Do Not Enter

Three years ago I had a disastrous encounter with a maestro who shall not be named.  It would not be a stretch to say that there were elements of trauma to that evening.  Before you go any further, you should probably read the amusing, but heart-wrenching account of my first audition experience in Casablanca.

Now, three years later, I did the unthinkable thing, and repeated the experience.  Same never-ending round-about.  Same obscure church entrance.  Same ghastly maestro.  Same everything.  But not the same me.

 Let’s compare.

One: The telephone — Last time someone else set up the audition for me.  This time, I made the phone call myself.  In French. With ease.

Two: Transportation — Last time I took a taxi. This time I drove.  Last time I didn’t own a car.  This time I did.  Last time I was terrified to drive.  This time I wasn’t.  Last time I couldn’t have parallel parked.  This time, I did, with just a tiny bit of moral support from the parking guy, who said, “You can do it! You just need to be more confident!” (Seriously, that’s what he said.  Parking therapy for a flat rate of 30 cents a day…)

Three: Navigation — Last time, I showed up twenty minutes early and then wandered in ever-widening circles for a full hour looking for a church that is not a church.  This time, I knew immediately where to go.  Last time, I couldn’t ask for directions.  This time, I asked the guardian for the entrance to the choir room, and he escorted me there.  Last time, I was the Very. Last. Audition.  This year, I was the Very. First.

Four: Conversation — Last time, I could not talk to the ghastly maestro.  She did not even attempt to reject me in person.  She did it later, through a bilingual intermediary.  This time, I showed up with a smile.  I shook her hand.  I told her about myself.  It was easy. Easy!I did not have to apologize for myself.  I did not have to grunt or wave my arms about.  I could talk.

Five: Preparation — Last time, I had absolutely nothing prepared.  Nothing. I sang the same pathetic children’s songs over and over because I could not find any other music in my overtaxed brain. This time, I prepared music in Arabic, Latin, and French.  I accompanied myself.  I was ready, and I knew it.

Six: Vocalization — Well, this is the one variable that hasn’t changed.  I have never had a perfect voice.  BUT, I am (I think) an excellent chorister.  I learn my music.  I sight-read reasonably well.  I can pick apart the harmonic structure of a piece like nobody’s business.  I can situate the repertoire in its historical and social context.  I am expressive.  I feel music in powerful ways.  I am reflective.  I think about what it means to be in a choir, and the connection between the singers and their songs.  I am relational.  I think about how I can best integrate socially into the choir.  I want to be friends with my fellow altos.  I want to draw others in.  I am productive.  I use my abilities to contribute to the group outside of our regular rehearsal time.  I am organized.  I am dedicated.  I am keen. And I am determined.

But, like I said, I do not have a perfect voice, and “keen” was not enough for Madam Maestro.

“Military Zone: Do Not Enter”

Seven: Resilience — Three years ago, rejection was not okay.  My pride was wounded, my self-esteem was shattered, I cried the whole way home, I was a mess.  Today, it was okay.  I mean, it really was.  I did not meet her standard (“You have some work to do this year,” she said), and then I smiled.  “Do you know of anyone who could give me lessons?” She did not.  “Can I re-audition later in the year?” I could not.  “Can I come and listen to the rehearsals?” I could not.  “Do you know of any other French choirs in Casablanca?” I asked.  She mentioned a few names.  “Thanks so much!”  I shook her hand.  I thought, “She’s really not so ghastly after all.”  I smiled again.  And I walked out to my car, smiled at the parking guy, and had a flawless drive home.

As I drove, I made a list of all the little victories that this evening represents, and I realized that, with the exception of the driving, every other success was directly linked to my ability to speak the language.  I have notbeen taking voice lessons for the last three years, but I havebeen studying French like a madwoman.  The progress is where the work is.  And the work paid off.  I can communicate.

So what’s next? What does perseverance look like in this situation?

Well, I’ve just signed up for the online course that will certify me to teach FSL (French as a Second Language) in Ontario. It doesn’t start until October, and I’m ticked off, because I want to start right now.  This very minute.

And musically? I don’t know.  Maybe I will check out some of the music schools in Casa and see if any offer a French choir.  Maybe I will go back to my Arabic choir.  Maybe I will take private lessons, or join a band!  Maybe I will do none of those things.  And that’s okay, too.

Because I know who I am now.  I know that Madam Maestro is missing out on a top-notch chorister because she did not take the time to really listen to me.  I know that ability is a spectrum, that life is not Pass/Fail, and that learning is always, always, always an option.  The question is not, “Can I do this?” but “Where will I focus my energies right now? What are my priorities? What will bring me joy?”

I am buoyant —buoyant!– to have toyed with success and failure tonight.  I had the courage to try again.  I am intact.  I am flourishing.  And I will have Wednesday nights free, all year long, to settle fully into this new, confident self that I am becoming.  What a wonderful thing it is to be capable of growth.

“All Directions” lead to growth!