It's universal

I have reached that age.  You know, the one where everything makes you cry.  

I used to think I loved watching the Fernway students sing because I had a personal connection to each, but, really, I love watching all children sing.  Like tonight, at Mercer's Exhibition celebration.  

These aren't my kids, but, man, it did not matter.  I loved the rocking way they moved onto the risers.  I have never seen or heard anything like it.  Nor have I ever seen or heard a group of students sing the song, "My Place."  But that's the one that got to me.  

Alice Stein, a teacher at Fernway for years, used to go to all of the assemblies wearing her dark sunglasses.  Alice could pull it off, that's for damn sure.  She was a former buyer in New York City and always wore the finest garb.  Her hair was pulled back in a chignon, her linen was always pressed.  Panty hose every day, maybe even real stockings, and always a slight heel.  She wore huge square-ish glasses like Sophia Loren – and, may I add, just as beautifully as the icon did.  When the singing would begin, Alice would just sit there and shamelessly cry.  I liked to ask her how many songs from the poetry play brought about tears. One year, she said, “Every single one.” I couldn’t have been more happy.

Maybe it should be a mandatory requirement that everyone attend one school performance.  Especially Congress members.  CEOs of major corporations.  Army commanders.  And it should be at night.  In a large ill-equipped cafeteria or multi-purpose room.  End of  May or June when it gets hot as hell.  Throw in a few toddlers spinning and dancing.  And babies crying, yeah, make sure you have some of those. 

Then, we should just lob killer songs at them.  Like tonight: We Are the World.  Or, like we will be singing next week, Seasons of Love.

I bet you all the money in my no-interest savings account that they would cry.  Because of the kids. Their earnest expressions.  Because of the teachers.  The moms and dads winking and waving at the kids.  The loyal music teacher pounding the keys.  Sure, they might not show it.  Might wipe away the tears real fast before they crested the edge of the lip.  But, how could they not well up? 

I swear I think singing could change the world.  And that fourth graders singing might just be the secret to a softening of the universal heart. Call me a crazy bleeding heart.  Call me naive and gullible.  Call me anything you want.  But then sit beside me at one of these occasions, and I dare you to not be lifted.