After Vocal Jazz Ensemble, I was done with choir. I would never take another music class, or join another choral ensemble—or so I thought. Yet as I stared at the giant void in my schedule between anthropology and philosophy, my resolve began to waver.
Choir was my safety net for the past 7 years. When I didn’t know the school, or the people, I always knew what to do in choir. I knew what’s expected of me. I have trouble in new situations unless I have a detailed, step-by-step procedure telling me what to do (preferably written down because I never trust what I hear) and choir kept me a litter saner; it made it easier to pretend I was normal.
Now that I’m approximately 3,000 miles away from everything I know and love, I need something to be normal. I need to know someone other than my roommate (also imported from the golden state) and the sweet, gorgeous neighbor (who my roommate is obsessed with baking for.) Being an alto automatically places me in a group—it gives me friends so I can somewhat fit in on campus— and gives me the opportunity to not be just the strange, well-dressed girl from California that lives across the street from school and glares at everyone.
I guess it’s back to dissing sopranos and hitting on pingüinos.
Your butterfly,
Regette
P.S. I miss the poppies—not quite the color of gold, but if gold were liquid and could raise a cream.
I miss the lupines that are bluer than blue because each petal is edged in white. I miss miles of rolling golden foothills dotted with oaks like chocolate chips. I miss noontime and heat rising off the asphalt in indistinct waves; when the overpowering heat drives my dog beneath the dining table and the world outside the air-conditioning seems incredible. I miss seawater that’s cold and intimidating waves not lulled by barrier Islands. I miss beaches composed of more seashells than sand and biting wind that tastes of salt.
Mostly I miss the people though.
Oh, and my beautiful Mediterranean climate that wouldn’t dare be humid.
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