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update from sparkleup

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Madison Scott-Clary 2020-10-22 00:05:12 +00:00
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writing/sonata/choir.html
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<p>It was work, I do not mean to minimize that. I would scribble notes in the music, and stammer, and get sick, and never, ever drink enough water. I would have bad days. I would hate my conductors. I would refuse to practice. I would plug my ears. I would blast <em>Alamaailman Vasarat</em> rather than listen to choir music. I would curse the alarm waking me up for the before-school sectionals.</p>
<p>But it always came so very, very easy to me.</p>
<p>I flowed through the years of choir languidly. I flowed from choir to choir. Freshman choir. Sophomore year: the show choir and the madrigal choir. Concert and madrigal the next year. Concert and jazz my senior year. I flowed from one to the next with an effortless ease that maddened at least one of my friends. Maddened more, I&rsquo;m sure.</p>
<p>Our freshman choir had particularly disgusting outfits, with the tenors and basses wearing white tuxedos &mdash; just the jackets were white mind; still black pants, still a white shirt &mdash; and the sopranos and altos Pepto-bismol pink dresses. There was nothing to be enjoyed about either, and yet there was no small amount of pride that went along with the outfit. Going up those stairs in the room that served as both orchestra and theater practice room, the stairs in the back that led up into some secret attic space, wandering among the stage production outfits there and the countless racks of tuxes and dresses for the choirs. It was a secret space. Hushed. There was a sensation of conducting some illicit deal up there. Head up the stairs, walk past three racks and turn right, whisper your outfit size, collect your package, go home.</p>
<p>I remember showing my outfit to my step dad. I didn&rsquo;t know that he and my mom were more than on the outs with each other, but that they were in the early stages of getting a divorce. But I remember putting on my outfit when I got home and coming into his office to show him and getting an eye-roll and a that&rsquo;s-nice and feeling vaguely let down, like perhaps this thing that I was newly excited about was somehow a bad joke. It was a thing that children did, or that was unbecoming of our station, below our pay grade. I don&rsquo;t even know what he thought.</p>
<p>All I thought was that, yes, this is silly, but here I have discovered something magic, a little secret, a hidden smile he could not see. I could sing and my feet would lift an inch off the ground, my backside an inch off the chair I practiced in.</p>
<p>I went back to my room knowing that him urging me toward karate was me brushing up against this new form of control, but that me finding choir was some form of mastery that he could never attain. And me a beginner! </p>
<p>I took off my outfit and put it up on the hanger in my closet.</p>
<p>I don&rsquo;t know that he ever saw it again. I know he never made it to any of my concerts, of course, but I also don&rsquo;t remember whether or not we were even living with him by the time my first concert rolled around. Maybe?</p>
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<p>Page generated on 2020-10-16</p>
<p>Page generated on 2020-10-21</p>
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writing/sonata/index.html
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</li>
<li>Recapitulation</li>
<li>Coda</li>
</ul>
<h3 id="notes">Notes</h3>
<ul>
<li>Gender should never play a role, if at all possible.</li>
</ul>
</article>
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<p>Page generated on 2020-10-16</p>
<p>Page generated on 2020-10-21</p>
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