I sing at arch sings. Usually every week.
I am not, however, in an a cappella group.
Rather, I can be found on the outskirts of the crowd, dancing with a friend, singing to songs, to which we probably only know half the words and even fewer of the notes. That doesn't dampen our excitement whatsoever. We are a cappella groupies and proud of it.
I must confess, however, that my love for a cappella does stem largely from my love for the boys. Call me what you will, but I'm a sucker for boys who sing. Of course I like listening to the girl groups, but I only really ever hear them while waiting for, say, the Nassoons to come on.
I did once envision a cappella in my Princeton life. I auditioned way back when, got called back, then eventually was rejected but went and found my niche elsewhere on the campus (home of the three-sided demon, to be precise).
But sometimes I still find myself looking back and wondering how different life would have been if I had made it.
So when my editor proposed a behind-the-scenes look at a cappella groups, I jumped at the chance to become a Tigerlily for a few days. My a cappella dream would finally be realized. I was to attend Lil rehearsal for three days.
I set off for my first rehearsal with a great deal of trepidation. Like the dork in high school finding that the only open spot in the cafeteria is at the popular girl's table, I feared being rejected and judged.
Physical appearance was foremost. Was my hair getting frizzy? Had my eyeliner smudged? Was the small ink stain on the hem of my skirt noticeable? Horrific visions of the entire group ridiculing me for a fashion faux pas raced through my head as I walked down the stairs to their basement room in Henry Hall. I was very close to just turning around and going home.
Taking a deep breath, I knocked and heard their greeting coming from inside: "and here she is now." "Oh jeez, they're all expecting me," I thought as I pushed the door open to find a room full of girls lounging about.
I walked through and, during the next few days, I rehearsed with them, listened as they decided which gigs to book and even sat through auditions for a solo. Ultimately, I learned a great deal more than what it was like to sing with them.
First and foremost, I expected to hate them. Yes — I absolutely expected to hate them. Journalist's objectivity aside, I did in fact buy into the stereotypes of the Lils — the hint of elitism, the designer labels, the pearl earrings.
But they're nice girls. They're articulate. They went out of their way to welcome me. Heck — they're even funny. When the rehearsal was not going so smoothly, the music director stomped her foot and yelled in frustration, "You guys are such slow learners!" Then she turned to face me with a big grin on her face.
"Put that in your article," she joked.
And sure they were superficial. They pondered Associate Dean of Undergraduate Students Thomas Dunne's advice to buy a rug at Home Depot instead of spending money to refurbish the Lil room. They commented on each other's hair styles.
An announcement about the way McCosh Health Center tests for meningitis was followed in rapid succession by "Did you know that the number one killer at Gettysburg was poison ivy?"
They talked about things that are girly and silly and did so while many others were completely fixated on terrorism and anthrax and the bombing in Afghanistan. But throw me and a group of my girlfriends in a room and we'd end up having the same sort of conversations. There's something about estrogen that causes all discussions to eventually revert to clothing, boys, gossip or some variation on that theme.
(Note: This is in no way degrading to my gender — that kind of conversation is precisely why girlfriends are so wonderful to have and exactly what I miss about my prior life at an all girls' school.)
They have this little ritual towards the start of every meeting. They call it PTs: Personal Triumphs. The first encounter I had with this item of business went something like this:
Lil One: "I finally received my sweater in the mail today."
Lil Two: "I bought a new winter coat."
Lil One: "Yay! That is a personal triumph!"
The uber-sweetness of it all was enough to turn my stomach. Yet I found out later that there is a dual meaning to PTs; it also stands for Personal Tragedies. A sophomore member explained to me that, in addition to reveling in each other's fashion acquisitions, they also get intimately involved in the ebbs of each other's lives, helping their friends deal with everything from heartbreak to terminal illness.
They tread that fine line between being "friends" and being "close." Was everyone in that room the best of friends? Odds are no. But do they have a sense of camaraderie and oneness that I found myself almost jealous of? Absolutely.
They were so thoughtful of each other. Even while doing something like competing for a solo, they thought about the other girls. During auditions, I asked one girl if this was a big deal.
"It's a huge deal," she told me. "I'm so nervous right now." Yet she turned right around and gave genuine positive feedback to one of her fellow competitors. "Sing the words versus singing the notes," she encouraged gently.
But, friendships aside, when it comes down to it, this is not a sorority. This is a singing group. And singing is what they do, and what they do well.
While rehearsing "The Rose," one Lil suggested they turn off the lights so that they could pay full attention to the music. The room was plunged into darkness and I huddled in the circle with them and sang. I forgot about my fumbling to find the right notes and listened to the girl standing next to me. Though they lack the power of the male group's voices in the open area of an arch, their sound saturated the space of this tiny basement room.
And, for a few moments, I got to be a part of something wonderful that all of us standing on the arch sing edges, singing softly to ourselves, wonder about.
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