The floor of the great auditorium smelled of cleaning paste.
The cleaners must have scrubbed them well. The school ceremony was about to begin. Children from all eight grades were seated on small, evenly arranged chairs, the parents crouched here and there on the floor. All of the faculty sat in the front row. A slender twelve-year-old girl stood at the microphone. From all sides of the room, eyes filled with curiosity stared at her. She opened her mouth. Nothing. In a stage whisper, one of the teachers started to hint the words of the song for the special occasion. But that wasn’t it. It wasn’t about the forgotten lyrics. The girl’s throat ran out of voice, just as when a person runs fast they run out of breath. No sound came out of her wide-open mouth. It lasted just over ten seconds, but to her it felt like she was standing in silence for an eternity.
That girl was me. Almost three decades after this excruciating performance, I signed up for singing lessons. At the very first meeting, Jodie—my Australian teacher—said that the tone of my voice was the result of my state of mind and certain past choices.
“Can you recall, at some point in your childhood, in school, during your first important friendships, whether your voice gave you strength to shine, or to hide?” she asked