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Show the opportunity to share something I loved, something that had felt precious and special, something that made me feel larger than myself. And, yet, I knew I couldn't sing. Years of being gently led back to the tune by my mother made me aware of my limitations. My voice cracked on any note above E, turning into a whisper as I stretched for the pitch. The song Mrs. G had selected for me was about mud, and bugs, and God's love and most of it was spent above E. Hand motions and swinging hips would not curry enough attention away from the fact that I could not sing. /And at the age of twelve, I was no longer cute. I stumbled through the performance, managing not to wince when my voice squeaked, all the time thinking of my mother whose voice was as clear as water, knowing how beautifully she played the piano, how she could paint, sew, cook, and dance. It was painful to hear the soured notes, how short I had fallen. My parents made a tape of my solo, and I refused to listen to it. In the sticky mud, I can remember singing, my toes wiggling beneath my robe, my voice reaching and reaching and never getting there, and catching a bug that glows. At the end of the season I joined the bell choir. I also join the JPOs. Since Virginia, I have coveted the orange sash and shiny silver buckle, the sense of power and authority. Officer Diaz trains us, teaches us how to dress right, dress left, judge the distance between us and the next junior officer as we march with our stop signs out to the corner. We design an elaborate routine that has us marching all over the blacktop after school in anticipation of the state competition. My salute is solid. I'm second in command and sometimes blow the whistle, sing left, right, left, just 149 |