Geeky Kid -- Big Voice

With Mrs. Norton's help, I got rid of the wedgies and made it all the way to American Idol.

When I was young, I got teased by other kids like it was their job. I remember riding the bus in Raleigh, North Carolina, and always sitting in the seat right behind the driver. I would talk his ear off and hope that the other kids wouldn't tease me.

I wasn't popular in grade school. I had friends, but they were like me, geeky, shy, and unable to fit in. Some of it came because I spent a large chunk of my childhood around adults. My mother and I left my birth father when I was about two. After that, I spent most of my time with her or my grandparents. I would even go to work with Mom at Sears and hang out with the old ladies there. They'd prop me on the carpet samples and make me sing country songs. I already had my red hair, square white teeth and freckles. I looked like Howdy Doody. For some reason they found it adorable.

I felt comfortable when I was singing for the ladies at Sears. But kids in grade school don't really care if you can sing, and since I'd rarely spent time around others my age, I didn't know the social rules. I knew all the words to "Break It To Me Gently." But that doesn't keep you from getting wedgies at recess.

It didn't help that I dressed like a loser, in old-man sweaters with loud patterns and crazy colors, while other kids were wearing hyper-color neon T-shirts, Umbro athletic shorts and designer sneakers. I remember once when I wanted new tennis shoes, my mother said, "We don't have the money for $100 tennis shoes. Besides, you don't grow from having everything given to you." Then she'd tell me about Dolly Parton and where she started and she'd say, "Look where she is!"

Well, I didn't want to be Dolly Parton. I wanted to be cool.

But there I was, on the playground, dressed like somebody's grandfather, burning up in those sweaters, unable to play soccer or kickball, just off by myself feeling and looking ridiculous. Of course I got picked on. I was teased, called "wimp," "dork," "four eyes," and "loser." I was dodgeball bait. I spent a lot of time praying to be invisible.

Then I entered seventh grade. Leesville Road Middle School was brand new. Since it had just opened, there were no cliques. Everyone was starting fresh. Maybe things could be different.

I had sung briefly in the elementary school choir but since I was trying to be like other boys -- none of whom sang -- I had given it up. I also had a bad experience with the Raleigh Boychoir, a prestigious singing club in the area. I knew my voice was as good as the other kids', but I never felt at home in that choir. It seemed like just another place to get picked on. So after a year, I quit. Which annoyed my mother, who told me, "God gave everybody a calling and he gave you a voice. You need to use that talent."

Instead, I made the tragic mistake of deciding to be the water boy for the football team. I figured if I could be part of the team somehow, I might be respected. I figured wrong. The players mocked my high voice, and one of the coaches even called me a gnat. So, because I was ignoring her about singing, Mom took it upon herself to approach the new school's music teacher, Mrs. Elsie Norton, and tell her that I needed to be on the choir.

Mrs. Norton called me into her office after school one day. She said she had heard about my previous choir experience and asked if I would be interested in trying out for her choir. I said I wasn't sure.

She explained how she believed music brings people together, that it's a universal language. She also mentioned that a lot of cute girls would be taking the class. Then she popped in a cassette and asked me to sing for her. I sang Whitney Houston's "One Moment in Time." (I was still a soprano then.)

Mrs. Norton was enthusiastic. She told me I had a strong voice, that I could project a long way. "You sing in church, don't you?" she asked.

I nodded. I'd been singing in church for four years.

"I can tell. You sing like you're aiming for the rafters."

She flattered me. She told me that voices as strong and steady as mine didn't come along often. "You are already connecting the words to feelings," she said. "I know adults who can't do that." She seemed genuinely impressed. Then she reminded me about the girls who would be in class. "We'll be rehearsing before school," she said.

I thought, You know what? I'll do it. And if it's stupid, so what? I did it, and things got a little better.

To start, I got instant friends, a choir clique. And the more I sang, the more people knew who I was. It wasn't about clothes and glasses anymore, but about what I could do.

By eighth grade everything had changed. I had a really wonderful year. At the school shows, I usually got the solos -- sometimes even standing ovations. Everybody knew me not as the gangly redhead, but as the kid with the big voice. Well, they knew me as both. But my looks were no longer a liability. It was like, He may be geeky but that boy can sing, you know?

I'm still close with Mrs. Norton. And whenever I see her, she reminds me of music's power, of her belief that singing lets us feel passion and be connected in a fundamental way. Every culture makes music because the world needs song. I often think if Mrs. Norton hadn't pushed, I might never have joined choir. Singing could have completely fallen out of my life. I remember this every time I sing. And how sometimes it takes somebody else to help you find your voice.

From Reader's Digest - January 2005

 

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