There is a photograph of me from the fall of 2008, standing inside Dorton Arena in Raleigh before a Barack Obama campaign speech.
I was fourteen years old.
I am smiling.
Not the little closed-mouth expression people produce when somebody points a camera at them. Not the strained approximation of happiness that appears when the photographer says, Come on, smile.
I mean actually smiling.
My whole face appears to agree about what it is doing.
I have seen the picture enough times that it has acquired a slightly archaeological quality for me. There is evidence here of an ability I once possessed effortlessly.
Somewhere along the way, smiling became difficult.
If I deliberately try to smile now, the result is usually terrible. One side of my mouth seems to receive different instructions from the other. My eyes do something unrelated. The muscles of my face assemble themselves into an expression that looks less like happiness than an actor attempting to portray happiness after being given insufficient rehearsal time.
It looks fake because it is fake.
This is strange mainly because I do not consider myself an especially unhappy person.
There are plenty of days when I feel good.
I get interested in things. I become absorbed in projects. I enjoy music, ideas, exercise, conversations, walks, discoveries, small accomplishments. I can feel peaceful. I can feel hopeful. I can feel deeply satisfied by something without any particular urge appearing in my face to advertise the fact.
У меня есть фотография, сделанная осенью 2008 года: я стою на арене Дортона (Dorton Arena) в Роли перед предвыборной речью Барака Обамы.
Мне четырнадцать лет.
Я улыбаюсь.
Не той лёгкой улыбкой с сомкнутыми губами, которую люди изображают, когда кто-то направляет на них камеру. Не натянутым подобием радости, появляющимся после слов фотографа: Ну же, улыбнись.
Я действительно улыбаюсь.
Кажется, всё моё лицо согласно с тем, что оно делает.
Я видел эту фотографию столько раз, что для меня она приобрела почти археологический характер. Передо мной свидетельство способности, которой я когда-то обладал без всяких усилий.
Где-то по пути улыбаться стало трудно.
Если сейчас я намеренно пытаюсь улыбнуться, результат обычно выходит ужасным. Одна сторона рта словно получает одни указания, а другая — совсем другие. Глаза занимаются чем-то своим. Мышцы лица складываются в выражение, больше похожее не на счастье, а на попытку актёра изобразить счастье после явно недостаточного количества репетиций.
Оно выглядит неискренне — потому что так оно и есть.
Странно это прежде всего потому, что я не считаю себя особенно несчастным человеком.
У меня немало дней, когда мне хорошо.
Я увлекаюсь разными вещами. С головой погружаюсь в проекты. Получаю удовольствие от музыки, идей, физических упражнений, разговоров, прогулок, открытий и маленьких достижений. Я могу ощущать покой. Могу испытывать надежду. Могу быть глубоко удовлетворён чем-то, не чувствуя при этом особого желания сообщить об этом миру выражением лица.
Há uma fotografia minha, tirada no outono de 2008, em que estou de pé dentro da Dorton Arena, em Raleigh, antes de um discurso de campanha de Barack Obama.
Eu tinha catorze anos.
Estou sorrindo.
Não aquela pequena expressão de boca fechada que as pessoas fazem quando alguém aponta uma câmera para elas. Não aquela imitação forçada de felicidade que aparece quando o fotógrafo diz: Vamos, sorria.
Quero dizer que estou sorrindo de verdade.
Meu rosto inteiro parece estar de acordo com o que está fazendo.
Já vi essa foto tantas vezes que ela adquiriu, para mim, uma qualidade vagamente arqueológica. Há ali evidências de uma habilidade que um dia tive sem esforço algum.
Em algum momento do caminho, sorrir ficou difícil.
Se hoje tento sorrir de propósito, o resultado costuma ser terrível. Um lado da minha boca parece receber instruções diferentes das do outro. Meus olhos fazem alguma coisa sem relação com o restante. Os músculos do meu rosto se organizam numa expressão que se parece menos com felicidade e mais com um ator tentando representar felicidade sem ter tido tempo suficiente para ensaiar.
Parece falso porque é falso.
Isso é estranho principalmente porque não me considero uma pessoa particularmente infeliz.
Há muitos dias em que me sinto bem.
Eu me interesso pelas coisas. Fico absorto em projetos. Gosto de música, ideias, exercícios, conversas, caminhadas, descobertas, pequenas conquistas. Posso sentir paz. Posso sentir esperança. Posso me sentir profundamente satisfeito com alguma coisa sem que surja em meu rosto nenhuma vontade especial de anunciar esse fato.
Hay una fotografía mía del otoño de 2008, de pie dentro del Dorton Arena, en Raleigh, antes de un discurso de campaña de Barack Obama.
Tenía catorce años.
Estoy sonriendo.
No con esa pequeña expresión de labios cerrados que la gente adopta cuando alguien le apunta con una cámara. No con esa imitación forzada de la felicidad que aparece cuando el fotógrafo dice: Vamos, sonríe.
Me refiero a sonreír de verdad.
Todo mi rostro parece estar de acuerdo con lo que hace.
He visto la fotografía tantas veces que, para mí, ha adquirido un carácter ligeramente arqueológico. Aquí hay pruebas de una capacidad que alguna vez poseí sin esfuerzo.
En algún momento del camino, sonreír se volvió difícil.
Si ahora intento sonreír deliberadamente, el resultado suele ser terrible. Un lado de mi boca parece recibir instrucciones distintas del otro. Mis ojos hacen algo que no tiene nada que ver. Los músculos de mi rostro se organizan en una expresión que se parece menos a la felicidad que a un actor intentando representarla después de no haber tenido suficiente tiempo para ensayar.
Parece falsa porque lo es.
Esto resulta extraño, sobre todo porque no me considero una persona especialmente infeliz.
Hay muchos días en los que me siento bien.
Hay cosas que despiertan mi interés. Me sumerjo en proyectos. Disfruto de la música, las ideas, el ejercicio, las conversaciones, las caminatas, los descubrimientos y los pequeños logros. Puedo sentir paz. Puedo sentir esperanza. Algo puede producirme una satisfacción profunda sin que aparezca en mi rostro ningún impulso particular de anunciarlo.
There are songs that become substantially more inappropriate when you sing them correctly.
Not musically correctly.
Diction correctly.
This was something I somehow managed not to notice for years.
Take “679” by Fetty Wap.
It is, unmistakably, a party song. Put it on a Bluetooth speaker during a Saturday morning volunteer event and probably nobody is diving across the room to turn it off. People are carrying boxes. Somebody is organizing canned vegetables. Somebody else is trying to figure out where the folding tables are supposed to go.
Meanwhile, the song is describing a nightclub, alcohol, attraction, and, among other things, looking at women’s asses.
Nobody seems particularly troubled by this.
But try singing those same ideas yourself with immaculate diction.
Suddenly you are no longer providing music for the food pantry. You are a man standing beside a pallet of kidney beans making a series of extremely specific observations about the female anatomy.
The problem, I eventually realized, was not necessarily the song.
It was how I was treating every word as if it needed to be understood perfectly.
I was enunciating.
When people learn songs, it is natural to think of the lyrics as information that needs to be transmitted accurately.
There are words. Your job is to sing the words.
But listen closely to many original recordings and that is not quite what the singer is doing.
