therealljidol One Touch
It had been two years since I had sung in public, and I was on the verge of panic. The virus that had attacked and paralyzed my vocal cord in the middle of my sophomore year of music school still caused unpredictable cracking, but that wasn't the reason for my drained confidence.
The virus came on quickly and without warning, turning the entire middle of my voice into nothing but a growl. The single symptom did not get any worse and did not improve. For a year or so, I could not sing one note. My voice had simply left me. It was something that no doctor had seen before. Neither the teacher I was forced to work with at school nor the teacher I chose to work with outside of school had ever seen anything like it.
I confided heavily in my teacher-of-choice, Oscar. He listened with a sympathetic ear, brainstorming possible causes and solutions with me. He encouraged me to continue studying despite my inability to make anything resembling good sound, but the lessons were fruitless and frustrating, so I decided to take a break. I told him I'd keep him posted and call him if and when things improved. He told me that he'd be there to support me.
A few weeks later, a conversation with a friend and fellow student of Oscar's made my blood run cold. As I told her how supportive he'd been when I had talked to him about my vocal issues, Vanessa looked at me like I'd lost my mind.
"Well, he told me that he thinks you're making it all up."
I barely knew how to respond. He had seen medical documentation of the paralysis in my vocal cord, but even that shouldn't have been necessary. In the course of our working relationship, I had never given him even the slightest reason not to trust my word. I had confided in him, and he turned around and told my colleagues that I was a liar. I couldn't believe what I was hearing.
Having asked around, it came to my attention that he called me more than just a liar. According to my trusted teacher, I was crazy, narcissistic, and even a stingy Jew for not wanting to pay for more useless lessons while my voice was out of commission.
This was more than I could take. Having lost my livelihood was one thing, but to know that the person I had confided in had turned around and betrayed my trust hurt me deeply. I called Oscar and confronted him with what I had heard. He didn't deny anything. He even tried to explain to me why I was a stingy Jew. I hung up angry, hurt, and almost shell-shocked.
Almost a year later, I was about to go out and sing for a small concert, just to get my feet wet again. I knew that the chances were high that I would crack, and I knew I wouldn't sound anything like I once did. What I didn't know was that Oscar was in the audience. When my friend told me, I felt my knees go weak. I had only agreed to do this gig because it was supposed to be in front of a small, supportive audience of friends and little old ladies. The thought of putting myself out there in front of the man who had shattered my confidence made my my stomach turn. I didn't know if I could even do it.
It was too late to back out. I was singing last on the program. While all of my colleagues were singing big operatic arias, I had chosen a relatively easy and upbeat musical theatre song, and so I would be the final singer. The song was called Stranger Here Myself, from Kurt Weill's One Touch of Venus. I felt like a stranger, not to love, but to this feeling of self-doubt. I had always had faith in my own abilities. It felt foreign not to trust myself to get the job done.
As I stepped forward and bowed, I felt like I couldn't breathe. After a brief piano introduction, I began. My voice cracked audibly, and my knees locked. I felt sick. My thoughts raced. Keep going. Just keep going. As I did, my voice settled down. I finished to decent applause. It wasn't my best performance by a long shot, but I got through it. Oscar gave me a "told you so" smile, as though my relative success at getting through the piece proved his point that my voice trouble was all in my head. I shot him a quick fuck-you glance and sat down.
When he came to greet me after the show, I could barely feign politeness. I gave an empty thank-you for his empty compliment and walked away. Even though it hadn't been a complete triumph, I did feel a twinge of pride that I even got through it. I realized that it wasn't worth losing confidence on account of a shitbag like Oscar. I had given him too much power over me, and I resolved to take it back.
The virus came on quickly and without warning, turning the entire middle of my voice into nothing but a growl. The single symptom did not get any worse and did not improve. For a year or so, I could not sing one note. My voice had simply left me. It was something that no doctor had seen before. Neither the teacher I was forced to work with at school nor the teacher I chose to work with outside of school had ever seen anything like it.
I confided heavily in my teacher-of-choice, Oscar. He listened with a sympathetic ear, brainstorming possible causes and solutions with me. He encouraged me to continue studying despite my inability to make anything resembling good sound, but the lessons were fruitless and frustrating, so I decided to take a break. I told him I'd keep him posted and call him if and when things improved. He told me that he'd be there to support me.
A few weeks later, a conversation with a friend and fellow student of Oscar's made my blood run cold. As I told her how supportive he'd been when I had talked to him about my vocal issues, Vanessa looked at me like I'd lost my mind.
"Well, he told me that he thinks you're making it all up."
I barely knew how to respond. He had seen medical documentation of the paralysis in my vocal cord, but even that shouldn't have been necessary. In the course of our working relationship, I had never given him even the slightest reason not to trust my word. I had confided in him, and he turned around and told my colleagues that I was a liar. I couldn't believe what I was hearing.
Having asked around, it came to my attention that he called me more than just a liar. According to my trusted teacher, I was crazy, narcissistic, and even a stingy Jew for not wanting to pay for more useless lessons while my voice was out of commission.
This was more than I could take. Having lost my livelihood was one thing, but to know that the person I had confided in had turned around and betrayed my trust hurt me deeply. I called Oscar and confronted him with what I had heard. He didn't deny anything. He even tried to explain to me why I was a stingy Jew. I hung up angry, hurt, and almost shell-shocked.
Almost a year later, I was about to go out and sing for a small concert, just to get my feet wet again. I knew that the chances were high that I would crack, and I knew I wouldn't sound anything like I once did. What I didn't know was that Oscar was in the audience. When my friend told me, I felt my knees go weak. I had only agreed to do this gig because it was supposed to be in front of a small, supportive audience of friends and little old ladies. The thought of putting myself out there in front of the man who had shattered my confidence made my my stomach turn. I didn't know if I could even do it.
It was too late to back out. I was singing last on the program. While all of my colleagues were singing big operatic arias, I had chosen a relatively easy and upbeat musical theatre song, and so I would be the final singer. The song was called Stranger Here Myself, from Kurt Weill's One Touch of Venus. I felt like a stranger, not to love, but to this feeling of self-doubt. I had always had faith in my own abilities. It felt foreign not to trust myself to get the job done.
As I stepped forward and bowed, I felt like I couldn't breathe. After a brief piano introduction, I began. My voice cracked audibly, and my knees locked. I felt sick. My thoughts raced. Keep going. Just keep going. As I did, my voice settled down. I finished to decent applause. It wasn't my best performance by a long shot, but I got through it. Oscar gave me a "told you so" smile, as though my relative success at getting through the piece proved his point that my voice trouble was all in my head. I shot him a quick fuck-you glance and sat down.
When he came to greet me after the show, I could barely feign politeness. I gave an empty thank-you for his empty compliment and walked away. Even though it hadn't been a complete triumph, I did feel a twinge of pride that I even got through it. I realized that it wasn't worth losing confidence on account of a shitbag like Oscar. I had given him too much power over me, and I resolved to take it back.