If My Voice Reaches You

"You're terrible. Don't sing, it's embarrassing. You're terrible."

I was in high school when my mother threw those words at me.
When I was humming Cocco's "Fuuka Fuusou," that voice, filled with sudden irritation, rained down on me.

"I sent you to music school so you wouldn't get bullied because you were so tone-deaf, but you haven't learned a thing. A waste of money. I'm disappointed."

My mother had a tendency to vent the stress she received from her husband—my father—and his parents by suddenly lashing out at me with verbal abuse.

Ah, that old thing again.

That was all I thought at the time.
But those words nested in my heart and gradually spread.
Even when I went to karaoke with friends after school, I couldn't sing.

I thought I loved singing.
Yet, I felt hesitation and fear about raising my voice, about producing sound with my own throat and body in time with the accompaniment.
Even after I started working at an elementary school and was in charge of music classes, whenever I tried to sing, my throat felt clogged and my voice wouldn't come out as I wanted.
I managed by asking a colleague who studied vocal music to demonstrate for me, or by relying on CDs.

The turning point came just three years ago.
Because of the pandemic, I moved to a piano school near my home, and the teacher there praised me, saying, "You have a good sense of pitch!"
The teacher often used the method of having me hum parts where it was difficult to catch the rhythm, and those words were spoken after she caught my voice, which was as quiet as a mosquito.

"I think I'm tone-deaf..."
"Eh, why? You have a nice voice, and you're hitting the notes perfectly."
"My mother told me I was tone-deaf..."
"What?! Your mother!! Seriously!!!"

After repeating that conversation a few times with different songs, I was able to gradually gain confidence in my own singing.

And now.
I'm taking vocal lessons, and music and singing are becoming more and more fun.
I get praised for my singing more often, and the tightness in the back of my throat has disappeared.
My voice has developed a core, and it's become something that isn't easily shaken by just anything.

Now, this year's music classes have begun.
The child who started learning with me this spring looked anxious, saying she wasn't good at music class.
But when she heard my demonstration, she lifted her head, opened her eyes wide, covered her mouth, and light instantly filled her eyes.
In that moment, I was certain that my voice had reached not her ears, but her heart.

"Alright, let's all sing together!"

To my prompt, she responded with a smile and took a deep breath.
The first voice comes out. The song begins to be woven.
Everyone's voices intertwine, and this year's class song is being knit together.
No one is straining their voice, yet it can be heard clearly because each person is able to create resonance.
It spreads richly, filling the space.


Hey, Mom, did you know?
The current me can cultivate an awareness in my students to sing with a good expression and a good voice.
I just sing.
I just let my voice reach them.

If my voice ever reaches you.
I only want you to say one thing.

"You've gotten better."

Participating. Day 27.