Reflective Essay
I began college much like I’m leaving it: intimidated, wondering if I’d fit in, and totally unsure where the academic and extracurricular winds would take me. I just didn’t really seem to fit. I had a hard time making friends throughout middle school, prompting me to try private school my freshman year of high school before returning to public the next. While I eventually found a friend group, I was still insecure and felt out of place; some of them had been friends since kindergarten, how could I hope to fit into the configuration of personalities and interests that they’ve fine-tuned and solidified for over half their lives? I don't remember this (I actually don’t remember most of school before 10thgrade, which suggests that it’s probably for the better), however I apparently forced myself into the group by interrupting their conversations. Luckily, it worked out for the best. What I do recall and still fall victim to is resorting to quietness when I feel uncomfortable; silence is not making a mistake, not making a fool of myself, a cocoon of safety that protects me from outside threats and prevents me from forming outside connections.
I was a well-rounded, good student, but I didn’t excel in any particular academic subjects. After all the one-off classes like gym and homeroom were factored in, I was allowed to choose one class which invariably ended up being chorus. I’ve been singing in choirs both in- and outside school since 3rd grade; when I moved from New Jersey to Massachusetts at the end of 5thgrade, one of the first things my family did after settling in was find me a chorus to sing in. By the end of my senior year of high school, I found my niche in music: I was president of chorus, which helped me win me an award for being best musician in my class, and I was a supporting role in the musicals sophomore and junior years and the lead senior year (though my voice definitely compensated for my mediocre acting and abysmal dancing).
With my background, it makes sense that I would find some way, any way to continue singing. That was when I found Angels on Call a cappella. In search of extracurriculars, I attended Acarush, an event hosted by the Michigan A Cappella Council, that featured one song by every a cappella group. I don’t remember Angels; they didn’t stick out. I signed up for auditions for many groups and got callbacks for several, however the deciding factor in choosing Angels was that it was the only group that accepted me. I wanted to join a group, any group, and that was it.
At the beginning, that’s all it was to me, a group. Once again, I didn’t fit in, though I didn’t notice until I did. When something is normalized in your life, it’s hard to notice that what’s normal may not be good. Not knowing anything was wrong (and, retrospectively, perpetuating the problem), I continued being me: insecure, quiet, afraid to make waves. I never posted in the GroupMe, rarely spoke to people let alone spoke up; I was the quiet constant, the reliable weirdo that no one quite knew what to make of.
While I was (retrospectively) socially cool, I thrived in the music. I may not have known how to make friends, however I had ten years of music that quickly made me one of the better singers, which was amplified by being a man. (Sadly, singing throughout primary education is seen as girly in many places, making its practitioners disproportionately women.) By the end of my first year, I felt confident in my musical skills and applied to be music director. In my cocky naivety, I thought it an unfortunate fluke that an older member won.
People slowly chipped away at my self-imposed, protective aloofness by inviting me to pregames and to study. I was finally in! Or so I thought. (To be fair, I don’t think I’m a cold person. I’m a New Englander, that’s how we do.) It quickly became apparent that one of the oldest members who held considerable social clout severely disliked me; he was one step away from being outright hostile. This effectively precluded any invite to a hang out when he was present, which were most. (Later I would learn that the reason he hated me was because of one singular instance when I took one piece of Pizza House cheesy bread when I told him before he had ordered that I didn’t want one.) I had made an in, however it was effectively nullified.
His graduation at the end of my sophomore year signaled a fresh start, a new experience of Angels. I was no longer overtly overlooked and made more friends in the group. By this time, I’d solidified my majors and minor; I was in the middle of the collegiate marathon, no longer a bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, pluripotent freshman and not yet a seasoned, jaded (read: disillusioned) senior. I was once again passed over for music director and this time I was peeved. I felt more technically qualified, as apparent by my stronger background in singing. Given, she had perfect pitch which made rehearsals much smoother, however I felt that perfect pitch shouldn’t make or break people’s votes.
I had also begun to be frustrated by other mechanisms of the group, namely solo decisions. In my first two years, we were not quite egalitarian in solos; no one had four or five (which had happened in the past), however a handful of the better soloists accumulated the majority of solos. As members graduated, the culture shifted and solos were dispersed more evenly. No one had more than two solos and non-musical factors, such as giving members an opportunity to grow as musicians, played into the decisions besides just vocal quality and number of solos. I felt like a rug was torn out beneath my feet, almost betrayed. I was (of course, subjectively) the better singer for anything for which I auditioned, plus as an older member I had served my time; I deserved those solos.
My vitriol reached its peak the end of my junior year when the same music director ran and won. I was livid. Not only had she broken with tradition of music directors serving only one year but she stole my last chance to fill the one position I had wanted since my freshman year. I had gone with her decisions even when I thought they were unequivocally wrong. I was the only senior who wanted and hadn’t held a leadership position in our junior or senior years (I was concert manager for one semester my sophomore year). It was supposed to all lead up to this but instead it crashed. My righteous entitlement was dashed in a second.
Of all the hard pills to swallow, this one was brutal. My parents, the American Dream, and capitalistic ideology all told me that if I worked hard and played by the rules I would reap rewards. In my mind, I was the best musician and knew exactly what had to be done to improve the group. It also felt like a punch in the gut to be deprived of something when I was so involved in the group. Everyone has different levels of investment in extracurriculars but this was it—this was My Thing—and my one chance at improving a group that I held so dear was thwarted. How could the other members so dishonor my commitment?
As with all things, my bitterness dissipated, slowly. I was still upset going into senior year, however finishing up the final odds and ends of my college career commanded my time and energy. As my final semester rolled around, things were suddenly thrust into perspective. At the surface level, I simply don’t have control of everything in my life. From solos to music director, things won’t always go the way I plan and I shouldn’t dwell on them. Just because I thought I was the best soloist for a song or would be a better music director didn’t matter in the end because nothing I could do would change it. I have only so much power, energy, and time; I can do what I can, and that’s it. Expending energy on the past prevents me from thriving in the future.
I also found a powerful dose of humility. My ego was problematic for engendering the resentment and, more so, for merely existing. Ego is symptomatic of insecurity, a need for validation. It demonstrates that someone requires others’ praise to garner self-worth. Being a good student all through high school and college and growing up in the “participation trophy generation” stoked my ego by eliminating failure. Failure creates opportunity for reflection and assuages the need for validation because, simply, you aren’t praised for losing. You have to take solace in your efforts and build resilience to criticism. I still think I’m a good singer and scholar and I, of course, like validation, but I’ve found I no longer need to win to be content. Simply singing in Angels and being with friends was fulfilling. By exchanging anxiety-inducing external validation for a self-driven motivation to improve, I finally permitted myself to grow.
Letting go of my ego also allowed me to realize how supportive the group is. Where I perceived it as being shafted for a solo, it was given to a singer who was originally too afraid to audition for any song because he was petrified of performing in front of a crowd. I’m astonished at his bravery to join the group and see now that the song means much more to him than the tally it would have been for me. I also appreciate how at the beginning of each rehearsal we held an emotional check-in to evaluate everyone’s emotional state. Having a space for such open, honest, critical, and, most of all, respected self-reflection is rare. When something is normalized in your life, it’s hard to notice that what’s normal may be extraordinary.
This respect and support is ultimately what allowed me to become more comfortable with myself. We all struggle with a nagging, deeply ingrained social anxiety to be accepted, which usually manifests as changing yourself to fit in. However, with Angels I don’t need to do this. I and all other members can be who we are, college students just trying to figure everything out as we face obstacles, doubts, and existential crises. What I once saw as restraints—my quietness, reservedness, and perfectionism (I spent over an hour writing this essay just trying to find the right words before I could move on; I sometimes completely lost my train of thought)—I now no longer feel the need to correct; these are just part of who I am. Many of these also waned: I no longer feel uncomfortable speaking to people and my carefully curated memes are institutionalized in the GroupMe. Of course, these may hold me back in some circumstances, but recognizing them as my default instead of flaws lets me orient myself to environments that use them as strengths. As I enter adulthood, this intrapersonal intelligence will be imporant to help me transition.
Ultimately, I learned rather nihilistically that most people don’t care about me. As part of my semester of lasts, I had my last joint concert with all the a cappella groups. In past concerts, I’d striven to give a good performance to show other groups how much we’d improved. The a cappella community is composed of the most driven and talented singers of an already driven and talented student body, leading to intense inter-group competition. However, this time I didn’t want to perform to impress other people and, suddenly, I didn’t care about the other groups. My concern over humiliation gone, they were just others with whom I had to share the stage. The realization that I didn’t care about what the other singers thought of me reminded me that just as I don’t care about them, they don’t care about me. They don’t care if I fail or succeed, what my aspirations or fears are, what makes me happy or frustrated.
No one really cared about the song we chose. No one cared about the challenges we overcame, the work we put in, the bonds Angels share, the amount we’ve improved. At the end of the day, there can only be one group at U of M that’s The Best and Angels chooses not to enter the International Championship of Collegiate A Cappella competition, precluding that opportunity completely. The meaning that I’ve derived from Angels may be a social phenomenon, but the benefits and ultimate experience are intensely personal. There is no inherent meaning and fulfillment to anything, not to being in a cappella, not to being the President of the United States. All meaning is social and, in this case, the meaning I derive affects only me; it's important to me and to me alone.
However, if nothing holds meaning then everything can. We reap the meaning we sow and, thus, we all have the agency to give purpose to our lives, to create our very identities. We have a fleeting opportunity to make purpose in and for ourselves and others before it’s gone. Where once I wanted other groups to recognize our musical improvement, I now only care about our personal growth; where once I was excluded for eating a slice of Pizza House, his toxic presence has long dissipated. Life moves on with or without you so it’s on us to make the most of it and find meaning and joy for ourselves, both personally and for others.
As luck would have it, once I stopped seeking validation, I received it. I went into this project with an abstract idea of the senior class leaving a legacy, as anyone does. However, I learned that we made a real difference to younger members, one that I didn’t feel for seniors when I was an underclassman. They spoke of the seniors as leaders that created a supportive environment and that they looked up to, more than just people but an ineffable presence that will be sorely missed. Some of these feelings are captured in the commemorative video. Also, Angels leadership organized goodie bags for the concert, including individual notes written for each member. For me, one member wrote that I’m, “a fucking institution” and will be missed. I wasn’t an official leader, but rather one that others elected to admire. I believe that makes more of a difference than any musical directions I would have made.
As I am but a recent college graduate, I know that both the meaning and the pain from moving on will subside and eventually be replaced by other more meaningful relationships. I believe that recognition of meaning requires recognition of its ultimate ephemerality. Meaning can be captured, as I hope to do with this project, however I can’t promise that it will remain meaningful. In light of this, we should embrace joy and meaning where we can; after all, that’s all we have.
* * * * *
I wrote this essay while studying with a younger member of the group. We spoke about our joint desire to enter academia and about our honors theses, mine recently completed and hers in the works despite only just finishing sophomore year. I was taken aback when she said she wished she were in my shoes. She explained how she already wanted to be done with classes and writing a thesis so she could relax and apply to grad school.
I responded that I wished I were in her shoes. I wish I had two more years to explore my intellectual interests in a structured, undistracted way, to not have to worry about finding a job or what to do with my life in the meantime. By the end she was convinced that she had the better deal.
However, that interaction got me thinking about what I would do differently if I had two more years. I feel prepared to graduate, perhaps not to be a ‘real’ adult but at least to have a break from endless studying. Would I take an extra semester? Probably, yes. I’d love another summer and another semester to unwind and center myself; I couldn’t foresee how much time and energy academic life would demand (I’m crazy to still be considering it). But anything else? In short, no.
My path to where I am now, as with many people, was long and winding. Academically, I switched majors half a dozen times before settling on Political Science and Women’s Studies. Thomas Edison is quoted as saying of his many unsuccessful lightbulb filament experiments, “I have not failed. I’ve just found 10,000 ways that won’t work.” Those transitory majors weren’t failures or mistakes, they were necessary steps to the present; trying out different parts of my brain from natural science and humanities, abstract to applied, helped me realize how my mind works (it’s social science and abstract, for the record).
Similarly, I would not change anything about Angels, least of all because pining to change the past is a fool’s errand but, ultimately, because it gave me joy. We don’t know how the choices we make will affect us. Any choice we make lives on a spectrum from best to worst and 99% of the time we’re in the middle somewhere. In effect, that means that had I chosen another major, been in another group, I may have been more fulfilled and gotten more joy. So much of life is chance and it's our job to just roll with it. In Women's Studies terms, we're agents who make choices with what we have; the loss of agency is an affront to dignity. In Political Science terms, we're actors whom external factors affect; I rather like this perspective because, as the saying goes, the best actors don't act but react.
But to return to measuring choice efficacy—a common practice in political science and feminist policymaking alike—while we can hypothetically measure choices' effectiveness, I don’t think we can nor should judge happiness by the same metric. Knowing or even thinking we can be happier inevitably detracts from the happiness we have; why not just take it where we can?
No, even if I could have been better, I’m pleased to be where I am right now. I’m a late bloomer, as the two years of academic floundering can attest. However, that gives me the privilege and perspective to view the race as a marathon rather than a sprint. I feel like early success narrows one’s view to thinking that “this is the thing I am good at, this is the thing I must do.” Bumps and turns along the way help you see more of the big picture, including illuminating a more diverse array of interests. (Perhaps I'm just rationalizing my early failures to myself; had I had early success, would I feel this way? Does the ultimate rhetorical nature of the question only reinforce the inevitability and immeasurability of chance? If chance altered my past and will alter my future, what insight do I glean from analyzing how I got to the present and where I may be in the future? And if happiness trumps choice efficacy, is it worth asking these questions? Does any of this matter?)
Where others may be graduating with jobs waiting for them at Apple or Microsoft, I have the luxury (both financially and metaphorically) to take a break from studying and explore a few iterms of interest illuminated by my journey (as cliqué as "my journey" sounds). I've decided that I will do these in some form or another before the next stage of my life—grad school—begins:
First, most directly related to this project, I want to try singing, like really try singing. I'm just figuring out what I'm good at, why not audition for The Voice? I don't want fame or fortune, I just want to see how far I can go.
Second, I want to attend a Buddhist work retreat. There's something appealing about working with my hands all day and having the time to introspect. I'm not Buddhist (though I appreciate my limited understanding of the dogma), however if nothing else it gives me a new lens to look at life and myself that I can try on; no one says I have to keep it.
Third, I want to teach English in Bhutan. Like working a Buddhist retreat, a change in lifestyle and perspective would shake up everything. I want to be a sociologist, so perspective is everything. I am also, as this project demonstrates, very introspective; perspective is everything. However, my desire ultimately boils down to the same rationale as above: I'm just irrationally drawn to it.
I don't know why I told you that, it just seems relevant somehow. Amidst the sea of chance and uncertainty, having goals to check off before beginning the next stage of my life affords me some semblance of control in my life.
In the end, this entire essay has been a slew of mixed signals: do we make meaning or stumble through life? Do we react to external forces or enact internal desires? Of course, it's simultaneously both. While right now my post-grad life is up in the air, it won't be that way forever. Transitions always emphasize the uncertainty of life and, for me, inspire anxious reflections on chance. However, transitions give me great opportunity to shape my life and create new meaning and joy. If my journey through Angels has taught me anything, meaning is created as we go along, with or without us. Let's all hope it's—or should I say make it?—with us.