When I was eight, the director of a county children's choir gave a presentation about his group to my music class in school. He played an excerpt of a video of one of their performances, and I was hooked. I sat on the classroom floor, watching the old television, enthralled as the choir sang in black dresses and tuxedos, packed together on risers. The music from the small speakers filled the room. The director declared, "This is a choir for people who love music." As a child, I knew that I loved music at that moment. That choir was for me. I needed to audition.
I loved singing and wanted to immerse myself in music. During my audition, I stood in front of the piano singing "Frère Jacques" and "My Country 'Tis of Thee." This was my first time auditioning for a group, and I hadn't yet learned how to introduce myself to the panel or even where to look, so I looked up at the corner where the wall met the ceiling while I sang.
After I completed the last scale of my audition, I held my breath. Still at the front of the room, I mustered the courage to make eye contact with the director. He smiled: "You made it." I was elated. In hindsight, I was terrified of the audition. This was the first time I had confronted a conflict in my relationship with music, dissonances drawn between love and fear, happiness and anxiety.
Being in the county choir was the first time I had studied and performed music. I spent five years in this choir, from fourth grade until my first year of high school. I enjoyed the long rehearsals and difficult repertoire that we would spend hours reviewing. The coordinated voices in that choir made beautiful art, and my love for music deepened. Each year, I auditioned to remain in the choir and to move up to a higher skill level.
In my first year of high school, I auditioned for the highest level of the choir. Having prepared for weeks, I achieved a score that would normally be high enough to move up, but I was not promoted. I would have to remain in the lower level of the choir. I was devastated; it felt so unfair. I ultimately decided to leave the county choir and join a school choir instead. Still, I felt as though I had lost a piece of my identity. Looking back, I still don't know why I wasn't accepted into the higher level of the choir, even though I met the benchmark. I don't believe that it was due to a problem with my audition.
This negative experience has had a lasting impact on how I define my self-worth. I still find auditions and the process of being judged very stressful. I don't get nervous speaking in front of a crowd, and I enjoy performing for an audience, but auditioning in front of a panel is a different experience. It puts me into a vulnerable position, empowering someone else to provide the sole answer to a series of important questions: Am I good? Do I have value as a singer? Is my love for music unrequited? Although I remained involved in music through my high school's choir, it was not as rigorous as I desired. I worried that music would become something I did in the past. I felt as though I had failed to prove myself, and my self-confidence began to spiral. Then my school choir teacher, Mrs. Magnolia, encouraged me to audition for Western Region, the highly competitive district choir.
The audition for Western Region was a cold, November morning. I sat in the passenger seat of my grandma's car, staring out the window at the snow on the edge of the road as we drove to my audition thirty minutes away in Ridgefield, Connecticut. I fiddled with my binder: opening it, reading my music, and re-adjusting the plastic cover. My hands shook as I opened the page to the Italian aria "Già il Sole dal Gange" assigned to altos for the audition. I had prepared, learning the Italian lyrics, reviewing sight-reading techniques, and practicing scales, but I was self-trained and nervous about singing in front of a judge once more. Will I make it? Am I good enough? As we pulled into Ridgefield High School, I could see other students, my competition, carrying binders and instruments into the school to audition. My grandma dropped me off at the front, and I took a deep breath, and I got in line to check in.
The hallway was familiar, much like every other public school hallway. There were large, light-grey tiles on the floor, and tan lockers lining the hallway walls. And of course, there were other students. We warmed up in the cafeteria, which buzzed with music and emotions, resembling a beehive. Violins flourished, and cellos hummed while singers huddled in the corners of the room trying to find good acoustics. I walked toward the back of the room, holding my head high despite anxiety crawling its way to the front of my mind. After warming up, I stood next to my audition room for two hours, waiting to be called in. The girls who auditioned before me struggled; one even left the hall crying to her parents about the sight-reading portion of the audition. I inhaled, shifted in my leather boots and lucky pink corduroy pants, and tried to recall Mrs. Magnolia's advice.
Mrs. Magnolia describes a good vocal audition as singing like a duck swims. Above the surface, everything is calm, and the music floats along gracefully, with a smile on my face. But the audience cannot see below the surface, where webbed feet churn the water. While performing, I think ahead, worrying about rhythms and breath control. Yet, it is below the surface where I worry about how the panel of judges perceives me. In a good audition, what is meant to stay below the surface stays below the waterline.
In the audition room, I tried to harness the image of a graceful duck. Internally, I focused on the music and my breathwork. I was nervous, but I did not let it show. "Già il sole dal gange, già il sole dal gange, Più chiaro sfavilla," I sang, which translates as: "Already the sun from the east, already the sun from the east, it shines brighter." I smiled while trying to maintain my breath support for the end of the phrase. I took a catch-breath and continued. Anxiety weaved itself into the music, yet I continued to glide above the surface. I deepened my breath and continued my next measure with more power in my voice.
"E terge ogni stilla dell'alba che piange," I sang, covering my shaky hands by placing my fingertips along the seams of my corduroys. I hoped the churning water wouldn't reach the surface. Readying myself to transition into the chorus once more, I remembered to maintain stage presence. Remembering prior negative feedback from a judge that I didn't appear happy enough while performing "Caro mio ben", I smiled, tapped my foot, and prepared to crescendo with a deep breath. "And wipes away every drop of the crying dawn."
"Already the sun from the east, it shines brighter." I learned a month later that I was accepted into Western Region. That year, I was also accepted into All-State, Connecticut's statewide choir. After this audition, I felt as if I had proved myself. For me, part of my love for music had become more than just music itself. It was a way to judge how I felt about myself compared to others. For a time, my interest had been in achievement rather than in music itself. It had been a quest for self-worth and external validation.
Three years later, I sang "When the day that lies ahead of me seems impossible to face" quietly backstage as I waited for my last show as a senior in high school to begin. I can hear my performance of "Lovely Day" with such clarity that it feels as if it happened only yesterday. I was waiting behind the stage at Fairfield Theater Company as other members of my group warmed up and prepared to go onstage. I tried to recall my entrances and the lyrics to my arrangement of "Lovely Day." Usually, it is in these moments before a show where nerves loom heavy like an unwelcome, condescending guest. I glanced at the deep purple door, beyond which I could hear a crowd chattering and finding their seats.
As I waited to go onstage to perform the arrangement I had spent months writing, I remembered that moment as an eight-year-old, absolutely terrified during my audition. I recalled auditioning for Western Region and my desire for the judges' approval. After reflecting on years of auditioning, performing, and singing, I have realized that I sing differently when no one can hear and I'm certain I'm not being judged. The waterline disappears, and my emotions mix with music. I sing without inhibition, thinking about the music rather than my audience. This is my truest state.
I have never truly erased the distinction between the voice I use in auditions and my true voice. Music is often performative, done for the audience's pleasure or the judges' approval. My voice, a crucial part of my identity, was often altered to fit conventions and standards. Rather than worry about whether I am good enough, I aim to develop my ability to navigate my own path, even in churning waters. I hope to carry this lesson into my future, with singing and beyond. How I sing and how I act when I feel judged are different from how I behave in a less stressful environment. This is my waterline: a barrier between myself and my presentation of self.
While onstage at Fairfield Theater Company, I looked out to my audience, took a deep breath, and tried to allow my waterline to fade before singing my final measure. I was less afraid of judgment, and I sang more freely: "And I know it's gonna be . . . a lovely day."
Works Cited
Withers, Bill. “Lovely Day.” Menagerie, Columbia Records, 1977.
Discussion Questions
1) The essay begins with the writer's first choir audition and ends with her final high school performance. How does the writer use scenes, memories, song lyrics, and reflection to transform a series of musical experiences into a larger narrative about identity and growth?
2) The writer's love of music motivates many of the experiences she describes, but music also becomes tied to achievement and self-worth. How does the essay explore the tension between loving an activity and seeking validation through it?
3) The writer ultimately concludes that "the waterline disappears" when she sings without fear of judgment. What does the essay suggest about the costs and benefits of adapting ourselves to the expectations of others? Is it ever possible to perform without a waterline?
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