Ill march my band out...
Ill march my band out...
I think I’m coming down with something—I’ve been sleeping an unimaginable amount these past few days. With all this extra rest, I’ve had more time to reflect on my past, and tonight my mind wandered back to my early days in Iowa.
When I was growing up, I was deeply involved in the Children’s Theater, and I absolutely loved it. I was often cast in lead roles, and my theater director even wrote an entire play just for me: Melvin the Mischievous Elf. (Side note: the author of Minty the Mischievous Elf might want to watch out for potential lawsuits—my director came up with the concept back in the late ’90s! Just kidding, of course.) I wouldn’t claim I was Bette Davis, but I like to think I was pretty darn good.
I was also a proud member of the band (both concert and marching) and the choir. The arts were my passion. They still are. But when I moved to Indiana, that part of my life seemed to slip away. I tried out for the choir in seventh grade at my new school, but the choir teacher and other kids were exceptionally hostile. This choir was all about incorporating dance into performances, and let’s just say… I’ve never been mistaken for a dancer. That gene skipped me entirely and went straight to my youngest sister.
After that summer following sixth grade, I never pursued the arts again. Looking back, it’s not surprising—I was going through an incredibly rough time. I lost my stepdad, moved multiple times, endured trauma, and faced so many challenges that the arts just didn’t feel possible anymore.
Still, my love of music never faded. My friends would often tell me I had a good voice, though they didn’t encourage me much. I also thought I was pretty decent, but I never pursued it seriously. I can’t write music, and I’ve always been better at singing other people’s work. With so many talented songwriters out there, I felt there wasn’t a place for someone like me—someone who’s obsession with Stevie Nicks, Tracy Chapman, Kate Bush, Cher, and Sarah Brightman, was at odds with most if not all my peers.
Fast forward to the other night: my aunt, who rarely hands out compliments to anyone but herself, said something that caught me completely off guard. “The other morning, I was doing my makeup, and I heard you singing. I had to stop and ask myself, ‘Is that Stevie?’ And then I realized—it was you. Why don’t you do something with that? You can sing!”
I was so surprised in the moment that I didn’t know how to respond. But her words have been echoing in my mind ever since. Why haven’t I done something with this? Why didn’t I chase this dream when my health was better and I could have really gone for it? Now I’m wheelchair-bound and approaching 40. There doesn’t seem to be a place on any stage for someone like me.
I’ve always dreamed of working with a vocal coach to refine my voice and see if it’s even worth pursuing beyond a hobby. But vocal coaches aren’t cheap, and I’ve never been sure if it would lead anywhere.
Then again, Leonard Cohen, Debbie Harry, and Andrea Bocelli all started their careers in their 30s. I’m no Leonard Cohen, and I’m certainly no Debbie Harry, but… maybe it’s worth a shot. What’s the worst that could happen? Better to try and fail than to live with the constant question: What if?