I was in the ninth grade. I chose my "elective" class as mass media, so I wasn't taking choir. I saw a flyer for the concert, so I went, unaware of how crowded it would be, and I stood for the two-hour-plus performance. It was cold and dark in that beautiful ancient cathedral downtown, and I knew that I was listening to my future. Because I knew that I would be back to sing next year.

So I joined, after auditioning for Mr. R. by singing a few scales. Mr. R. is a little man with dark brown hair who stands up straight and proud and wears white gloves when he conducts. He's a classical organist and lover of what he calls "sacred" music. Even though it's a public high school, his list of songs is always centered around church music -- a lot of it centuries old, in Latin. During the three years I sang for him, no one ever objected, because the lovingness with which he approached it taught us that it was beautiful and worth singing as we sat in a room filled with Muslims, Hindus, Jews, Protestants, Catholics, Sihks, athiests -- you name it, and the religion was represented at our multicultural of all multicultural high schools.

The preparation for the Christmas concert was thorough and exhausting. We practiced every Tuesday and Thursday night from 6:30 until 9:30 the six weeks before the performance. When the night got closer, we would go Saturdays and Sundays. He made tapes for us to listen to at home or in the car with our voice parts only. During class, he sent us off to separate rooms as sections -- first and second sopranos, first and second altos, and so forth. He took us on a retreat at a state park early in the fall where we slept in cabins in the woods, canoed, played games, roasted marshmallows, had huge group fights that turned into huge group discussions about race and how it affected all of us (remember -- we were one diverse group), and rain or shine, practiced several hours a day. Making us an awesome choir was this man's mission, he accomplished it.

Being there the other night in the audience brought all of that back to me. The trip to New York junior year to sing Mozart -- in Carnegie Hall with a choir from Japan. It was my first trip to that city -- and I owe that to him. It brought back our senior musical -- in which I played Carrie Pipperidge -- with a pretty bad attitude and not a whole lot of skill (unless you count laughing spasmodically throughout the length of a scene and trying to pass it off as crying). My friends and I even formed a makeshift "Anti-Carousel Club." Back then, Mr. R. was a nag, a tyrant, a geek. Looking back, I realize that he worked harder for us than perhaps any other teacher ever did. Sitting in that cathedral, watching the choir members in their long black dresses and tuxedos process up the center aisle with candles in hand and seeing the awe and pride on their faces as they realized that it was standing room only, just like Mr. R. undoubtedly promised them it would be, I was overwhelmed by my memory of walking up that aisle and singing many of the songs they were singing, and I couldn't help but cry -- the kind of tears that just slip effortlessly down your face. No heaves, no sighs, just emotion sliding out of your soul in liquid form.

At the end of senior year, he asked me to sing the alma mater at graduation. I told him no, because my good friend Eva was president of the choir and tradition had it that she would sing it. He was baffled, and disappointed in me. He chose another girl -- not Eva -- and that was the last time I really spoke to him in high school.

I'm going to send Mr. R. a card complimenting him on the concert and thanking him for the memories. At first at the concert, I felt sad because I knew I would never sing in it again. But as the choir sang Vivaldi, I suddenly felt joy, because I knew that I was listening to the future, because I would be back to listen next year. And every year.