My sister is the one with the classical voice. A first soprano who once hit a C above high C at a party with all her friends gawking at her, who had boys fawning after her talent and brown eyes spackled with jade green, my sister was the one destined for fame. I, on the other hand, was born in March which, my mother informed me, meant that I did not have enough wind. Singers are born in the fall, as my sister was. The season I was born in I cannot change. My sister bore the privilege of season and bore it well.
So, I decided that I would become the rock star. You don't have to sing well to be a rock star. You don't have to have a lot of wind. You don't have to linger on a phrase for six measures or understand perfect meter. You don't have to have a smooth-as-velvet, trained, melodious voice. You don't even have to know the words. I had found my element and it wasn't water as my mother had said. Surely, I would make my mark.
Even though seven years older, teachers from every subject would remember my sister. Oh, you're her sister! Yes, that would be me –
her sister. She wore high, high heels and dresses. I wore corduroy pants, t-shirts, blue suede tennis shoes, and various sweat jackets. Once, I let my mother win and wore my sister's old heels to school. How ever did my sister manage those cobblestone hills? I recall a group of boys giggling from their perch as I attempted to navigate some stairs in my vessels of doom. Once home, those one-size-too-large heels went back to their home and stayed there. I'll never again try to fill someone else's shoes.
Being seven years older, my sister also took a lot of responsibility for me. She carted me around from place to place, performance to performance. She took me to see my first and only ballet in San Francisco,
The Nutcracker. She let me sit in the movie theatre where she worked and watch movies for free. She bought my first serious book,
The Little Prince . She did my homework. She wrote me a clever book of riddles that I miss and regret being persuaded to part with. She taught me harmony. She made the best hamburger and potato pie. She told me the story of the three bears over and over until I had eaten all of my oatmeal. And, she sang. Oh, did she sing. She sang at the mall, at churches, at college programs, in plays, in recitals, in the shower, while shopping, and anywhere else she took her voice. Out of all of those performances, private and public, there is one performance that stands above all others.
There I sat behind a very large head in the Carmel mission. I don't recall much. The sanctuary was warm with body heat. A crucifix mounted at the center of the front platform
interrupted my restlessness for a while. When the music started, I could only focus on the very large head in front of me. My other senses had to take over to make this experience larger than that head. Luckily, I didn't have to try very hard.
The voices were all very fine. They rose and entwined themselves in the musical trellis of Handel's
Messiah daring to reach heaven itself. The voices were all very fine, indeed. But, there was one voice that rose above all the others. This voice wafted gracefully above us all in a wave as surely born as the tide of the sea. It started out from the platform - from the very gut of its deliverer. It was carried in its own wind with powerful, gentle, sweetness. It spread to all corners of the room melting like frost in the morning sun. It was beautiful. Tears flowed from my eyes as my soul quieted to listen. My soul fell silent finding contentment and resolution within the realization that this voice was my sister's and all petty rivalries were dismissed.
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