Last week, Rachelle and I went to see a performance of The Toronto Choral Society that was held at Riverdale Collegiate Institute in Toronto. Although I love choral music, I very rarely make the effort to go out and see it, but in this case was motivated to do so when I discovered that a friend of mine, unknown to me, was actually a member of a choir.
This is something I love about people.
The unknown treasures buried within each of us.
Mahreen teaches Bollywood dance classes once a month at a senior’s center.
Ronan volunteers to bake bread at a homeless shelter.
Madeline, embarrassed, practices violin in her walk-in closet with the door closed so that she doesn’t disturb the neighbours.
At the Collegiate, smiling high school girls in white shirts stood in the foyer. Blushing slightly, the girls, like stewardesses pointing to the emergency exits, directed people to the doors leading into the auditorium. Elderly women, wearing poppies on their sweaters and frowns on their faces, sat at cafeteria tables collecting donations with a joyless sobriety befitting a Remembrance Day performance.
A tiny Asian girl with cat scratches on her arms, sat at the very back of the auditorium in front of a mixing table. Probably president of the AV club, she had notes written on the palm of her hand, notes she would read and then mouth to herself. Waiting for the concert to begin, the 45 year-old man sitting directly in front of us, played Pong on his iPhone, while an elderly man in corduroy shuffled and wheezed past him, shaking his head in disgust at this modern world.
The faces that comprised the choir– all so distinct and rich in unknown histories– radiated pride. They’d practiced for months, taking streetcars and subways into rehearsal, through all sorts of miseries and joys, and on this night, 130 of them dressed in black, in front of a full orchestra, were to take the stage.
The performance was astonishing and beautiful.
Accompanied by narration and supplemental video projections, the choir sang about a dozen songs, each one heartbreaking and inspiring in it’s own way. The elderly man sitting in front of us sang along to Keep The Home Fires Burning:
Keep the Home Fires Burning,
While your hearts are yearning.
Though your lads are far away
They dream of home.
His voice was thin, cracked and straining, and to what point in time, or to whom his spirit was traveling, was anybody’s guess.
In my left pocket was the bracelet that my Grandfather had worn throughout World War II. It was a present from his sister, and I always imagined it was meant to protect him and keep him pointed home, and with that spirit in mind, I carry it with me now.
As the voices of the choir rose up, each one finding its’ place within the whole, each individual was transformed into something greater, something more than they were just an hour ago. This transformation happened to the audience, too, and as it was occurring, as we were all swept up, I thought not just of those that were lost in war, but of all of those that have passed out of our lives, and for a moment it felt like we were in communion with them, our voices and aspirations reaching up, hopeful, as if to touch them one more time.
“They call back to us
from the gauzy edge of paradise,
good news, good news.”
—-Anne Sexton