The New Andy McShane in My Life

Well, it was only a matter of time. Those of you who are familiar with the Notre Dame Liturgical Choir know just how much time of my life it consumed during my undergraduate career. I think my friend Maureen put it best when she said, “Singing with the choir is great…as long as you’re ready for it to be your only extra-curricular activity...no, really, the only one.” As a result, a lot of the stories I find myself telling these days begin, “One time, on choir tour…” a commencement only slightly less nerdy than band camp. So when my friend Katie’s host mother recruited her to sing on Sunday mornings at the Catholic church in town, Katie immediately came to me and demanded my support in this endeavor.

I know I have told some of you about church here, so you’ll have to forgive me for repeating myself, but it really is something. When I arrived, one of the first questions my host family asked me was whether I was Catholic. If I had know the consequences of answering that question honestly, I would almost certainly have lied. The first Saturday night, the conversation with my host mother went something like this. “Emily, tomorrow is the day of church, so it will not be necessary for you to sleep and sleep in the morning, as is your habit.” At this point, I had once slept as late as 6:15. For someone who used regularly to complain about 10am mass, this was unwelcome news. Mass was to begin at 6:30, so we needed to be dressed, fed, and ready to leave by 6:10. Ever the model of cultural exchange, I assured her that this wouldn’t be a problem, and I presented myself, dressed in my Sunday best promptly at 6:20. No one else was dressed, and no one was hurrying. (These are my kind of people.) We finally left the house at about 7:00 and made it to church in time for the second reading. This should have been my first hint that mass in Africa is not determined by a fifty-nine minute digital clock. Mass would take roughly three hours. This wouldn’t have been so bad, given the expanse of unplanned Sunday time, but the entire mass was in Ewe, the local language. After ten weeks in this village, I can understand Good morning, Good afternoon, I will see you tomorrow, See you soon, Goat, Sheep, Bicycle, Notebook, Hair, School, and the ever popular, “I haven’t seen you since yesterday. I am glad you woke up this morning,” which actually is how most people greet one another here. While a good start, these proficiencies don’t tend to allow me to fully follow the service. Someone pointed out to me that this is how people must have felt when mass was in Latin.

After my first experience, it occurred to me that my Sunday mornings might be best spend NOT sleeping in the back pew and making mental to-do lists, but when I raised the idea of opting out, my host mother informed me that not only she but also Jesus himself would see that I hadn’t gone, and they both would be deeply saddened. Skipping was not an option. Given all that, the possibility of singing with the choir seemed like a good idea. At least it would give me something to focus on. The swaying here is, in itself, an art that will take me some time to master. So I went to the rehearsal which began promptly fifteen minutes behind schedule, and though there were plenty of differences from the choral singing in my past, it was comforting to know that some things are true across cultures. There were not enough men to balance the women, the sopranos had a sense of superiority though they were slightly flat most of the time, and the sopranos and altos were constantly blaming one another for sections which did not go smoothly, and there was no sharing music (though this was, of course, because there was no written music at all). Given all that (and the double language barrier), Katie and I spent most of the time humming and perfecting the integral sway/clap motion. Fortunately for us, the offertory hymn, “Joy to the World,” was familiar (if slightly out of place in July), so we were mostly able to keep up on at least one piece. This anomaly, coupled with being slightly behind and whispering in the back made me feel right at home. The best part for me, however, was that the director, when speaking to an audience of Ewe people in a French speaking country began each piece with “One, two, GO!” which really isn’t all that different from “bah, tih, tah, TYA!” Good times.