Seattle 97, or Poem-a-Day Project #48, or Choir

When I auditioned for the choir, I told her I was an alto. I'd been singing alto for years, like a pearl diver, always reaching for the next low note. Altos are salt-of-the-earth singers - they don't get much credit, and they don't begrudge their role in making the sopranos sound good. I never really wanted to be a soprano again. Alto parts are more complex. They create depth, texture, the working gears of any choral piece. Besides, low voices are sexier than high voices. Right?

I was glad she was a no-nonsense kind of director. I respect that. She'd do what was best for the group and the sound, and hang people's egos out to dry. Halfway through the audition, she told me "You may be an alto, but your voice is something else altogether. Try the mezzo part." I did. She nodded, pleased.

She had to talk me into singing soprano. I hadn't hit a high G since high school (which is not a very high note at all, in the scheme of things.) I had to admit she was right about my voice - it gained a solidity as it climbed, a consistency I had to work hard to achieve in my lower register.

Six, seven rehearsals into the concert season, and I was in love with being a soprano. To hell with the fact that the altos work harder - singing these lines was fun in a way I'd completely forgotten. It seemed like so much joy for so little effort. For the first time awhile, I began to take pride in what my voice could do, instead of focusing on what it couldn't. I formed a connection with the parts, looked forward to pieces that hit the "sweet spot" of my range - the two or three notes that resonate through my whole body. Those notes are higher than I've sung regularly in years.

But tonight, at rehearsal, out of nowhere, she called me to the front and asked if I'd mind singing with the altos, who needed some strength, a little oomph and chutzpah. I thought she meant one song. I was happy to visit and sing along, letting my voice bounce along the low As and Gs I hadn't sung in awhile. But when I turned back to the soprano section at the end of the piece, she asked me what I was doing. She meant to switch me permanently.

After rehearsal, I approached her nearly in tears. It had been a long and awful day (prior to rehearsal) and I knew my reaction was way out of proportion, but I stammered my way through an explanation. Her answer was simple: the altos needed a stronger, more commanding voice. Mine was one of the most versatile in the women's section. She liked the blend. Of course, if I absolutely refused, there was someone else who could do it, but she liked my sound the best...

And I've always been a choir kid. I've always valued blend and balance and the good of the group (when in choir - I enjoy a good solo and lead when I'm singing casually, no doubt). If the director thinks we sound better when I sing alto, I don't want to argue. I want the group to be the best it can be.

But I'm still crushed, little prima donna that I am. So I did what I do - I vented to friends (most of whom had far bigger and more important things on their minds) and then I went and wrote poems about it.


On Becoming an Alto
after conversations with L. Goldensher and M. P. Graham

1. Blend

When you have become accustomed
to being blossom,
the sonorous face
of the choir,
all tendril and
melody,

to make your graceful return
to being soil,
to being nurture
and bolster, all
gears and roots
and errant tricky
stones

requires a bit of a funeral.

2. The Viola Player Who Sings Soprano

When the instrument you carry
changes every chord
like a fish changes the ocean,
and the instrument built inside you
is designed to float,
can you escape your viola swimmer’s arms
and rest easy in the melody, in the descant,
in the lightest part of the music
while the lower voices make things move?

And when you have learned
to love the playful joy
of floating, face to the sun,
how do you
conjure enough desperation
to start swimming again?