Untouchable
“Next up is number three, Baker.” My voice trembled
attempting to speak. “It’s Becker, from Manitou,” I replied, groping for my
name card to legitimize my complaint. “Oh,” he responded, uninterested and
resigned. I took a step into the room that would hold my future captive.
“Augmented triad,” he instructed under his breath. I
expanded my stomach muscles and began to sing. He looked at me through crystal
clear bifocals, his ears tuning in to every fluctuation in my voice. Those
spectacles continued to seize me up, determining whether or not I was suited
for his choir. The choir. The rules forbid him from offering verbal critique,
but this rule proved unnecessary; his eyebrows offered me a glimpse into his
mind. One elevated eyebrow meant that my diction seemed spot on or that my
intervals were pleasing. Two elevated eyebrows indicated that I probably should
never have come into the room.
My audition for the Colorado 2011 All-State Choir took
place on October 10th, 2010. About five years ago, I promised myself
that I would claim a spot in that chorus of four hundred boys and girls whose
lives also revolved around vocal music. Once the time had approached, however,
I felt an overwhelming feeling of self-doubt. Some of the greatest young
singers I had known at the time would
return from their All-State audition rejected and defeated. My chances seemed
slim, but a voice within my intercostal muscles must have influenced my heart
otherwise; on October 10th, I took my sheet music for “Caro Mio Ben”
and my second soprano voice to Wasson High School for a rendezvous with fate.
The bright, yellow audition card taunted me. Three short
weeks after the dreaded audition, the results were delivered, placed directly
on the obnoxious, yellow card I had received the night of my audition. Only one
number existed in my mind, for it determined my involvement in the greatest
possible choir I could partake in. I desperately longed for the number eighty
to receive consideration.
“Every year I’ve been a teacher at Manitou,” Mrs. Astley
began, “I’ve always had one student go to All-State. So, Becker, you better
represent us next year, okay, honey?”
My heart sank below the boards of the piano. My chance
had come and gone. Never in my life had I felt like such a loser.
She continued, “Because you’re going to have a ton of fun
this year!” My eyes widened as I began to instantly cry with joy, for I had
succeed in the one, true goal I had set for myself. The rest of the choir
clapped in appreciation, and I quickly covered up my mascara-stained, blotchy
face. I soon realized that the man who judged me, the man with the bifocals, he
knew I would make a place in the choir from the moment I left his room. Mrs.
Astley handed over my audition card; I received a score of eighty-eight. I
cried more.
Between
the months of November and February, I religiously rehearsed my choral music,
seven pieces consisting of three spirituals, one piece in gibberish, two a
capella six-parts, and one
piece in Latin. Stress
took control over my mind, for I could not focus on school work, other choral
pieces, or even my family. Preparation for All-State destroyed my social life
(what little of one I possessed to begin with), caused many arguments with my
parents, and demoted my self-esteem. Numerous times I buckled underneath the
pressure, convincing myself that I had gotten myself into an uncontrollable
mess.
“Let’s take it from measure forty-seven, Conversion of
Saul.” A woman in an evergreen sweater politely pointed out where to commence
my singing. The second stage of the audition process proved far less a
stressor, although hundreds of students still lined the halls of the Denver
Convention Center practicing their scaled and triads. I felt confident, though.
My preparation and memorization had paid off, and the second stage breezed by.
“Welcome to All-State,” the woman congratulated me, shaking my hand. Beaming
like an idiot, I thanked her profusely. I walked out of an audition room for
the second time not knowing the future of the circumstance, but gathering some
satisfaction in the mere fact that I had taken a step out of my bubble to leap
for a goal that seemed untouchable.
All-State Choir remains in my mind as the matchless,
unparalleled experience of my young life. When the ground shook from the
massive vibrato of four hundred students, I cried. When the choir sung, “let
them look up and see no longer me, but only You,” from “Prayer”, I cried. When
our director, Dr. Lee Nelson, shed tears due to our inexplicable harmonies and
decrescendos, I cried. I probably lost five pounds in shear water weight that
weekend. But I will never forget any
moment. Sometimes I feel haunted by the fact that I nearly neglected to
audition for the choir, that my fear of failure almost overtook my love for
music.
In the midst of fear of failure and fear of diminished
dignity, I took a step off the edge, an action I truly have never done before.
My conservative ways perpetually kept me within my comfort zone. Despite the
disbelief of my success, I still approached a foreign idea and took control of
it, rather than it taking control over me. Had I not gone to All-State, I would
not know the capacity of my love for music; because of that weekend, I now
strive to complete the educational requirements of a choral conductor. I now
have the ability to decipher a piece bit by bit, leaving no extraneous detail
behind. I feel more complete as a person; thee hilarious fact is, I feel more
“dangerous” now because I deem myself a “closet risk-taker.” Gaining the
courage to go after something that seemed uncertain or even impossible altered
my life in the most radical way. I reaped the benefits of simply trying, and I
learned to touch the untouchable.
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