but also disappointed about my voice part.
“We don’t have enough altos,” she said. “Sometimes girls at this age have a hard time singing that low, but you have a nice range so we can use you there. Maybe you can sing soprano next year.”
The point was, I really could sing. I had a talent.
And so I spent four years in this “advanced” choir, jumping from voice part to voice part. My director moving me as she needed more coverage on another harmony line. When I got to high school, this meant singing everything from tenor to high-soprano as she needed. I was on top of the world.
As I’ve spent more and more time working on my voice, I’ve realized one thing: being good is never good enough. I loved my ability to sing almost any voice part in high school. I knew I was among the best, even as a freshman, and I loved the attention. I got more and more gratification in my little pond, until I finally ventured to be a big fish in the whole damn ocean. Then, I finally got the mouth full of salt water I deserved.
I began taking my voice other places and learned about all these things I couldn’t do. Among them included belting and riffing and sounding like something other than a classical singer. I was intrigued and challenged and downtrodden. It was a smack in the face, a rude awakening, a rock I needed to sink me back down to the bottom. I began to fight back and learn more and try to master everything. I then realized I was good at singing not just because I could naturally keep pitch and shape music, but I was willing to fight. When I knew I was willing to work to make myself better, the progress was evidence of me being “good” at something. This is where the true realization lies. Every time I feel like I cannot do something, I think about how much I have accomplished through practice in the past. It is in these moments that I feel most talented.