Reflections on Being Kicked out of a Children’s Choir
There is so much in my heart that is yet to be sung
It’s a strong memory. I’m 9 years old. Year Four. Faintly freckled. Short, light brown curly hair. Wearing the uniform of a belted and buttoned green and white gingham dress. Shoed in clunky black working-class lace-ups. White socks with a hidden hole.
I’m standing in front of the whole school at the conclusion of the weekly Monday morning assembly, singing my heart out in the Carawatha Primary School Choir.
God save our gracious Queen,
Long live our noble Queen,
God save the Queen.
Send her victorious, happy and glorious . . .
Even though I live on the other side of the world in Australia, I know the Queen in England can hear me singing to God to save her.
My mouth is wide open as the strange words pour from my throat to float over the heads of fellow students standing in rows before me in the sun-drenched quadrangle. It’s a moment of glory. My voice is a part of the heartbeat of the school.
Although I don’t know it, this will be my last performance.
At the next choir practice, our music teacher, Miss Bell (I’ll call her this to hide her…
