A Rose by Any Other Name

Posted by Guest | April 16, 2008 | 7 Comments

Here’s a guest post by Lori of Hearts and Hands.  Look for her fantastic essay in the Spring issue of Segullah. Welcome to the blog!

If you’re old enough to remember the original Alvin and the Chipmunks, you can probably perform a mental selection from the jukebox in your brain that will allow you to recall the shrill pitch of Alvin and his rodent buddies as they belted out “Jingle Bells.” You’ll know you’ve hit it right when your body tenses the way it does at the sound of fingernails on a chalkboard. That same tonal quality, produced by chalkboards and the Chipmunks, unfortunately matches my singing voice. As a member of the church ”“ where everyone is encouraged to frequently lift their voices in song — my life was once filled with trepidation.

Growing up in the seventies, most LDS girls my age were madly in love with Donny Osmond, had all twelve bright little glass stickers on their Article of Faith wall sampler (the one with the cheery fireplace), and were able to croon primary songs like a robin on a bright spring day. I got two out of three.                              

Our ward Primary President impressed the young minds in her charge with her belief that singing was an integral part of laying hold on eternity and, as such, insisted we prepare ourselves to be ready to harmonize right alongside heavenly choirs of angels. Having no tolerance for anything that did not resonate paradisiacal rapture, her ears quickly tuned into the fact there was a worm in her musical apple. 

She had our music leader instruct us to sing a few lines of a difficult hymn that may well have challenged even the Tabernacle Choir. She narrowed her search to individual rows. I tried to remain calm and pretended to study the ceiling as I sang along with my classmates. Suddenly, the chapel fell silent. To my horror, she had fixed a look of abject consternation upon me.  

Since my penchant for being the class clown had gotten me out of uncomfortable situations before, I decided to break the stifling silence with a little comic relief. I cleared my throat and croaked out, “And they call it puppy la a uv uv . . .”  

Intended to be funny, the words came across as far less than a joyful noise. In fact, since they were delivered in Alvin the Chipmunk’s voice, my offering was deemed to be outright rebellion. I tried to explain that, though the use of the lyrics was meant to be humorous, the high-pitched squeaking was really my natural singing voice. She didn’t buy it. I was marched to the foyer amid gales of laughter.

For the remainder of my childhood, and all through my teenage years, I sat slumped with a hymnbook hiding my face. I didn’t sing, and no one in the ward seemed to mind. When I became an adult, it was a different story. Once again, I found myself in an arena where I felt worthy saints were expected to compete for a place among heavenly choirs.  

I developed a plan wherein I determined I would hum my way through every song. If I got any curious, “Why isn’t that woman singing” stares, I would touch my neck as if to imply I might have a sore throat. When my children were babies, I mixed humming with concentrated efforts to appear preoccupied with my offspring’s well-being. All too soon, they were old enough to take care of themselves and I faced the pressure of pesky choristers who thought everyone able to walk to the front of the chapel should be anxiously engaged in the ward choir.  

After refusing so many times I earned the label of snob, I decided to be forthright about my lack of ability. “I can’t carry a tune in a bucket,” I would say, flinging my hand into the air, my fingers sweeping gracefully outward with confident abandon. I topped it off with a wide grin meant to betray what I perceived as my gaping deficit. I limped through my church membership as a kind of mysterious figure viewed by others as someone who may or may not have suffered from chronic laryngitis.  

A neighborhood get-together provided a turning point.  

In the casual environment of a friend’s basement, I watched my uninhibited neighbors crank out tunes with the help of a Karaoke machine. This wonderful gadget offered a blessed outlet for the harmonistically challenged whose heartfelt desire to sing like angelic beings got lost somewhere amid their vocal cords.  

Entranced, I studied the gestures of my fellow “artists” and the way their mouths formed perfect “O’s” and “ah’s.” They vacillated between actually singing notes within their range and lip-syncing the rest, allowing the background music to fill in the gaps like Jello. I couldn’t resist giving it a shot and soon learned how to drop things down from a chipmunk soprano to more of a dignified alto groundhog.

I eagerly anticipated the next Sacrament Meeting. Accompanied by a confident demeanor that would make an opera singer blush, I successfully made it through the opening song using a complicated method that involved my new, smooth alto groundhog, a little lip-sync, and random humming.  

In my excitement over finally being a Mormon who could “sing” I got carried away and, for a moment, let my voice lapse back into shrill chipmunk. When others turned around to see who was making the awful noise, I drew attention away from myself by coughing and pointing to someone else. 

I know there are others in the church who, regardless of what their Primary President or ward chorister want them to do, simply cannot link two notes together to strike a pleasing chord. A rose by any other name is still a rose and a saint who cannot sing is, in my humble opinion, still a saint. I’m certain that right next to those heavenly choirs of angels there will be a place for us — possibly as heavenly mimes!  

 

 

 

 

 

Related posts:

1. Workers of the Ward, Unite!
2. A gathering of saints
3. Always a Daughter

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