The Saints Of Mibba

I’ve been a singer for as long as I can remember.

In my earliest memories, I am sitting on a rainbow alphabet rug, a tambourine in hand, chanting along to Wheels on the Bus and Puff the Magic Dragon with the other preschoolers. Circle time was my favorite time of the day. I could sing and sing and nobody would tell me to stop. It was heaven.

Later, my parents, tired of my relentless renditions of nursery rhymes and Beethoven’s Ode to Joy enrolled my in a children’s choir, hoping to add some variety to my repertoire. Choir only fueled the obsession. I spent hours by the piano, plunking out the accompany parts to our pieces with my little hands, singing along and laughing when I missed an accidental.

There was so much music out in the world, just waiting for me to find it and sing it. The opportunities were endless.

Choir, singing in general became my life. During the school year, I spent hours a week rehearsing, working up through the echelons of The Piedmont Choirs. I was ecstatic when I made the internationally touring group. “Beautiful voice,” everyone always said, “Beautiful girl.”

I spent my winters laced up in a red corset vest, singing obscure Christmas carols to drunken partygoers.

My summers were spent traveling the world in my neon green choir shirts, sleeping in airport terminals and on the red velvet seats of world-renowned concert halls.

I grew very close to my choir friends. We were all a bit quirky in our own right; “choir nerds” as the popular crowd eloquently branded us. But we didn’t care. We had music. We had each other. We had our voices. And that was all that mattered.

But one day, while sitting in the third row of the Soprano I section during a long rehearsal, something happened. I opened my mouth to sing, but nothing came out.

It wasn’t that I couldn’t sing. It was nothing like that. I could still croak out melodies and harmonies, but something was missing: that release, that liberated feeling, that ethereal quality my voice had always had. It was gone. I could still sing. I had simply lost my voice.

I still dragged myself to rehearsals and concerts. I still sat with the third row sopranos learning and refining music. But singing had lost its appeal. My only outlet was gone.

At the time, I had just started my freshman year of high school and was enrolled in three choirs and the school musical. The rehearsals and concerts dragged on and on. I developed a chronic sore throat. Singing, talking even became a chore, something that should be avoided at all costs.

I lost most of my friends and distanced myself from the ones I still had. My classes dragged on, slow and miserable. I stopped practicing the piano. It fell dreadfully out of tune. I stopped listening to music. Unknowingly, I removed myself from the only thing that could have saved me. The world was at standstill, an impasse.

I was lost, miserable, alone.

***

Gradually, my voice is returning. Some days my throat aches and the sound is soft and hoarse. Other days it’s there, strong and beautiful, as if it had never left. I take advantage of those days, singing to anyone who will hear. Slowly, but surely things are getting better.

Everyone has a voice somewhere. It’s just a matter of finding it, training it, believing in it.

Someday, I know I’ll find mine again.