At my first choir camp, my part in my group’s skit was to sit. Just sit. I didn’t want anything else — as a sixth grader, I felt awkward doing anything embarrassing in front of even five people, let alone the nearly 300 at camp. Thanks to a very enthusiastic high school boy who went all-out impersonating one of our teachers (complete with a towel on his head for hair), the skit killed. I, on the other hand, walked away feeling exactly as awkward as when I’d walked in.
For most of my school years, I’ve been known for being put-together: taking detailed notes, managing my life on spreadsheets and never getting caught without my power bank. For most of that time, I dreaded anything that felt at odds with that identity — silly antics that should have felt fun registered to me as embarrassing, too far out of my control or comfort zone.
As a result, in choir, I stayed stuck in a catch-22, lacking friends as well as the self-confidence to make them. Especially post-pandemic, I was barely in contact with many of my former choir friends, and out of those I talked to, many quit choir for other activities. I started bringing a book to every rehearsal to read at break time, finding it preferable to trying and potentially failing to fit in with a new friend group.
I told myself a whole slew of reasons why I’d rather be alone, one of the most persistent being that I was the only Indian kid in class — my classmates had grown up attending the same after-school programs and coming to choir with cousins and family friends. I simply did not fit that bill. Though there was a nugget of truth to that, it didn’t change that I hated the isolation, nor that, as I was coming to realize, I was selling myself short by not trying to fix it.
Around my freshman year, I willed myself to attempt conversation with some new people, starting with the other freshmen in my section. We bonded over our line being the hardest to keep track of (soprano twos, you know what I mean) and, in a series of events I wish I remembered, ended up making a story spanning several months, with the main character being one of our puffer jackets. Initially, I was still reserved around them — I remember my horror at some of their additions to the storyline in comparison to my tame, logical plot points — but I sensed that this group was wholesome and unapologetically silly in a way I was unfamiliar with, but liked.
Given this chance, I wanted to hold on to these friendships as tightly as possible. So, I started helping organize everything from craft days to karaoke nights. For the first time, choir friendships started to feel the way alumni always described them — trusting and unconditional, a bubble away from the academic culture of our respective Bay Area high schools. But they also finally felt fun. We put googly eyes and penciled eyebrows on a hotel room lampshade, stayed up until 3 a.m. at camp gossiping and making up unhinged stories, and belted Mariah Carey’s “All I Want For Christmas Is You” on a walk through a very residential, very quiet neighborhood. Though it took me three full years to slowly go from mortified to relaxed, now, those are some of my favorite memories of choir.
Though I continued to be the “put-together one” — choreo practiced, songs memorized, etc. — I had begun learning to balance that with embracing the chaos and quirkiness that allowed me some of my most cherished friendships. I’ve even brought some of that mindset with me to my other activities, and in doing so, I’ve enjoyed my senior year so much more than I thought I could.
When planning the skit for my final choir camp, I felt the shadow of my sixth-grade awkwardness the entire time, especially since my group planned a nonsensical kidnapping-turned-choir-game-show-tragedy based on our ice cream theme to perform in front of all our friends and teachers. I wanted the plot to make sense and people to know their lines — something safe, not the most embarrassing performance of my life. But more than that, I wanted my group to enjoy camp, even if that meant a fever dream of a script. Although our skit ended up a mild disaster of unfunny jokes and awkward pauses, we got just enough laughs to walk off stage giggling and satisfied. Seeing my group laugh through the chaos made overcoming my embarrassment worth it — the chaos was what made it fun.
Though I don’t wish for college years defined by chaos, I know building my community from scratch will feel a lot like my early years in choir. Except this time, I’ll go in less reserved, more willing to make friends and explore. I’ll reach out first to more people, finally start my soloing career in a cappella, or, as some of my college friends have been telling me, learn to skateboard. Even if I go in feeling a little silly, at least I know I’ll enjoy it.
