Teen Mental Health: The Importance of a Team

“Dianne?” I raise my hand and our conductor looks up from her music stand. “The pickup to measure 251 until the end, the altos have no idea what we’re doing”. The other people in my section laugh in agreement. Aleeza, the pianist, looks over at me and nods in confirmation that, in fact, we are totally off. I smirk back at her before turning to the final seventeen measures of the song.

I started singing when I was seven. I had told my mom that I wanted to be in a chorus, and she asked a friend who was in the choral world where to send me. ‘Brooklyn Youth Chorus’, the friend told her, ‘it’s the only chorus I would send my child to if I lived in New York’. That first year was up and down, mostly because I was terrified of my conductor. I’d come from this small, progressive, private school, a school where we called our teachers by their first names and had classes like integrated art which was an art class tied to our history curriculum. I’d never had to call anyone Ms. in my life, and I’d never been in an environment in which all the steps were laid out for me. The minute I walked in, there was order. Pick up your music from Ms. Angela, find your assigned seat with your name tag on it, sit down and wait for Ms. Jean (my first conductor) to start warm-ups. At first I was skeptical, it was new and so foreign. But the following year I got promoted to the next division, and it just stuck. I was hooked.

The structure of the chorus goes like this: there are training divisions, which is essentially school, that start at age five. One can join at any age, but that’s the youngest division of kids. At the end of every year, each kid in the program has a vocal assessment with their conductor, and at a certain age it is when they see if you’re ready to move up to the next division. There are six training divisions and three performing ensembles. The ensemble I’m in, Concert Ensemble, is their main performance ensemble. On top of music education, we are hired to perform with a wide range of people, from the New York Philharmonic to Philip Glass to The National. It is an incredible experience, to be able to create music with such experienced artists and orchestras.

But, for me, it is the community that means the most. The other Concert Ensemble choristers and I spend over six hours a week together. And that’s just a normal week. When we have performances, it’s even more than that. This weekend, I spent most of my time rehearsing for a performance that premiers this week called Port(al), and all I can think about is what a brilliant team we are.

Parents often put their kids on soccer or baseball teams in order to try and help their kids learn to work collectively. For some kids, sports teams are their community. But you don’t have to play soccer in order to have this feeling of intense community and interconnectedness. We all need to do our part, otherwise everything is thrown off. Harmonies don’t work, rhythms come undone, audiences get bored. We need each other. Chorus is my team sport.

There was a moment in March where our conductor, Dianne, was talking about how important it was for her to work with teenagers. To create a space that was ours, that was skilled and important and felt purposeful. That sometimes it can feel aimless to be a teenager, in constant limbo, and here there was a place for real dedication. I haven’t stopped thinking about what she said.

Chorus has been the most consistent thing in my life. There have been periods of time in which I have repeated to myself, ‘at least you had chorus today. At least there’s that’.

And yes, we do complain. We get antsy and tired and frustrated. But underneath that, for me, there is always so much love. Every time I try and describe chorus to someone, I feel so earnest and a bit sappy. But it’s true. It’s the place I feel most comfortable, the place where I have found my closest friends. And it’s not just about these big performances, though they are so important, but also all the small moments. The time spent outside in the hallway before rehearsal, eating chocolate pretzels and someone’s grapes left over from lunch. The constant question of ‘do you think we have time to run to CVS or Trader Joe’s before we start?’ and then the running down the block that ensues. It’s having someone lean over without having to have been asked and hum the note you couldn’t quite catch in your ear. Or going and leaning your chin against the top of the piano to ask Aleeza to re-explain what that rhythm really was. The random moments backstage in which we all start singing, not the song we’re performing, but a different one, a random one we all know. The adjusting of outfits and that ‘oh god does anyone have an extra pair of black shoes?!’ and, softer, ‘don’t tell Dianne I forgot my black shoes!’. And always, that pure euphoric feeling after a good show.

Instead, I usually just say that it’s magic.

***Lydia Bach is a 15 year old writer and student living in New York City. When she’s not writing, you can find her lying in bed worrying over the state of the world.***