Last semester I had the revelation that great singing does not come easily. Until my December jury, I assumed that success was bestowed upon a select group of talented individuals of which I was, of course, the queen. After a Christmas break’s worth of humble reflection, I firmly decided to change my attitude and get my hands dirty, so to speak. Now that it is May and I am metaphorically wiping off my hands and nursing the calluses, I wonder if my work has made as much of an impact on my voice as it has on my heart. Regardless, I’m starting to understand what happens after a revelation.

My life is clearly mapped with skyrocketing peaks and abysmal valleys. I’ve had many “camp highs” and am well acquainted with the feelings of ecstasy during and immediately following a positive revelation. I am also familiar with the looming depression that comes when I realize that my realization was too lofty or unattainable. It is exhausting. Because singing is something that has become quite important to both my present happiness and future endeavors, I decided to fight my emotional tendencies after receiving my embarrassing jury grade. For the record, I believe my low marks were well deserved, and I am grateful for the wake-up call that I desperately needed. The theme of my semester, therefore, became consistency.

Consistency is tricky. It is easy for me to rally strong emotions for a short period, or muscle through a tough time when I know it will end soon. Daily, self-disciplined consistency, however, has been almost completely foreign to me. In high school, my parents strongly encouraged me to daily spend time alone in quiet reflection, prayer, and study of the Bible. I did this faithfully, but when I arrived at college the habit faded. This lack of constancy affected many other areas of my life, I think. I have since then had a hard time going to all my classes, returning phone calls, maintaining relationships, and sustaining any real growth. My voice has not been exempt to this pattern. Combined with my pattern of inconsistency, the realization that I was (am) in need of constant hard work seemed overwhelming.

But what could I do? Not delve into depression, because that would be giving into exactly what I loathed. Though I did often struggle with the temptation to despair, I purposed not to. It was one of the hardest semesters yet, but oh, how I have grown. Looking back, I am amused at how complicatedly simple are the answers to life’s befuddlements.

Strauss’s Wasserrose has really been the key piece to teach me the beginnings of consistency and hard work. The “melody” is complex and non-repetitive. The accompaniment, while creating an exquisite underbelly of picturesque harmony, is completely unhelpful to the singer. Each line of text stretches for miles, and I found it difficult to keep the line moving over several pages. The German poetry, while lovely, is wordy; many phrases contain several alliterations. It took Justin and I hours of rehearsal to learn the notes, and many more to synchronize our parts. I was strengthened by his encouragement and labor, and owe most of the piece’s success to him. Though I have much more work to pour into it, I now love to sing Wasserrose. It is impossible to perform without powerhouse breath support, feather light jaw action, and a constant “ping” from the core.

My other songs, though I mostly enjoyed them, did not reveal to me anything outstanding. And really, I think that that is the foundation of true consistency. Day-to-day toil, labor, and faithfulness are not dazzling or revolutionary; rather, they quietly build up the spirit, soul, and body so that they are ready at any time for a performance. Perhaps the mark of an excellent musician is hidden in his or her work ethic. Talent and technique are obviously important, but are irrelevant if not honed by faithful discipline. I hope that my voice reflects the growth that my heart has undergone. I am here to study voice, after all. I am excited about next year’s opportunities: opera, auditions, coaching, recital, etc. I am also glad that this school year is over! Bring on the Louvre, the wine, and the sunshine!

College is really hard, and it's a big deal to graduate with a degree. Not a master's, not a ph.d. A bachelor's degree. 4-5-6 years of 60 hour work weeks, constant self-evaluation, and swallowed pride.
I'm not sure how other colleges operate; I've heard a lot of rumors about hand-out degrees and "easy A's." Regardless of the means by which another student gains his or her degree, I will one day be able to say with honesty that I freaking earned this freaking degree by freaking working my freaking butt off. Freaking.
I don't work hard every day-- I believe in resting. I believe that it's good to have productive, focused, meaningful rest. I know that when I make myself write down everything in my mind before I go to bed, and that list exceeds 2 dozen items, it's time for rest. Today, I chose to skip my voice studio (which meets for 2 hours on Sunday afternoons) in order to rest, since it was to be followed by 5.5 hours of opera rehearsal. Later, I received a nasty, passive-aggressive email from my instructor who was, I quote, "rather annoyed" that I didn't show up, and do I need a personal reminder every time we have studio. Granted, I told him at the beginning of the semester that I want to be pushed towards excellence... so in a way I brought this criticism on myself. The point is, in this degree program there is no room for error. I could share stories for an hour about instances where singers missed one note and were screamed at by conductors in front of 50 other musicians. It's excellence, and it stings.
I'm thankful for my non-music-major roommates who remind me that their departments are similar in pace and vigor. We agree that this level of performance is good, but we hate when older adults smack us with half-sympathetic smiles and winkey eyes and assure us that "at least real life hasn't started yet."
No, maybe "real life" hasn't started yet, but in my opinion, college is much more stressful.
We rush around in who knows what kind of weather (the past week has housed a 60 degree temperature range), participate in 7 different classes (i.e. learn 7 x 48 lectures per semester's worth of information), slave away at low-paying jobs, bend over backwards to please 7 different professors, beg strangers for tuition money, and oh, I don't know, live in poverty and eat tortillas and mustard 5 times a week.
I do it because I can see the benefit of my labors. An undergraduate degree will open many proverbial doors. However, at 55% completion status, I'm merely having a difficult time seeing the end of the track. I've always known that this would be hard, so don't tell me that it isn't.

Tonight I went to Homeland in search of the bare necessities (toilet paper and chocolate). I was kind of cranky-- 10 hour days at Catlett are becoming more of a regularity than an exception. Everyone is tired, I know.
Anyway, as I turned into the aisle to pay, a little boy with a toy gun stood in front of me. Immediately, his eyes lit up and he began shooting me while clicking his tongue. I opened my eyes wide, as if shocked that anyone would commit such a travesty! A giggle emerged between clicks and bangs, but he kept at it. When I clutched my chest and pretended to keel over in pain, he burst into gleeful laughter and ran into his mother's waist.
It was exactly what I needed. Thank you, Lord.

I've been thinking a lot about culture lately. My roommates and I have had several discussions that have attempted to explore every facet of "culture," such as what it means, what ours is, and how it relates to others.
The topic was initially raised when Lindsey returned home from poetry class in a tizzy. The aforementioned class explores racial poetry. Each week, students write poetry based on his or her culture. Aside from the professor's extremely anti-white American racist views, her assignments have provided us with thought-provoking conversation.
"What is my culture?" Lindsey asked.
She asks a valid question. As a white American, I feel confused about the details of my culture. After all, my family's heritage looks a lot like the stew we made last week (English potatoes, German meat, Native American carrots, and a dash of Viking salt). I have had experienced no meaningful experiences, nor has my neighborhood been re-located or oppressed. I am a part of a religious group whose characteristics have been muddied and post-modernized until it seems a lot like every other bumper sticker statement.

This week, I am supposed to write a 2 page paper for my African music class that discusses my culture. Somehow, I am to choose a song with lyrics that accurately reflect Me and My People. The assignment sounds simple, but I am at a complete loss. Aside from the daunting task of choosing a song that embodies "my culture" (hang on while I browse through the thousands of songs on iTunes), I have to actually pinpoint what my culture is.
???

My African music class is currently studying West African dance. Today we watched several videos of various tribal dances; each displayed a type of mimetic* dance. Religious, educational, social, formal, informative, historical... these virtuosic performances of polyrhythmic beat and complicated body motions are both beautiful and practical. The performers today dance dances that have been danced for centuries. Each member of society knows how to dance and play all of their tribe's musical activities. [sidenote: in the Dan tribe, a man's intelligence is based off of his ability to dance and keep rhythm. I think this is BRILLIANT.] Their culture is rich, full, and beautiful.
My "culture" just introduced a new dance into society: "the Creep." My friends and I think it's hilarious and fun to dance to. In light of today's lecture, I almost feel ashamed. While cultures in Africa celebrate their history and society as a community through dance and song, my community wiggles around for 2 1/2 minutes to this. Oh, and don't forget the Cupid Shuffle.

I don't hate America; rather, I love living here and am extraordinarily privileged to be a citizen of this country. I'm just confused. I don't know how to write my paper, but more importantly I don't know about my culture. Do any white-middle class-female Americans have a clue?

*Mimetic: imitation or reflection of a specific idea. In this context, it refers to a dance that symbolizes a specific aspect of cultural life.

The house in which I grew up is the smallest house I've ever been in. When I reflect on the past twenty years of residency in it, I marvel that all family members are still alive and well and happy and thriving.

A vocal jury is one of the most anti-climactic things to ever exist. Lots of things are anti-climactic for those of us who romanticize and idealize and plan and analyze analyze analyze, but juries are currently at the top of my list. As a student who is studying voice at a university with a prestigious music program, I have finally begun to understand the gravity of juries. For those of you who are not familiar with the term,

vo·cal ju·ry (voh-cul juh-ree)-- noun. A 5-7 minute session at the end of each semester when music students are given one chance to prove that they 1. have improved over the past 4 months 2. are better than all the other students of the given instrument and age group 3. possess some sort of personality/ personal interpretation of classical pieces which may or may not actually have meaning 4. are physically attractive 5. if female, can walk confidently in high heels 6. ... can sing well.

6 voice professors (all of whom possess both doctorates in voice and extensive successful performance careers) and 2 vocal coaches (with specialized language training) recline in the padded seats of a small performance hall, while grad students, waiting singers, friends, other random people sit directly outside the room and listen to each jury. By "listen to," I actually mean "judge and compare." Everyone wants to receive the highest mark; despite the fact that the juries claim to be "un-biased," we all know that they aren't. Each professor takes into account interactions he or she has had with the student, and even his or her relationship with the student's professor. Bill (my voice teacher) told me that after his own senior recital, a professor gave him an F simply because he didn't like Bill's teacher. Whaa...?

Anyway, hours and hours of practice and performance mean little to nothing during a jury. Every time I walk on stage, I forget most of what I've been drilling for the last hour. It just sort of flies away. Those 5 to 7 minutes are hinged mostly on muscle memory and luck. I always end up doing some strange thing that I've never done before, like an awkward hand motion or random breath in the middle of a word or flying spit across the stage.

After the first song (chosen by the student), one of the faculty members chooses a song from the remaining list (of 4 or so options). This year, they chose "Clair de Lune," the song Bill assured me they would not select. I was so thrown off that I sort of took my own tempo and made up a bunch of phrasings. Oops.

5 minutes later, you exit the stage and the next student walks in. All of those hours and rehearsals and score studies and acting lessons and coachings have ended. The next student has already begun to sing as you gather your wits and quell your adrenaline.

Basically, it's a huge smack to my ego, which I often need. It's good to be reminded that I am not the shiz.

Well, I made it through a[nother] summer at good ole' Pantera. Summer #3, I believe. If we're counting years, it's been 4 since that fateful day when I bounced into the Woodland Hills Mall, handed over my application, and signed over my life blood to America's favorite big bread business. To echo the wise musings of Jim Halpert, "Oh young [Laura], if only I could warn you. But alas, I cannot."

Really, the summer wasn't as bad as I had thought it would be. English Comp II (online) was bearable, and I somehow managed to squeak by with a low A, despite my minimal efforts.

Back to Panera. If you've ever had a conversation with me about Panera, you know what I'm going to say.

Why. Does. Wearing. A. Uniform. Change. The. Way. People. Treat. You (Me)?

When a customer enters the store, she is immediately greeted (per-Panera-protocol) with a loud "hello!" As Customer waits in line or in front of the bakery display, one or two (nay, sometimes three!) P. associates stand at attention, ready to fly into action as the order leaves Customer's mouth. Per-Panera-protocol, the utmost speed and cleanliness is utilized by Associate while Customer "experiences" the "Paneradise."* Latex-free gloves, thin baker's paper, and constant usage of Germ-x ensure Customer the cleanest "experience" possible in the Mid-Western restaurant industry. While Customer angrily mumbles something about the over-priced salads or over-stuffed menu, Associate subtly yet intentionally turns the conversation into a light-hearted commentary on the difference between a scone and a biscuit ** After several minutes of ponderation, Customer relates her order to Associate, offering information in the wrong sequence entirely. Patiently, Associate massages the correct bits of information in the correct sequence, smiling softly as Associate mutters, "I don't know what side I want, d@!# it! Gimme a second, ok?!" When all information has been entered into the register, Line Associate approaches. Quietly, she whispers to (Register) Associate, "We're out of pineapple bits for the Strawberry Poppyseed and Chicken salad."

Quickly, Register Associate glances at Line Associate. Danger is on the horizon, but Register Associate has tread this ground before. She should be able to avert the crisis...

"[Customer]," Associate begins, "We are unfortunately out of the pineapple bits that come on the salad you ordered. Instead I can offer --"

"What."

"Um, we're out of the pineapple bit--"

"I heard you the first time. So--SIGH-- what does that mean?"

"Well, I can offer you an extra helping of strawberries instead, or--"

"I don't want extra strawberries. I want the pineapple bits. That's why I ordered the d%&$ salad in the first place."

"You see, we get a delivery truck tonight, but until then we'll have to make--"

"I don't really care, ok?! Just give me the strawberries."

(Associate brightens. Crisis averted!)

"Great. Extra strawberries at no extra charge! Now then, I believe I have everything in order. Your total is $12.94."

"WHAT!?!?!?! $12.94?!?! How is that possible??!?!"

(Associate swallows the acrid taste in her mouth, forces a smile, and replies)

"If you'll take a look at the menu, you'll see that the S.P & C salad is, in fact, a 'Premium Signature Item,' due to its unique seasonality and special chicken upcharge. It's $1.45 extra."

(Customer slams her purse on the counter and glares at Associate.)

"This is absolutely ridiculous. All I want is the salad my friend told me about. Said it was something special. Said Panera was something special. Said it was a great place to eat. Well missy, I'm starting to think that--"

(Associate panics. This is getting ugly fast.)

"I'm so sorry. There's nothing I can do about the fruit. But perhaps I could offer you--"

"Don't interrupt me. And you know what?! I don't like your attitude. I want would like to talk to you manager right now!!!!"

(Customer angrily relates false details to Manager. Manager listens, knowing full well that Customer is insane. Customer receives a free salad and cookie. Crisis averted? Perhaps... except that Associate has lost part of her soul.)

Ok ok... every day isn't that bad. That only happened a few times. Still, the question remains: how does a uniformed worker differ from a fellow citizen? If I accidentally bumped into the same lady (Customer) at the grocery store on the fruit isle, and said, "heads up, they're out of pineapple bits," she'd probably give me a sad smile and we'd commiserate about our empty fruit salads. Or something. Point being, the lady would probably be nice to me because I am wearing a tank top rather than a burgundy polo. I don't understand.

Anyway, the Pantera saga part IV has come to an end. Part V begins in the next week or two.

P.S. I hope this won't discourage anyone from eating at Panera. It's pretty good. The asiago bagels are great... and... er ... yeah...

*if interested in further Panera jargon, consult the "Breaducation" leaflet that I am currently writing.

** there's hardly any difference.