I practiced it multiple times a day
from March on, after Mr. Rolicheck,
my eighth grade homeroom teacher,
commanded that I sing a solo at
graduation.

How did he know that I could sing?
He knew that I loved to write,
returned story after story with
the directive at the top: Again!

Usually with suggestions—
“Let’s hear them talk to each other.”
“Let’s see them moving around.”
“Locate them in a place with
just a few details.”

And I’d dutifully scribble a new version,
hoping to earn my first editor’s approval,
the one who told me, when I summoned
the nerve to ask why I had to do
so many rewrites,

“Because you, Miss Haag, have potential.”

I inhaled the deep voice on that talltall man
that pingponged inside my chest, eventually
finding permanent lodging somewhere
south of my heart, where belief took up
residence.

But sing? My parents were singers who
harmonized at the drop of a middle C,
barbershoppers that they were, who taught
my sister and me the lead and tenor
parts to their baritone and bass should
someone feel the need to sing a tag
around the dinner table.

I wanted to sing folk songs or pop tunes,
envied Karen Carpenter’s dulcet voice,
and so chose one of the hardest songs
in her repertoire to wobble out of my
larynx.

Who was the accompanist who fingered
the school’s upright piano as I rehearsed
after school? As Mr. Rolicheck and my mom
listened. “Getting better, Miss Haag,” he’d say.
“A little flat there, Janis,” she’d say.
“But you hit the high note.”

And when the fateful evening arrived,
my classmates and their parents crammed
into the tepid multi-purpose room,
me in my polyester yellow mini dress
minus the clumsy headgear that typically
attached to my braces (thank you, Mom).
Equal parts terrified and exhilarated,
I stood before my first microphone
and shakily sang,

Bless the beasts and the children,
For in this world they have no voice,
They have no choice.

I fixed my gaze over the seated heads,
looking at the tall man with the shaved head
standing at the back of the room, his eyes
closed, fingers of one hand at his chin
listening to his pupil with potential.

Light their way
When the darkness surrounds them;
Give them love, let it shine all around them.

And when I finished, he opened his eyes,
smiled and brought his big hands
together in a clap that caromed
around my chest, in that heart spot
where it resides still.

•••

(In memory of Robert Rolicheck, mentor extraordinaire)