Some people sing loudly in the privacy of the shower. Others croon without inhibition alone in their cars. I belt out music in the solitude of my living room with the Mormon Tabernacle Choir as they perform their annual television Christmas Concert.
I sang in my high school choir. With great gusto, but never a lead singer, I sang heartily through many concerts and under the instruction of many choir directors, but Mr. Opal, my 10th grade choir director, is the reason I am inspired and able to sing along with the Mormon Tabernacle Choir.
Mr. Opal was that rare teacher—a perfectionist who expected the same from his students and got it.
My first impression of him was unforgettable. There I was, a sophisticated 10th grader in penny loafers and ponytail, giggling and gum chewing along with my friends, on our first day of class waiting to see our new teacher.
Having come from a junior high where we called our music teacher (a giddy and unpredictable woman) by her first name, I was prepared to spend another year slumped in my chair, watching kids throw paper airplanes and spitballs.
Mr. Opal quietly walked into the choir room and without raising his voice informed us to sit up straight, get rid of our chewing gum and pay attention.
There was never a moment of doubt from that time on as to his supremacy. He ruled the classroom with complete authority. He was not a thwarted musician, teaching because he hadn’t succeeded in the musical profession. He was a teacher, a true professional, and through him I learned much about music.
Sometimes, my friends and I would rush breathlessly into his class, almost late after lunch, but within moments, we were sober and focused.
In his class, we were expected to act like professionals. We were expected to know the music and the words, the diction, when to take a breath or not. Every vowel, every syllable was pronounced. In short, he treated us as if we were the Mormon Tabernacle Choir.
I learned the typical high school choir repertoire— Broadway musicals (but never any pops) folk songs, and patriotic songs–but more importantly during the Christmas holidays, I developed a deep love and respect for Handel’s Messiah.
Mr. Opal did not allow his choir to perform Rudolph
the Red Nosed Reindeer-
type Christmas concerts. Oh no, we sang Handel’s Messiah.
Because he was who he was, we sang it with crisp clean perfection, not a beat missed, not a voice out of place. How he ever managed to make kids ages 15 to 18 sing what some consider fairly difficult music, and to sing it well, still amazes me.
Thisyear as I watch and sing along with the Mormons, I am flooded with memories of singing my heart out along with everyone else for Mr. Opal.
I remember the hush in the high school gymnasium as he stood before us and with a stroke of his hand began the concert and the noise of the audience exploding into applause that filled the rafters of the gymnasium at the end of our performance.
I remember the pride I felt at our performance and at being part of it.
That is why during the Christmas season, an unsuspecting visitor to my house should pause before knocking on the door. He or she might just catch a glimpse of a woman standing in front of her TV, watching every motion of the Mormon Tabernacle Choir and singing “hallelujah” at the top of her quavery voice.
Thank you, Mr. Opal.
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