The Counteralto

Walking up to the risers, I noticed that one of the tenors I usually stand next to is way further over into the alto section than usual. As cautious as I am about straddling the line between altos and tenors, I put a daily effort toward making sure I'm right in between the two sections.

Don't want to confuse anyone. Don't want to throw anyone off of their part. Just want to sing. I just want to sing. Deep breath. Lose yourself in the music. Let it all float away.

I danced around him awkwardly trying to figure out which side to stand on. Look, if he's trying to be on the alto side, I'm not exactly going to fight him over pushing me closer to the middle of the tenor section. It's kind of absurd the way my brain maps things, but simple physical proximity feels like a simple pleasure, a victory. Not because I particularly love the tenors, or because I dislike the altos. It just makes me feel less self-conscious.

People often start in the wrong section for social reasons - they're talking and laughing with a friend or another. At least it seems to be for social reasons. It seemed that way today.

Until I heard him warming up with the altos, an octave up from my tenor. Side by side, eyes forward, hands to our sides. We must both have heard the other. I guess he wouldn't've been surprised to hear me in the range he was assigned, but I could not help but let a wave of joy and community move through my body. But I kept my eyes on the conductor, held tight to the smile forcing its way to my lips. The lips, the teeth, the tip of the tongue, the lips, the teeth, the tip...

I'm really skeptical about the fact that so many queerish people seem to gravitate around the alto-tenor divide. Confirmation bias? Maybe. A desire to fabricate for myself community? Maybe. A conflation of sex and gender? Sigh, I don't know. I've always admired this guy's energy: youthful, bright, energetic, proud, something slightly spunky and femme I might call tomboyish if it weren't for his assignment. I was so jealous that one day when the sopranos just could not figure out how to soar up to their high G and he popped up there to show them how shit's done. Maybe that wasn't jealousy. It was some kind of longing. Some kind of pride. Some kind of solidarity. Some kind of wish that I didn't feel the energy in the room that suggested more than a few had been startled by his unironic willingness to sing their note.

I have to wonder how he'd feel about singing it more often.