Eight years ago, I joined a newly formed choir at the Círcol, a century-old organization in Badalona. I did so driven by the question: why don't I sing anymore, even though I loved it so much?
I attended a first meeting in a rather idiotic place, where there were about ten people at most, and a young and energetic choir director who gave us the push we needed.
The Círcol choir began its journey and has been growing and improving. Now we are more than thirty. Luckily, in this group of people—of diverse ages, cultures, and talents—an ember, a light, a camaraderie (all words seem clichéd, hackneyed, and cliche) has germinated. I don't know how we should describe what we have created. Perhaps it would be more appropriate to say that we share a joy derived from the joy of singing and singing together, which has bonded us in an intense way, in ways we hadn't expected.
Like all living beings, the choir has experienced some stress as it has grown older. The differences in age and musical tastes have been noticeable. For some, singing in English is a nightmare; for others, translating rock classics into Catalan is unbearable. The most daring have wanted to take on new challenges at a certain speed (singing with a live band, incorporating movement and scenery), and the most fearful have had to make an effort not to be left behind.
All of this has always been done with joy and good humor. With delicacy and generosity, with patience. There are always hands helping the older members off the stage or running to find a missing chair. We have experienced achievements, disappointments, challenges, and particular illnesses as a collective. We have seen the birth of the director's two children. We have survived a pandemic.
As I explain all this, I think about the number of people who will read this and think: I've been through this too. In another choir, or in a theater group, or in a devils group, or in a book club, or on a basketball team. We are a happily association-based country!
Last Saturday, we celebrated the end of the school year with a concert and a dinner afterwards. The young director of the choir—who isn't as much of a director anymore, but still is—said out loud how amazed she was to have gotten to where we are now. Little did she know, she said, sitting next to me, that life had such a gift in store for me.
Shortly before, before the concert, a singer from Badalona, Argentina, thanked us for our support and patience because, for work reasons, he had rarely been able to come to rehearse. And then he added that, by performing certain songs, he was growing very fond of the Catalan language. I smiled and thought: another fellow singer is also collaborating with him, having been his language partner for months.
Although we were on the Rambla, chatting with people on that muggy night, we launched into one of the songs from the repertoire: The people I love, by Ocas Grasses. The moment arrived when the song says, "We are lucky enough to still be here," and just then I felt a light pressure on my shoulder.
Txell, only those who do unexpected things receive unexpected gifts.
