Finding my Voice in the Arctic
Singing was always a private joy.
Calming my anxious mind by singing myself to sleep at night as a little girl.
Devouring new music alone in my bedroom. Trying to memorize every single lyric to all the songs on one album in a day.
Belting out songs for private living room concerts atop the coffee table.
Singing was always just for me.
Entering into high school, I would pass the room where the chorus was practicing, the harmonies washing over me as I plodded past with my heavy backpack loaded with text books. The music gave me goose bumps but all those trained voices and all those mysterious black dots they were reading off the page made me feel too scared to participate. Even though I could have opted into a music track in this public Fine Arts school, my sense of not belonging ran so deep that I didn’t even think of applying.
In Grade 11 I transferred to a new school. Determined to face my fears and claim my place as a singer, I signed up for the school choir.
It was everything I feared.
Lost and unsure how to read music. A director whose bullying was rivalled only by the relentless taunting of the students in the front two rows. A required solo performance in front of the chorus as part of my final grade was the cherry on the horror filled cake. Shaking and trembling, I chose a song I had sung for my private living room concerts so many times. My friend offered to play piano but the giggles in the front row of students as she started to play made her hands tremble so much she couldn’t continue. She stopped playing at the start of the first chorus. My voice was alone now, tremulously singing the lyrics, “Breath of heaven, hold me together.”
In that moment I felt the deep irony of how much I meant it : “HOLD ME TOGETHER!”
The laughter billowed through the chorus and to my horror even the chorus director had a hand over his mouth to muffle his own laughter.
It felt like proof that I didn’t belong, just as I had feared.
It felt like confirmation that my voice wasn’t enough.
That I wasn’t enough.
Fast forward to grade 12. A community service opportunity for a spring break trip to Baker Lake, Nunavut. Smack dab in the middle of the barren, white, glorious and terrifying arctic landscape. As soon as I arrived and emerged shivering off of the tiny plane, the Inuit community welcomed me with open arms. I learned about their culture, ate caribou stew and rode skidoos over the frozen, desolate arctic landscape in -50 degree celsius temperatures.
And I sang.
Free from the glaring eyes of the chorus of bullies. The kindness and acceptance of the community made me feel safe in lending my voice to the songs we would share in our evening gatherings. Nobody seemed interested in judging the beauty or lack thereof in my voice. There was seemingly no interest in vocal aesthetic and “talent.” The community simply saw my love of singing and invited me to share their songs. I asked to learn melodies in their beautiful language of Inuktitut and felt a deep honour as I sang in this ancient and gorgeous language.
The last evening we gathered together for one final meal when the phone rang. Someone tapped my shoulder and said, “It’s one of the elders of the community- she would like to speak to you.” I listened as this sweet, raspy voice thanked me for sharing my voice and learning songs in their language: “We would like to give you an Inuktitut name, ‘Ignnukti’ - It means singer.” Tears welled up in my eyes as I felt the sacred gift of this name.
I had been seen, really seen.
And I had been heard.
And I had been embraced.
This beautiful embracing by the Inuit community planted the seed of belonging in my heart. No more private concerts for me. I was a singer simply because I loved to sing. This was enough. And now I was ready to share my voice.
