The Student's Nightmare

When I was in high school, I was strongly encouraged to consider a career in opera in spite of the fact that I could not read a note of music. My voice teacher told me that most opera singers didn't read music and that I shouldn't worry about it. He made me promise to audition for the honors choir when I got to Drake, even though I'd declared to the mighty Zeus and Meryl Streep that I was studying the DRAMATIC arts.

Still, in the first week I sauntered into the audition room with my song. The director set the music aside, handed me some sheet music, hit a note on the piano, sat back, and said, "Begin."

"I can't read music."

"Try."

It was a disaster and as a result I avoided all things musical for the next three years. Our department was doing Jesus Christ Superstar, which was requiring a cast of zillions and virtually everyone was auditioning. I developed the worst sore throat of my life and laryngitis on the day of my audition, yet not wanting to be left out of the show that was virtually everyone in the world was going to be part of, I found the most remote piano practice room and spent half an hour literally screaming my voice back to life. I walked into the audition, croaked out the song and landed a lead role. The following summer I landed a role in the summer musical, and that fall the musical was chosen for me. I turned it down, frustrating the director, but we were doing Macbeth, and I was an acTOR!

I remember my senior evaluation as I was leaving Drake. One of the directors congratulated me on my burgeoning self confidence and took credit for my discovered singing talents. Never mind the fact that I'd won several competitions in high school -- he'd developed my voice. That was the first time I remember exercising tact (it happens so rarely) and I simply smiled.

To this day, I am pretty confident walking into a singing audition. I may not be what they're looking for, but I know that I'm not going to embarrass myself. And my high school vocal teacher was right. With the exception of a rather limp audition for the Lyric Opera of Chicago, no one has ever cared that I could not read music. Still, I remember that feeling of being hollowed out when I was asked to sight read music. Instantly I felt as if I'd been wretching for three straight days and there was nothing left inside, all vital organs expelled and lying on the floor.

That's the feeling I got when I decided that today was the day I would begin the composition of my statement of purpose for my PhD programs. There are precious few guidleines on what a statement of purpose even is. All I could find is that Yale wants between 500 and 1000 words. I have four: I. Want. To. Teach.

Still, it's that feeling of having a weakness exposed, judged, and discarded that seems to be preventing me from moving forward. I'm standing in the wings of some Broadway theater, waiting to audition, and Harvey Fierstein, Hugh Jackman, and Kristin Chenowith have just finished giving their monologues and singing their show-stopping songs.

"You're up."