In the spring of eighth grade, my mom signed me up for a children’s chorus that met once a week at my school. I had always liked singing growing up, but for whatever reason I really didn’t want to go. I was really socially awkward at that point. Think short pants and a penchant for saying things that made other people uncomfortable. I still remember what the chorus room looked like. The building was only a year old at the time, with sparkling white walls and honey colored wooden window frames. It smelled new.

I walked into this room on a Wednesday in late September. Two rows of chairs were set up in front of a black, plastic wood piano that we sometimes messed around on during school. The director, Susan, was my teacher’s wife; a tiny, saucy woman with a straight white bob and bangs. Her voice was far from musical. It had a scratchy, twangy quality that matched pitch but sounded like she had a whispering cold. She was electric. A few of my friends were in the chorus as well, and they were pretty much the only reason I had agreed to go. The music we were learning was some of the strangest I had ever heard. One song discussed the role of oxytocin in prairie vole pair bonding while another meditated about the effect of love on burros. I have the poster from the concert in my room. I didn’t realize it at the time, but it has a photograph of mating jellyfish on it.

After the first few rehearsals came and went, I remember having a conversation with my mom.

“Mom, this is the dumbest thing I’ve ever done. The songs we’re singing aren’t even normal.”

“What kinds of songs are they?”

“Just some really weird ones! Do I seriously have to keep doing it?”

“Just give it a chance!”

“But I have…”

“Just try.”
I ended up making some really lovely friends in that chorus. For example, Lisa was a girl from another school. She had short blond hair, and her skin always looked weird and patchy, but she made me laugh. Kelly, another girl, went to school with Lisa. I was jealous of Kelly’s golden brown skin and dark eyelashes. Then there were Maeve and Michaela, a pair of best friends who I went to school with. Maeve was totally insane and fun, and Michaela’s choice in clothing was inspiring.

Rehearsals came and went, and we started to get ready for the concert we had been promised at the end of the session. We were told that we were going to collaborate with the all-adult Brattleboro choir, something I was particularly nervous about. The first time we sang with the whole band and adult choir was at the River Garden, a meeting place in the center of town. I remember exactly how all the songs sounded. I was embarrassed by how badly my group was singing, and awed by the divine sounds coming from the adults. How round their vowels were, how tight their harmonies! It was breathtaking. I cringed upon hearing our sub-par musicianship after that. At the end of our next all-kids rehearsal, Susan pulled me aside.

“Casey, I have a big favor to ask of you.” She looked solemn.

“Okay.” I was nervous.

“Paul (the composer, also my teacher) and I have decided that the second verse of the Burro Song would sound best sung alone. Would you be up for singing it?” She smiled now. I couldn’t have been more up for it, or more terrified.

“Sure, if you need someone.” I said, trying to keep composed.

When I got home that night, I stared at myself in the mirror, squinting, opening and closing my middle school mouth, and making weird noises come out that resembled something like...
“Once in a while, a kind monk comes to his stable, and brings a pear, but more that that. He looks into the burro’s eyes and touches his ears and for a few seconds the burro is free and even starts to laugh. Because love does that.”
I refused to mess up. I never stopped practicing.

The next weeks were filled with overflowing pride and paralyzing fear. The concert was days away and I got more nervous with each sunup and sundown.

The day came. Backstage at the Latchis Theater, another performance installation in Brattleboro, we were all feeling very important. We stared at the posters on the walls of great musicians that had played there, tittering with excitement. We were about to perform for 700+ people. I almost peed my pants when Susan ushered us onstage. We had little orange chairs set up for us, and I took the one closest to the microphone so I could move when I needed to. The moment for me to sing my solo came, and all of a sudden, it felt like my throat was the Gobi desert. I thought my heart had turned into a disgruntled kangaroo. A zillion beetles were scuttling around my stomach and someone had attached me to an electric toothbrush. I was shaking more than I thought could be possible. All of a sudden, the words came flying out of me like the beetles had suddenly changed their mind and were exiting en masse. The monk brought his pear and the burro was falling in love and I felt like I was just falling and then I realized I had fallen in love with singing and I had forgotten to breathe and I sounded like I was dying and my lungs were going to burst, and this was the end of my singing career and why had I ever agreed to do this in the first...an eruption of applause slapped me in the face and I was brought back to reality, stinging with pride, my knees probably wobbling and my eyes probably cartooning around in their sockets. Yabadabadoo.

I slept soundly that night, dreaming of a future with round vowels and even tighter harmonies.

I never thanked my mom for signing me up.