Loud and Clear

 

Back in the 1980s, the Rainbow Kids were one of the most energetic youth choirs in the Brownstown area. Singing from Liberty Christian Church in Sefton Township, we performed multiple shows a year, from Easter skits to VBS round ups to an occasional old school hymn, just to keep the Golden Years crowd in their pews.

The big event, however, was always our annual Christmas pageant.

The Christmas pageant took months of preparation, requiring costumes, props and, of course, intense rehearsals. I was one of the few boys in the group and also one of the oldest, and so I was often cast as a wise man or a chattier shepherd. (Joseph knew to keep his mouth shut around a sleeping baby, I guess, so that role was often given to younger boys who could hold a cane for twenty minutes without walking off stage to look for their parents.)

For most of my childhood a Rainbow Kids performance was just part of my life, as natural as any other date on the ecclesiastical calendar. Whereas some of the kids performed with a sense of dread, I kind of liked it. I didn’t mind memorizing the lines, for example, and although I did get nervous, the adrenaline that came with the performance balanced it all out. I especially liked it when a congregant would approach me after the performance to tell me how well I had articulated my lines; how loud and clear my voice sounded in the church.

So, when the day came one fall when the director told me she had a part that would be perfect for me, who was I to argue? I was a fifth grader now, nearing the end of a long and illustrious Rainbow Kids career. Now was the time for my grade school swan song.

This role, however, came with an unexpected twist - a solo! Not only would I be expected to perform standard Nativity-themed dialogue, I would also be singing part of the story in verse. My heart dropped. Sure, I could sing as part of an ensemble - which often meant very clumsy lip synching - but the idea of carrying a tune all by myself was horrifying.

“You’re a shepherd, and you’re singing about the Star of Bethlehem. ‘I see a star…a bright and shining star…’ you’ll be great!”

I wasn’t convinced, but after some coaxing I cautiously accepted the role.

Over the course of the next couple months we practiced each week. I learned both lines and lyrics. Finally, opening and closing night arrived. As it came time to sing about this miraculous stellar phenomenon, I slowly walked to the microphone and waited for the music to begin. I looked up into the spotlight, took a deep breath, and sang.

By fifth grade, I knew that a person’s actual voice doesn’t sound the same as it does to the person speaking, and so my first clue that something was terribly wrong came from the uncomfortable faces in front of me. Expressions that had been bright smiles moments before quickly dissolved into looks of pain. It was clear that my solo was not going well. I struggled through it, though, knowing full well that the show must go on.

As I finished, folks clapped, but of course they clapped…I was in fifth grade. Their applause was not enthusiastic. Their claps were weak; they were forced. An idea that was once hypothetical immediately became a Christmas reality - I was not a very good singer.

Mercifully, the pageant ended. As folks huddled around downstairs afterwards for cookies and punch, the typical congratulatory remarks seemed muted and sparse. My grandmother, an honest woman who would always keep a smidgeon of her Oklahoma drawl, offered the most pleasant spin on the situation that she could:

“Well hon, we all heard ya’... loud and clear.”

Despite the setback, Christmas did come that year, filled with presents and family and snowy days off from school. Eventually the sting of my embarrassment faded. It wasn’t until years later that I realized what a gift that solo would turn out to be.

 Nothing, it turns out, is quite as liberating as making a complete fool of yourself in front of hundreds of people. Thus, as adolescence began, bringing with it all its mortifying nonsense, I could always think back to that solo. Decades later as a school teacher, I still spend much of my week “performing” in front of my students, almost always without applause.

Botching that solo was embarrassing, sure, but I survived. More importantly, I’d opened a wonderful Christmas gift that evening - the knowledge that folks tend to forget the songs they don’t sing.