And So I Sing
On Saturday, I sang. I joined choir maestro Tony Backhouse and other folks at a workshop where Tony – a magician, surely? – expertly coaxed exquisite harmonies out of a small group of strangers linked only by a shared passion for singing. Before long, the air was alive with rousing gospel songs from the African and African-American traditions. One line still echoes in my heart: “You better watch, sista, how you walk on the cross/foot might slip and your soul be lost…”
Singing, I’ve learnt, is one of the things that keeps my foot from slipping when the path of life is bumpy. To me, singing is healing and empowering; aside from writing, it’s my heart’s delight. I have always loved it, but a couple of years ago I was led to understand just what an important part it played in my life. If I do not sing, I wither.
In gratitude for the Tony Backhouse workshop, I’d like to share a piece I wrote in 2018, when life taught me that I’d spent too long keeping quiet, and that now it was time to sing.
On a winter’s night in 2018, I got off the train at Sydney’s Kings Cross station, and turned left towards Potts Point, letting the map on my phone lead the way towards something completely new. And more than a little scary.
I passed diners seated outdoors at Parisian-style eateries, and elegant terraces beaming buttery lamplight onto the pavement where my boots clip-clopped onward, steady as a drumbeat.
I heard it before I saw it—a mesh of upbeat voices. Pushing open the wrought-iron gate, I approached the front door and tentatively opened it. The small room was full of strangers squeezed together into a circle. I put my bag down and joined them, though the introvert in me yelled, “Leave now, before they notice you!”
This was my first time at A Sound Life choir, and I’d arrived late for the warm-up and introductions, which involved singing out your name and accompanying it with movement: “Ka-ri-na!” I croaked, with an embarrassed clap-clap and a feeble stomp. It was lame as can be, but no-one seemed to mind.
With our voices as warm as the room had become, choir director Simon handed out the lyrics to Michael Jackson’s “Man in the Mirror” and we were off. The Facebook post had said it didn’t matter if you could sing or not, that everyone was welcome, but this sounded better than karaoke, I thought, a little alarmed. What was also obvious, and more important, was that everybody around me loved to sing.
I too have always loved to sing. There’s a cassette tape of me somewhere singing “Miss Polly had a dolly” and “Little Peter Rabbit had a Fly Upon His Nose” when I was around 5, a few years after my parents emigrated to Sydney from Uruguay, where I was born. Along with Little Golden Books, singing, I think, helped assuage a sense of displacement.
At my public primary school in Eastlakes, singing was a big part of our routine. I fondly remember moustache-od Mr Buddle thumping out “Court of King Caractacus” on the piano at assembly every week. Usually, he played it at the end, like a rock star saving his biggest hit for the encore.
I loved learning Christmas carols and memorising the ABC Sing! songbook our teachers handed out every year. I loved finding out that the Machados I’m descended from are known for their passion for singing—there’s even a folk song that celebrates that. At my karaoke-themed 30th I was belting out “Like a Virgin” as guests filed in and before a drink had passed my lips …
But somewhere along the way, I forgot how to raise my voice. Somewhere along the way, I decided that keeping my thoughts, feelings and words to myself was safest. Eventually, that behaviour sparked a devastating—but ultimately empowering—realisation. Letting louder voices drown out my own can be downright dangerous.
Joining choir was the beginning of healing. “I’m starting with the man in the mirror,” we sang as one, “I’m asking him to change his ways …” To think I grew up in the 80s and never noticed how meaningful those lyrics were. In the days before Christmas, our choir performed for children, their parents and staff at two hospitals. Together, we raised our voices and watched the light turn on in the little ones’ eyes. “Stand By Me” was on high rotation, our tears mingling with the beautiful words.
When the land is dark, we can sing, I’ve learned, just like the gang of kookaburras outside my window who shout their love to the sky before the first blush of dawn tints the morning. They make me smile, though I’m half asleep, because they’re raucous and joyous and they don’t care who they wake up with their singing.
I’m learning from them, and I learnt a lot from my friends at choir. I’m so glad I didn’t back out that first night, when it was cold outside but warm in the circle, and we sang about making a change.
“Kookaburras don’t care who they wake up with their singing.”
KM
