Creative Non-Fiction - "Spotlight"
In 1967, Barbara Streisand forgot the words to her own song while on stage at her concert in Central Park. She didn’t sing publicly again for 27 years. She described the experience as “staggering.” The concert was in front of 150,000 patrons seated on the grass in the park. One hundred and fifty thousand blank faces stared back at the famed Streisand as she stumbled through her own lyrics. Many times when performers forget the words to a song, they’ll make up some lyrics to fill in the gaps and move along, laughing off the mess up. Diane Sawyer interviewed Streisand about her experience. Streisand said she didn’t have much of a sense of humor, and as a result, there was no laughing it off. Sawyer asked Streisand if her voice can still do everything she wants it to. "You know, I always think I can't do it," she replied. “And then as I sing, it just sort of opens up, and I thank God for this gift that I have. Because I'm surprised myself."
When I was in 2nd grade, I didn’t get the solo in the Christmas play. Carrie Sawyer got it, and I was ticked. I told my teacher I still wanted to sing, and she tried to explain to me that Carrie was playing the mother Mary and Mary had to sing the song to baby Jesus. But I didn’t buy it. Mrs. Amor tried to level with me. “If you can find another Christmas song that fits into the play, you can sing it.” And that, is how the role of Angel #3 got her first, unprecedented solo. After researching Christmas songs on my dad’s Dell computer, I settled for “What Child is This” and claimed it as my song.
“What Child is this
Who laid to rest
On Mary's lap is sleeping?
Whom Angels greet with anthems sweet,
While shepherds watch are keeping?
This, this is Christ the King,
Whom shepherds guard and Angels sing
Haste, haste, to bring Him laud,
The Babe, the Son of Mary.”
I didn’t know what “laud” meant. I asked my mom to explain it to me. Laud wasn’t in my 7-year-old vocab book. In truth, I had to Google it again today.
The spotlight effect refers to “the tendency to think that people are noticing you more than they actually are.” I wonder what the numbers behind that are. If my perception is that people notice me 87% of the time, are they really just noticing me 34% of the time? Do those numbers change if you’re under a literal spotlight? How is the percent affected when there are 3,000 faces staring at you? What about 5,000?
I’ve never considered myself to be a shy person. I think if I had to quantify it, I’d say I’m about 70% on the extroverted side and 30% on the introverted. I don’t mind introducing myself to new people, and I find a lot of joy in making my rounds in a room to see everyone. My socialness can have its limits, though, and oftentimes after a few days of extroverted busyness, I have to take a day of isolation to fuel back up. I don’t know where I’d place the feeling of being up on stage in regards to extroversion. Some people tend to think you have to be the most outgoing person in the room to take such a public spot, but in reality, the stage can be one of the most isolating and lonely places.
This past Sunday, I sang on a stage to over 4,000 people. I didn’t sing a Christmas song. I sang worship songs. Then again, I guess Christmas songs are worship songs. Some of them at least. I stared out at the crowd from my microphone and took in the entire scene. I try to do that every time. Soak it all in. My college career of singing has been nothing short of a dream fulfilled. I know many of the faces before me, but not all of them. Our church has grown exponentially in the past 3 years I’ve been singing here, and at times it’s overwhelming. Yet, those familiar faces from our very first services in an old Ace Hardware still find their spots in the first few rows.
Mary Fensholt, an author and counselor said, "The fear of public speaking or performing is more than anything a fear of being eaten." Apparently being intently scrutinized and singled out was a prelude to being eaten by a predator, so human ancestors evolved a strong fear response against setting themselves apart from the protection of the group.
I knew I loved to sing in kindergarten. I didn’t have a real concept of if I was good or not, and frankly, I’m sure I didn’t care. I just knew I loved it. This passion stayed with me from seven to seventeen and to this day at twenty-one. An intrinsic connection to music and a love for expressing that through song was second nature. For me, it had never been about the accolades of an audience or the approval of professionals, my passion for singing was as pure as it was undeniable. Laud means, “praise (a person or their achievements) highly, especially in a public context.”
My mom always told me that people are naturally egocentric. She told me to not worry about what other people thought of me because in the end, we’re all so selfish that we’re too focused on ourselves to notice anyone else. She saw a real freedom in that. My mom is also one of the most selfless people I’ve ever known. Quite the opposite of what she preached, I don’t know if she ever thought of herself first. She’s the type to show up unannounced with a meal and two desserts in hand when she thinks you sound a little off on the phone. She’s also the type to want to become a nurse, but settle on speech pathology because the hours are more flexible for a stay at home mom. I always wondered if she regretted that decision. She told me her mom forced her to switch her major.
Scientists have discovered that musical vibrations move through our minds and alter our physical and emotional landscape. Endorphins and oxytocin are released in singing, and often lessen the feelings of depression and loneliness. I’ve never thought of myself as a depressed person, but maybe I have my love for singing to thank for that. I feel most at home on stage with a microphone in my hand, but the thought of speaking instead of singing is enough to put me into a panic. Something about the sound of my own talking voice echoing back to me makes me so uncomfortable, but if I can sing the words I want to say, all stress subsides.
Singing has always been my “thing.” My middle school stereotype. My instant identifier for high school. My ruse for excusing my lack of athletic abilities. I always saw music as my passion on the side, but when I got to college, I was introduced to the idea that it could be more. As I took worship leading more seriously, and those in charge began to take me more seriously in turn, I realized this passion of mine was sustainable as a job beyond my college years.
Mrs. Dinsmore, a mom who drove in our carpool group, told my mom one day after kindergarten pick-up that I had a “raw talent for singing.” My mom laughed. She told Mrs. Dinsmore that every kid can “sing.” Mrs. Dinsmore persisted. She said she heard me from the back row of her suburban singing along to Disney princess songs like she’d never heard before. She urged my mom to get me singing at our church.
The first time I sang at my church in college my mic was off. I practiced that song for days, belting it out in my Volkswagen Beetle while driving aimlessly up and down streets. There isn’t a way to be truly alone when you live in a shoebox dorm. My car was a safe haven for missed notes and ambitious attempts. I’d put my foot on the gas and drive straight down Glenn Avenue until I wasn’t sure which way was back to campus, and all the while I’d be singing out verses and choruses until I was satisfied. As a perfectionist in every sense of the word, I’d find myself driving for hours singing the same few lines until I liked the way it sounded on my phone recording. I burned through a lot of gas money that way.
But on that Sunday in September, I strongly sang the first notes of my solo and was met with a response of blank faces. I tried to read their expressions while also singing with a pleasant smile on my face. It’s truly fascinating how our minds can do so much at once. While focusing on the notes my vocal chords sounded, I was simultaneously reading the words off the “confidence monitor” in front of me, making sure I had a smile on my face, listening to the metronome and cues in my headphones, and trying to read the signs from the worship leader on my right on how to fix my unresponsive microphone
A clinical professor of psychology described stage fright as a form of the fight or flight response.
The guitar player next to me had to lean over and flip my mic switch to “on.” I didn’t forget to do that again.
The spotlight effect is, at its core, a result of egocentrism. “We all are the center of our own universes. This is not to say we are arrogant or value ourselves more than others. Rather, our entire existence is from our own experiences and perspective. And we use those experiences to evaluate the world around us, including other people.”
One element of the music world that tends to confuse those unfamiliar with it is the in-ear monitors, or headphones, that all musicians wear. While from the outside they appear to be no more than a fancy looking earbud, to a musician, they’re our entire world. Put them in your eardrums and the outside elements disappear. The noise cancelling provides a musical cocoon that just those in the band can hear. With mixes customized by the man running the sound board, each musician can hear an exact mix of what’s going on for their specific instrument. For me, that means hearing my voice, the acoustic guitar, piano, bass, and any others singers. There’s a million ways to customize this mix, and we take full advantage of the options. I’ll pan the vocalists to one ear and the instruments to the other, and make sure the metronome track is loud and clear. A constant ticking keeping me on beat. Another critical level is the guide track. This track serves as the driving force for the entire song. A monotone voice booms over the track saying “verse, 1, 2, 3…” or “chorus, now” or “fade out.” The guide is the backbone of the entire performance, and without it, the band is just six musicians all fighting to play the right thing.
When I sang in the Auburn arena it was empty. Rehearsals are always that way. You practice the music, but you can’t practice the feeling of the faces staring back at you. I tend to sound worse at rehearsals and better for the real thing. I guess that’s my egoism seeping through. A performance complex heightened by the numbers of seats in the room.
An arena service brings its own level of anxiety. The sheer scale of it all is intimidating enough, but couple that fear with the stress of everything being new and in a different space and you have the perfect storm for something to go wrong. Before a service like this, I usually find myself walking the rows of empty chairs. I’ll drag my fingers along the tops of each plastic seat. I ground myself in reality by thinking of who might be seated here and what their circumstances might be. I’ll pray for those chairs as my fingers graze each rounded seat. Pray for conversations to be had, minds to be changed, hearts to be shifted. I’ll think about all the stories that I won’t ever know. Thousands of lives with their own stories and problems will funnel in and out of this room in the span of an hour and a half. It’s in these moments that I like to get my mind off of me. I prove my mom wrong in the fact that I’m not just thinking about myself. In fact, I’d love to think about myself as little as possible in these moments before a spotlight blinds me back into egoism. Too much time thinking about my own performance will send me over the edge, so I like to focus on the little things that I can control. And right now that’s counting chairs and steps and minutes down until it’s time to take the stage.