Dreams Crushed – Apply Within

As soon as affordable DNA testing became available, I swabbed my inner cheek with a cotton bud, dropped it in the mail, and sat back to wait for my results. I had three reasons for doing so: 1) I tend to be an early adopter of new technology; 2) I’m very curious by nature, and so I was really intrigued to find out insights from my DNA, and potentially connect with distant relatives; and 3) Cystic Fibrosis runs in my family, and I wanted to know if I was a carrier or not.

Ever since I first received my results, I’ve been fascinated by the proliferation of additional DNA services that have popped up, claiming to provide additional insights, and have tried a few of them over the years. One that I tried (MyTrueAncestry) matches your sample with DNA extracted from ancient burial sites, and according to their website, the oldest match they’ve found for me is ‘Copper Age Radovesice Czech’, dating back to 2350 BC. A second (GenoPalate) offers to “decode your genes with the most comprehensive and secure genetic analysis on the market to discover which foods may help de-stress, focus, and energize you”. Among its many recommendations, it suggested that red bell peppers and carrots are the best vegetables for me, chia seeds and ground flaxseed are the best nuts and seeds, sweet potatoes and amaranth are the best grains, raspberries and avocados are the best fruits, and chicken liver is the best meat. Actually, their recommendations match what I like to eat pretty closely, so that’s one less thing to worry about (although I’m not seeing Tim Tam’s on the list, which Trader Joe’s have just started selling under their own brand… an oversight, surely).

The last service that I use (GenomeLink) “analyzes your genetic traits by connecting your raw DNA data with a growing body of genomics research”, and offers insights into traits covering Food & Nutrition, Personality, Intelligence, Physical & Sports. They employ a ‘freemium’ model, where you get details on 25 traits for free, plus one additional trait per week, or you can pay and get the immediate gratification of being able to access their 250+ traits. I’ve only signed up for their free service, but I do enjoy the weekly email I get from them, inviting me to access the latest bonus trait. Today’s was ‘Voice Breaking Age’, which advised me that there was a 50% probability that “You are likely to have your voice break at an older age than your peers”. Given that they went on to say that “in males, the normal timing of puberty ranges from 9 to 14 years of age”, and my voice broke when I was 14, I have to say that this trait is spot on, for me.

Anyway, in clicking through that link and reading about the underlying research on voice breaking, prompted me to dredge the following story from my memory banks.

Dreams Crushed – Apply Within

I don’t remember what triggered me to want to take singing lessons, or to even know that was something that you can do. I was wondering if it had something to do with Lena Zavaroni’s record-breaking winning streak on ‘Opportunity Knocks’, the 60’s and 70’s talent show hosted by Hughie Green (who later turned out to be Paula Yate’s birth father), but after asking the Google, that turned out to be in 1974, which was 6 years after I’d started taking singing lessons, at the age of 7.

I had two singing teachers, and sadly, I don’t remember either of their names. The first was an elderly woman, who lived in New Tupton. Wait… it is coming back to me… how I came to start having singing lessons. When I was 7, we went on vacation to Butlin’s in Bognor Regis, with another family. My mum was manageress of a fabric shop in Chesterfield, and she had a co-worker called Dorothy Mann. Dorothy was a semi-professional singer in her spare time, on the weekend ‘chicken in a basket’ circuit that took in a lot of the local pubs. She had talked my mum into going to Butlin’s, as she and her family (husband Arthur, and son Terry) were big fans. It turned out that what she loved about it was the talent competition, which she entered every year, and had once won. What had come flooding back to me as I write this, is that she was the one who encouraged me to enter the junior talent competition, and who spent the week encouraging me, and teaching me the words to ‘Do-Re-Mi’ from ‘The Sound of Music’ (which I still have yet to see).

Anyway, when it came time for the junior talent competition, I ended up coming in joint third, and so Dorothy quickly switched to encouraging my parents to sign me up for singing lessons. So… back to my first singing teacher, who lived in New Tupton. My lesson was every Monday night at 6:30, and to say that the lessons were dry and boring is an understatement. We’d start with the scales to loosen me up, but then I’d be singing the most boring of songs that she’d pick for me. I often wanted to stop going, but as singing opportunities started to open up, that wasn’t really an option, as I was always preparing for the next thing. That might have been the singing competitions that I took part in, getting involved in school choirs (which quickly led to being lead soprano), to starting to work through my singing grades.

When I was 11, my first singing teacher suddenly announced that she was retiring, but recommended a replacement singing teacher, who lived in Danesmoor, near the old swimming baths. This teacher was very different. She was in her 30’s, where my first teacher had been in her 70s. She was warm and effusive, where my first teacher had been cold and strict. She also picked songs that I liked singing!

For the next 3 years, I went for lessons like clockwork, every Monday night. Singing was a big part of my life, because in addition to being in the school choir, doing my grades and entering singing competitions, I sang in musical that our music teacher (Mr. Pickering) wrote, and was also very heavily involved with a youth group at the church I attended. On Sunday evenings, we would often go to other churches in the area, where we’d sing a few songs, and I would invariably do a solo. I think you can safely say that singing was a big part of my life, and perhaps understand why what happened next was so devastating.

Typically what would happen when I had my singing lesson was my dad would drive me there, and then sit outside in the car and wait for me, smoking up a storm. My final singing lesson started off exactly like all of the others. I arrived, let myself in, hung up my coat, waited in the hallway for the previous lesson to finish, waited for the previous student to pay, for them to be given their practice assignments, for them to say goodbye and leave… and it was my turn. As before, we’d start with chromatic scales. We’d usually go through them twice. She’d hit a starting note, and I’d sing an octave, starting from that note. She’d then move up a semitone, and I’d sing the octave, again following her cue.

On the day of my final lesson, I got about 5 notes in before my voice wavered and broke. She suggested that I try again, but now I was nervous, and I only got about 3 notes in, before I emitted a sound like a walrus in heat. It was unlike any sound that I’d ever made before, or since, to that matter. Her response was to close the lid on the piano, before getting up and fetching my coat. I was puzzled by what was going on, and asked if I could try again, suggesting that maybe I had a frog in my throat. It was then that this lovely, warm, effusive woman said, in a very matter of fact sort of way, that “no, it’s not a frog in your throat… your voice has broken, and there’s nothing that we can do about that”.

She went on to thank me for all of my hard work, and tell me how much she’d enjoyed teaching me. I was even more confused now, and realized that she gently guiding me toward the door. Not really being aware of what my voice breaking meant, I asked her how long would it be, before my voice was all better, and I could start singing lessons again. “It won’t get better”, she said, before adding that in her experience, boys who sing a lot before their voices break, tend to have poor singing voices as adults. With that, she opened the front door, gently pushed me out, and my singing career was over. I remember walking over to my dad’s car, and having to tap on his window to get his attention. He opened the door, and I climbed in. “What happened?”, he asked. “She said that my voice has broken, and that I can’t sing any more”, I replied. “Oh”, he said, and that was that. We drove home in silence.