When I was in fourth grade, we had an assembly that presented something pretty magical to us youngsters - musical instruments. If we wanted to head down that track, it was time for us to choose which woodwind or brass horn we wanted to acquire skills for.
And I wanted to learn the saxophone.
As a child, I loved a silly “Sesame Street” song called “Put Down the Duckie,” in which Hoot the Owl tells Ernie he must put his rubber duckie down if he wants to learn to play the saxophone. This was the song I looked forward to dancing in the aisles to when we saw “Sesame Street Live” at the State Theater in New Brunswick, and it made a long lasting impression.
But my parents told me the saxophone was too expensive.
Luckily, I was enchanted by a different instrument that day - the flute. I loved it’s clear, soprano sound. And it was a lot cheaper.
The silver siren song seduced me. Due to piano lessons with my grandmother from the time I was five, I knew how to read the treble clef well, so that was one step in the learning process I got to skip. The B flat major scale, most common in concert band, came easily to me, a quick progression of peeling fingers off of little round keys to produce the right notes. So I did pretty well with the flute in elementary school.
Around fourth grade is also when we were allowed to join the chorus. I knew I had a good voice, I enjoyed singing, and I liked our new music teacher, Mrs. Guzzi. She taught us bouncey songs, like “Fifty Nifty United States” (thanks to which I can still rattle off the fifty states in alphabetical order) and “Pizza!” to the tune of the classical “Funiculi, Funicula.”
When I got to middle school, it wasn’t as easy to be in both band AND chorus. The classes met at the same time, so I had to choose. While I loved singing, I was in junior choir at my temple, and I knew there wasn’t another venue where I could learn flute, so I chose band as my musical elective.
Band remained one of my favorite classes throughout my middle school career. I was our number one or two flute player, and since my mom was in a position where she could borrow one from the high school she worked in, I even got to be the only piccolo player when I was in eighth grade. Our band director, Mr. Cunningham, was young, patient, and endearingly nerdy. He had a knack for choosing musical pieces we were all enthusiastic about. When we played a “Jurassic Park” medley in sixth grade, I got chills. Seventh grade brought “Titanic,” where the flute section really shone, and in 1998, the release of The Phantom Menace and Mr. C’s love of Star Wars brought the inevitable “Star Wars” medley. The parents loved hearing each one as much as we loved playing it.
Meanwhile, my family joined a new temple around the same time, and I was excited that they had a junior choir for their elementary and middle school students. I began by being my usual shy self, just singing along with the other kids. Until, that is, there was a solo in a version we did of “Barechu.” I told my mom how much I loved and wanted it, but I was too embarrassed to volunteer myself to audition. Mom was in the adult choir and put a bug in the ear of Cantor Roskin-Coleman. The cantor, a beautiful blue-eyed blonde woman with the voice of an angel who had a kind way about her, encouraged me to audition one day, and the solo was instantly mine.
After that, I became something of a solo regular in junior choir. Especially when I learned the third of three solos in “V’ahavta,” with its long, high passages that not many young kids wanted to be bothered with or had the chops to pull off. It became “Shauna’s solo;” whenever we did this song, the cantor would ask if anyone wanted to audition, and when no one inevitably did, we would shrug at each other. Mine again.
Once, after my established junior choir solo career, Cantor Roskin brought out the old version of “Barechu” that had inspired my growth. That year, so many kids wanted a solo that Cantor decided to split my beloved song in half. I had a hard time deciding which part I wanted, but I did, and I earned one. Then, the night of, we were practicing in the sanctuary and a boy came running in to tell us that Ben, the other soloist, was sick and wouldn’t make it. Sad for him, but happy for me. I got the whole thing.
At the post-Shabbat snacks afterwards, another young boy kept staring at me side-eyed. He eventually approached to tell me what a great voice I have and that I could be a professional singer. I was flattered, obviously if I still think about it.
Participation in junior choir ended in eighth grade, despite Hebrew school continuing through high school. My weekends became markedly less fun. I went out with a bang, though. There was a boy the same age as me named Ilya who also had a wonderful voice and frequently sang solos. At our last Shabbat service, we were surreptitiously body mic’ed, and as the rest of the choir left the bimah, we started a fake argument before breaking into a rehearsed “Anything You Can Do I Can Do Better.” It probably wasn’t what anyone attending a Friday night service was expecting, but I’m sure it gave the congregation a good chuckle.
My experiences in junior choir combined with a dance recital in which I emulated the Spice Girls gave me a new ambition in life - to become a pop star. I was in seventh or eighth grade when I decided to start my vocal group Same Difference. As our first gig, my bat mitzvah, approached, we needed a place to rehearse. The chorus teacher at our middle school, Ms. Bradshaw, agreed to let us practice in her room during lunch and to help us with harmonizing.
Major turning point in my life.
Ms. Bradshaw told me that she and Mr. Cunningham had an agreement for students who wanted to be in both band and chorus, and I just hadn’t known about it. Since band was the class I was signed up for and the one I got a grade in, I could go to that three days a week and chorus two days. My interests were shifting to lie heavily in singing at this point, so I loved this idea. In the one semester I sang in middle school choir, I scored a descant duet with a girl named Anu.
High school drew nearer. Mr. Nichols, the Edison High band director, came by to see us practice one day, and I was one of a few musicians chosen to play privately for him. Just me and one other flautist. I was proud of that. By this time, I was taking private lessons with someone who would soon major in music in college. I was intrigued by her open holed, higher quality silver instrument and looked forward to playing one like it someday.
Meanwhile, the HS choir director was coming to hold auditions for A Capella Choir, the HS choir you had to be accepted into. If you weren’t, there was always Concert Choir, a class open to anyone, but I knew I was better than that. I'd had too many compliments over the years to not have a bit of a chip on my shoulder about singing. We were told that it was extremely rare for students to make it into A Capella as a freshman, but there were a few every year.
From the class of 2003, across two middle schools, I believe eight of us were accepted.
Yes, us. I was one of the chosen.
Of course, now I had to figure out how I was going to fit the flute into my life, although my interest was someone waning. Really my only option was marching band, which my mom was pretty eager for me to be a part of. Particularly as it meant attending every EHS football game, and my mom is nothing if not a sucker for football. Even if you have one of the worst teams in the state.
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