July 12, 2023 by Amy
A moment of music
Our Middle School choir teacher, affectionately called “JRob” by students, faculty, and staff, stopped by the MarComm offices today, answering questions we had about a new, additional role he is taking on this school year. Because I love JRob—have for years ever since he was Zoe’s advisor and I realized during a conference that he had taken the time and the care to truly know my child—I ensnared him into some chit chat before letting him leave. He’s one of those people who is fun to talk to, regardless of the context. In the course of conversation, we spoke about the ongoing renovations of the space behind the stage in Eliot Chapel, a large auditorium next to our offices. It’s being turned into a new classroom. Someone told me this morning that the main renovations were finished, so he and I, along with another colleague in my office, decided to pop back there and see how it looks.
This little exploratory field trip got the teacher to reminisce—he’s heading into his 14th year at our school—and I always love to hear these stories. I learn about how various spaces have been used over the years and, if I’m lucky, I also hear about what compelled someone to come to our school. Today, I was lucky.
One of the things he talked about was how Eliot Chapel was built for music, specifically for choir music. “That’s why the ceiling is vaulted,” he said. Reader, I’ve been at this school four-plus years and I never noticed the ceiling is vaulted. “I came here for this space.”
I am used to hearing happy Middle School meetings in Eliot Chapel, and “hot seat” interviews with teachers that result in cheering students, and raucous rock-paper-scissors tournaments. I have attended a few choir concerts in that space, sure, but I’m always photographing, working the event instead of enjoying the show. And I have no idea what makes a space perfect for vocalists. He walked through the new classroom, snapping his fingers and listening intently to the acoustics.
After our impromptu backstage tour, JRob drifted toward the front and disappeared through the long, heavy black drapes that separate the stage from the back. I followed, but before I could get through the fabric, I heard him sing a single note, and hold it. I emerged to stand beside him, looking out over the rows and rows of empty audience seats, and really seeing the vaulted ceiling for the first time. He paused to say, “Sing with me.” He began a new note. “JRob, you know I can’t sing.”
Sing with me.
He held a perfect note and I tried, and wavered. He stopped singing. “No, hold the one note. Just pick a note, and hold it.” I took a deep breath and began again, and he motioned to our colleague, now standing on his other side, who chose her own note and held it. He then joined in.
It took so much concentration to keep my note, to block out their voices and focus solely on my own. Allison smashed an ear closed, the one on our side, attempting to drown out our voices. Despite our shared love of music, neither of us considers ourselves capable of making it. The three of us stood at the edge of the stage, serenading an invisible audience, light pouring in the large windows that flank the auditorium. I saw JRob’s hand sweep up, and then make the familiar gesture to stop. I may not sing, but I’ve been to enough concerts to get what the conductor is communicating. We all ceased singing at precisely the same moment.
And our voices, the remnants of the notes we had just produced, echoed beautifully through the space, fading slowly and gently away. I could hear us, which is much different than listening to us while singing. It was magical. Otherworldly. The three of us stood in silence, two of us stunned in disbelief. My mouth hung open. I have never in my life, either alone or with others, produced a sound like that. I have screamed into canyons to hear my voice ricochet and echo around, but that was simply noise. This…this was music.
Years ago, during a parent night at school, I remember JRob, who was Zoe’s choir teacher that year, telling all of us, “Everyone can sing. Everyone.” I scoffed. I knew, in my heart of hearts, that this dear man was severely misguided. He led the parents in a little number and I did the same thing I had done in Mixed Choir freshman year of high school (I had been told it was an easy way to fulfill the arts requirement): I simply did not sing or sang somewhere between a whisper and a breeze, terrified that someone would actually hear me. A classmate and I attempted to sing a duet of Bette Midler’s The Rose for extra credit, which resulted in our hunkering over a small boom box in the front of the choir room while we competed for who could sing more softly. By the end, you could barely hear us. We got the extra credit, solely, I’m convinced, for having the balls to get up there and try, and a stern talking to by the teacher that what we were doing was most definitely not singing. My body flushes with heat today just remembering the mortification of doing that. Today, the only place I sing is in the car either alone or with M and Zoe, who are forced to hear my awful screeching that randomly jumps into different keys, especially when I try to go high. I’m pure alto, baby. I know that much, in addition to knowing not to sing in front of anyone else.
I’m not sure what happened in Eliot Chapel today could technically be called music, but it was musical and it was, dare I say, beautiful. I guess maybe JRob is right after all. Everyone can sing.
This moment, this singular, random, unplanned, unforeseen moment, reminds me of why I love this school so much. Why I love its people so much. They are creative, brilliant, and so passionate about what they do. They can show someone convinced of her own uselessness in the area of music that she can, when coached, create beautiful sound. That being part of a tiny, one-time ensemble forges bonds and builds connection, and provides a glimpse into what is possible if we set aside our fragile egos, quiet our battered self-esteem, and come together to try something new.
Sing with me.
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