Baring Witness
Below is the short memoir piece I read on Friday evening, June 6, as part of
Readings of Works-In-Progress from The Tuesday Writers Group
What seemed at first like any Friday evening in June became magical for the seven of us who read from our memoirs. A hush fell over the standing room only crowd as the first reader, Adhara, presented her story, a comic romantic tale about an episode she experienced as the head concierge at the snazzy Fairmont Grand Del Mar. She made a wish come true for a young man who asked if she could arrange for a unicorn to appear beside the lake as he proposed marriage. Adhara managed it, and his beloved said, Yes. I gotta guess that they lived happily ever after. Every story that followed held the audience in silent attention.
My story closed the event. It is of an anti-war protest event that occurred in 2003, during the height of my choral conducting life. Many of my dearest people from those days were sitting in the audience: my daughter, Lisa, sat beside my singer-conductor friend, Chris, who had teamed with me to build the community children’s chorus. Standing in the back was Cynthia, a parent and travel agent who led the chorus on our New York tour. A few rows up, I smiled to see Pam and Tim, Dani’s parents. Their little girl sure could belt out a song.
But it struck me that also in the room sat Lois, who led the journal writing circle I joined in 1993, which had instilled in me a lifelong writing practice. A practice that nourished me in a quiet, introspective way as I was immersed in choral music, in the business of community singing. Voices of children, and later, of college students, and adults. Many voices, all lifted in song.
As I read, I found myself overcome with emotion. I hadn't expected to realize that my two worlds are not separate. They are, and have always been, intertwined. Poetry, rhythm, voice.
Still, I did not know what would happen at the close of my reading.
I hope you enjoy my story.
Baring Witness
By Sally Husch Dean
I’m shivering. The year is 2003. It’s February pre-sunrise. I’m standing at the beach with fifty-nine other women. And I am about to get naked.
When my alarm rang at 5 am this morning, I threw on sweats and flip-flops, and drove to Grandview Beach. Other sleepy-looking women were descending the wooden staircase. A foggy ghostliness added to my apprehension. Am I making a mistake?
It began last week, when I read Mary Lou’s email invitation to participate in a worldwide peaceful protest against the planned invasion of Iraq.
“I’m asking my gutsiest women friends,” she said, “Those ready to take action.” I smiled, glad to be one of the chosen gutsiest.
“Wear easy-to-slip-off clothing,” she wrote, “Meet Saturday at 5:30 am, at Grandview; Carry a towel and bathrobe in a bag. On cue, we’ll undress and lie nude in the sand to form a human peace sign.”
The intent, she went on, is to flood the internet with photos taken worldwide, people baring witness for peace.
“I'll be there." I wrote back.
I headed outside to share the plan with my husband. There he was, watering his roses.
"Bill, Listen to this."
I hardly stopped to breathe as I described the protest. But Bill shook his head.
"Are you sure about this, Sal? I mean, it’s a great idea, but as the director of a children’s chorus, are you okay appearing nude in a photo in the paper?”
This was not the reaction I expected. I couldn’t believe he was worried about someone recognizing me, judging me. Mine would be just one of many tiny faces in the picture. Still, his words got to me, and my shoulders dropped.
Bill set his clippers down on the wall beside the roses. His eyes showed that his intention came from a place of genuine care.
“Just think it through.”
I nodded, then turned, crossed the patio, and entered my studio. Doubt mixed with my earlier enthusiasm. Someone might recognize me. What would parents think? Is this a risk worth taking? I paced back and forth.
Finally, I sat at my computer to email Mary Lou that I had changed my mind and wouldn’t participate after all. However, just then, my eyes landed on a framed picture on the wall directly above my desk. Forty proud middle and high-school singers gazed at me, all smiles, faces aglow. The photo had been taken two years earlier, in January of 2001, following their dazzling performance at St. John the Divine Cathedral in New York City.
Staring at the photo, I remembered the rambunctious singers noisily arriving for our morning rehearsal. But, immediately upon entering the cathedral, everyone quieted, all eyes settling on the rose and blue colored light shining through the splendid stained glass Rose Window above the cathedral’s entry. All forty kids seemed infused with a mysterious balm. In concert that night, the mystery turned to magic as their voices swirled through the mystical space.
Stepping closer to the photo, my ears rang with the sweet sound of their final lilting canon, Dona Nobis Pacem - Grant Us Peace.
"Wait. No." a voice from deep inside me shouted, "Answer this call. If someone recognizes you, so be it. Anyone who knows you and your work with North Coast Singers will be proud."
The truth is, all I ever want to say in every youth chorus concert we present is: “Peace on Earth.” I did not send a cancellation email.
And now, here I stand at Grandview Beach. The ocean remains an inky black as Mary Lou's husband, Ken, an engineer, marks the exact circumference and the inner spine and legs of the peace sign to fit the sixty of us perfectly.
The sunrise casts its rays through the early morning fog, illuminating the sky in pinks and blues, much as the morning sun had shone through the Rose Window at St. John the Divine. The cool sea mist causes us to shiver. But we are not deterred. We are exhilarated!
Mary Lou calls out, "Bare Witness. Disrobe."
We go silent and hand our robes off to be carried out of view. I lay unclothed, my towel tucked beneath my naked body. I gaze up at the brightening morning sky. Ken, atop the cliff, snaps a photo to be sent to the paper.
As we dress, first one voice, then another, launches into a spontaneous, boisterous version of We Shall Overcome.
The rising voices create a sixty-voice chorus, not in a grand gothic cathedral in New York City, but on the sandy shore of Grandview Beach in Leucadia, California.
No longer shivering, we climb the steps together, singing.
—End—
As I stepped out from behind the podium and began to sing the familiar tune, every person in the audience spontaneously joined in. Their combined voices formed yet another chorus, and the power of it almost lifted me from the floor.
Stories and singing blended as naturally as the blues and pinks of the sky at sunrise.
Visit my Musings website's blog page for a couple of photos that illustrate Baring Witness. https://www.sallyhuschdean.com/
I love hearing from you. Drop me a note by hitting reply on this e-mail, or via the “Contact Us” page on the Musings website. https://www.sallyhuschdean.com/
Yours in Song,
Sally
