When I was in grade 4, the music teacher came into my class and told us we all had to sing the scale to audition for the school play. For some reason all primary school shows were musicals, which in retrospect didn’t really lend to most students’ strengths.
When it came to my turn, I surprised everyone - including myself - by singing clearly and on key. From that point forward, I was cast as the lead in all Bayview Glen Elementary School productions. In the summer, at camp - a failure at all things sporting - I found my place in the theatre.
I’ve always had a complicated relationship with attention. My bat mitzvah video is a series of shots of me shuffling around, looking at the floor, or dancing out of the frame. Under the bright glare of the spotlight, I tried to make myself as small and insignificant as possible. It probably wasn’t helped by my braces and the disastrous perm I got a few weeks before.
But I loved the process of being in a play. The rehearsals, and the songs. I even really liked singing. What ratcheted up my anxiety was the show itself, and knowing that people were watching *me*.
As I got older, I was selected to represent my school in honour choirs, started performing in bigger venues, including a local theatre. I would trill out ‘Own my Own’ from Les Misérables and feel miserable convinced people were judging me and finding me wanting.
It didn’t matter how many people praised me after, the loud insecure voice in my head was certain they were lying. I craved external validation, but then couldn’t bring myself to believe it.
With each subsequent performance, the stage fright I felt before would get worse and worse. I had to fight my way through it, and I started being unsure why I was.
I forced myself to keep performing throughout high school, and then after singing Linger by the Cranberries at a talent show in my first year of university, hung up my cleats. I just couldn’t do it anymore.
I know it disappointed my dad. He had a beautiful voice. He was in his shul choir, and you could often hear him singing throughout the house, in the shower, in the basement, wherever. He was never bothered to sing out, and sing loud. He felt I had been blessed with a talent, and couldn’t understand why I was so resistant to using it.
So, it’s weird to find myself in this time we’re living in, where the entire world is now your audience. The internet, and much more so with social media has made life incredibly performative. Did you really eat that meal if you didn’t post it to IG? Did you really enjoy it if you didn’t get enough likes?
I’ve posted selfies when I’m feeling low for that dopamine hit of validation and attention. It’s a very passive form of performance. It’s just enough to briefly quiet the voice in my head.
Still, I worry about my niece and nephew growing up in this generation. Is it even possible to do anything for just yourself anymore? Can you actually take pride in an achievement if nobody but you sees it or knows it?
In the before times, I would often play trivia on a Sunday night that was followed by karaoke. Fueled by liquid courage, I would sign up for a song. Still, I almost always made someone duet with me. Sharing the stage took the pressure off and made me almost comfortable. I started going to a live band karaoke too. Occasionally, if I was feeling particularly bold, I would even do a solo.
I realized I was able to reclaim my voice specifically because it was live. What once terrified me now felt ephemeral enough to be safe. It was a reminder that we can still be present, and if nobody remembers it but you, that’s enough.
I absolutely love this post. So true about Dad. He loved your singing voice. Hence the dreaded Pesach pressure you'd face every year!
He did always sing out loud with no reservations. Even when his voice cracked on the high notes, he'd say "uch, I used to be able to reach them. Ah well" and keep on singing. Dad was amazing. So brave in every way. He was fearless in all his endeavors. He was terrible at golf. Let's be real. 🤣 But every weekend, he still went out and played 18 holes because he loved it, not because he was good at it. You should sing again, but this time, when you do, think of Dad cracking on the high notes and continuing on anyway. Not cause he was the best, but because he loved it and that's what actually matters most.
I love your writing so much! As a theatre major and former (before kids!) actor and director, I can relate so strongly with this post. Performance involves huge risk-taking but once you lose yourself in the play or music, it's magic for the self (and hopefully for others too). Thank you for sharing and that perm looks totally on point for the 80s!