In the 1940s, elementary schools performed what they called “operettas,” the childhood response to the dictate, “let’s have a show.” The productions kept the kids active and the parents proud. Lincoln Elementary School followed the practice. There was the assumption that every little kid could sing. Wrong! As the others belted out their first and second grade lyrics, I was relegated to beating time with “rhythm sticks.” I was strongly urged to “mouth the words” without making any loud sound. All of the kids were expected to take part in the class’s annual production. No parent could be left behind!
In my first-grade operetta, everyone in the class was a sprite. Each of us wore a pointy-hat made from bright-yellow crape paper. It might have been because I was scared, or maybe it was the result of being forced to attempt to sing, that I burst out in tears before the performance. In her efforts to calm me, I remember my teacher telling me: “Good little sprites don’t cry; their yellow caps give them courage.”
I did appear as the lead in operettas when I was in the fifth and six grades, not because of my singing ability, but rather because I was able (and willing) to memorize all of the lines. In one of them I played a miser. My costume was stereotypic for the time. I wore a black skull cap to which a white, straw-wig had been sewed. I don’t know where the material originated; it could have been from a broom. In the other production I was a kindly school janitor who pushed a broom. My grade-school custodian showed me how to wield it properly. I had tried sweeping it back-and-forth. That doesn’t work, a janitorial broom is always pushed forward to get rid of all the debris covering a classroom floor. I was a first-rate miser and a janitor, as an actor but not as a vocalist.
I was forbidden to sing my numerous lines. I was forced to recite them as poetry. The audience may not have realized what was happening. Both elementary music and poetry had lots of rhyme and rhythm, that’s all that mattered. My fellow performers were happy. They did not need to listen to me as they bellowed forth their choral parts. The teachers strongly urged me to join in by moving my lips without any movement of my vocal cords. Reluctantly I acquiesced and began my lifelong role of being a “non-singer.”
This nonperformance attitude was reinforced in junior high school. Although choral music was required for all of the other members of my seventh-grade class, I was excused and allowed to attend an extra study-hall. Remarkably, my report card for that year shows an “A” average in music for each of the two semesters, even though the individual grade for each six-week period was left blank. It’s probably because I had an “A” in everything else, except Physical Education in which I earned a “C” average.
Although singing is supposed to be part of the genetic pattern for all Italian males, I seemed to have been overlooked when vocal DNA was handed out. One of my father’s brothers had a professional, operatic voice. My father, a typical Italian male, thought he could sing, too. However, the only time I heard him sing was when he was very angry. It was a good signal to know when to stay out of his way. The words “Funiculi, funicula …“ always sent me into hiding.
On the other hand, the Italian-male, vocal gene might be recessive. My son, Ken, has a great voice, as does his own son, Jordan. Although the family says this resulted from my wife, Karen, who performed on stage in college, was the song-leader for her sorority and, later, had fun in Gilbert and Sullivan productions, as well as Li’l Abner, it’s possible my latent, genetic contribution was of some benefit to the boys.
Since I had failed to follow my Italian operatic heritage, I thought instrumental music might be a good substitute. Or maybe it was my parent’s thought. I tried to learn how to play the piano. My lessons were given by Mrs. Corbett, who lived in the house across the street from us, the one into which we later moved! Her music room became our parlor.
I struggled through the required finger movements and how to pass my thumb under the other four fingers. I’m not sure I really got too far beyond playing a competent scale with both hands. And yes, there was the usual recital at the appropriate time, or at least Mrs. Corbett thought it was appropriate. All I recall is that, during the recital, I had to play the introduction twice. I vividly remember starting to play it and immediately forgetting what notes came next. I stopped. I restarted from the beginning, hoping to get past the previously omitted notes. I wanted to cry. I then remembered what my first-grade teacher had said about “good little sprites.” Her words came into my head as I repeated the opening measures of the piano piece I was performing. I did not have a yellow cap. Only the ivory keys of the old YMCA piano were available. They had to do.
My early years did not cause me any significant vocal problems. The difficulty arose when I wanted to join a fraternity in college. There was a requirement for neophytes, during the last week of their pledge period, to render a sung request before being allowed to enter the House. During this week, I spent hours waiting patiently to be granted permission by any brother who would finally take pity on me. I almost gave up trying to join the fraternity.
In my adult years I was unable, physically and emotionally, to sing out-loud. This was especially true at church, where, with post-Vatican II reforms, everyone was encouraged to participate. Later, when I was ordained as a Permanent Deacon in the Catholic Church, my pastor agreed I could pray without singing. He, too, was a compassionate man.
I retired from an active role in the Diaconate at the right time. The current Cardinal-Archbishop of the Diocese of Galveston-Houston loves singing and strongly encourages all of his clergy to chant whenever the Liturgy calls for it. Once more, I escaped my earthly torment.
Yes, from my early years in operettas, I learned if I’m perfect at anything, it’s being a perfect monotone. Perhaps, someday, I will be able to sing out, with joy, in the heavenly choir.