I was a music performance major at a large state university. I went on full scholarship, and saw it as a step on a path I called my “master plan”. Throughout college I was always focused on the next step, and how to get there. This was the only way for me, and I stuck to it with extreme, myopic confidence. I still have some elements of this “next step” mentality, but I’ve come to see it as more of a shortcoming, and I try harder to focus on what’s right in front of me. March 27 showed me the stakes in the “next step” game.
I lived in a solitary glow.
A music performance major’s culminating experience is the senior recital, and mine was scheduled just after spring break (the actual date didn’t matter, as it wasn’t yet a defining date). All my energy went into that program for the full year beforehand. In many ways, you could say that all my efforts for four years had gone into that program. My daily independent study in the library, my daily regimen in the practice room, even my obsessive sleep patterns (8:30 bedtime except for nights when I had to attend a recital or choir rehearsal) all led to that one evening. I was so focused, I never allowed myself time to do things that most other college students would think were fun. I never attended a single college party. I think that single sentence is the most economical way to make my point, and should let you infer the rest. I lived in a solitary glow, whether eating three meals a day, practicing, or enjoying my favorite television programs. I wanted it that way. I had every opportunity that other students had, and believe I could have changed the course of the ship at any point, had I wanted to. But I didn’t want to. My master plan didn’t allow for the variables inherent in human companionship; the introduction of too many potentials forks in the road.
I remember only a few things about the day of March 27. I visited the recital hall to see that the chairs were set up. I did a bit of vocalizing in the room, to see how my voice felt that day. I probably contacted my parents to tell them when to arrive, where to park, and so on. At no point did I tell myself, you are about to fall off your path, your master plan can’t sustain what you are about to experience. I wouldn’t have wanted to know that as I made final preparations on a recital program which was far too ambitious for my years.
“I don’t want to leave.”
I also remember only a few things about the night of March 27. I sang a 66-minute recital of Lieder, oratorio, and opera. Just prior to my encore, I remember getting a laugh from the audience when I exclaimed “Well, I don’t want to leave…” but I’ve never given substantial thought to what was meant by that. In the moment I didn’t want to leave the stage, the thrill of performing live music from memory, with an accompanist who also had the full program memorized. We both had soared together that hour; maybe I wanted to see who would crack first. Obviously, I didn’t want to leave college. I hadn’t finished all the books in the music library, and there were so many more songs to learn.
But, having stared into the audience for the full program, some part of me knew that I was also about to leave my master plan, and I wasn’t sure if I was ready. The reason was there in front of me, as it had been for three years, if I’d only opened my eyes.
My college was a commuter college. Students who lived on campus frequently went home for the weekend, and those who stayed on campus would party on weekend nights. In planning my recital for a Saturday night, I had guaranteed that a small number of students would show up. Vocal music was mostly out of the spotlight there, and I wasn’t sure I wanted many people to see me perform. It was rare that I would even vocalize in front of others, in spite of my chosen major: music performance. I loved to perform, and felt comfortable singing alone on stage, but always wondered a bit what people would think if they saw me up there. I don’t know why I was shy about it. But, by singing on a Saturday night, I ensured that a very small number of students would attend, and that they’d likely be attending only to meet their ten recital quota for the semester’s 0.0 credit hour course, “Recital Attendance”.
But one attendee didn’t need ten recitals under her belt. She had recently transferred to a BA program, which didn’t have the same requirements. This attendee, in fact, had no reason to be in town that night, as she went home on weekends in order to work in her hometown. This attendee didn’t own a car or have a license, and needed to arrange commuter rail and taxi transportation to get there, laundry bag in tow. This attendee chose to attend my recital, and I knew all these things, since she had been a choir friend since my sophomore year.
This was my best choir friend.
A choir friend is quite different than a friend. It’s someone you see everyday, sing beside, bear your soul through the printed word beside, and entertain with wry remarks between the notes. And there, that evening, I realized this was my best choir friend. This was someone whom I’d lose in six weeks, if I didn’t make a choice. Because, choir friends don’t necessarily port over when you level-up. Friends do, but choir friends do not. And this all became very clear that night.