In Choir, the Best of Two Worlds

I have been involved in choral music since I was seven. For fifteen years, I have been singing, writing, and collaborating music. My time at the Saint Thomas Choir School in New York, for four years of middle school, was influential in my development as a part-time musician, influenced by classmates, teachers; and choirmasters, who were also mentors and talent-finders. 

Two of Saint Thomas’ legends in liturgical music, Dr. Gerre Hancock and Dr. John Scott, now rest in peace. Gerre Hancock’s departure as Choirmaster in 2004 was planned well in advanced, and I knew that my first year at Saint Thomas would be his last. He would move back to Texas with his wife, Judith, after 34 years with Saint Thomas, and continue teaching music at the University of Texas for seven years.  Dr. John Scott departed his earthly vocation of choirmaster at Saint Thomas suddenly one Wednesday ago, after an acclaimed tour in Europe as a performing organist. What I am writing here is not so much purely a memorial to Dr. Scott, but a recollection from the choir stall of having sung under two choirmasters at St. Thomas. 

In September 2005, the boys of Saint Thomas Choir School rehearsed with John Scott for the first time in his new role as choirmaster at Saint Thomas. He had come from a similar duty at Saint Paul’s Cathedral in London, and we choirboys wondered why a Brit had come across the Atlantic Ocean to rehearse us. He was a bit befuddled about how U.S. Customs treated his century-old piano. Coming from the quintessential formality of English high culture, Dr. Scott took the effort to familiarize himself with American norms. Two centuries of independence from Great Britain gave rise to differences in vocabulary and culture, even hairstyle.  In Britain, punks have short hair, and no choirboy over there would have a buzzcut. He learned quickly that buzzcuts are synonymous with clean-cut here in the States.

What has amazed me is how great institutes of learning retain their prized educators and staff. As Choirmaster of Saint Thomas for his last ten years, his endurance follows in the good tradition of long-tenured choirmasters and headmasters. So has the time passed that life has come full circle. A friend and classmate of mine interviewed with Dr. Scott for one of the men’s voices in the choir this year. The men of the choir, who fill the lower voices, are truly professionals. They find time for rehearsals and choral services at St. Thomas between other prominent gigs in New York City. To get grade-school boys, with mixed levels of experience, but with recognized potential, to sing at such a caliber is a significant accomplishment. Gerre Hancock knew the traditional laid-back American demeanor of childhood. Rehearsals with him had interludes where he would make one of his signature piano improvisations, and a few jokes.  Dr. Hancock used his talent to develop the choir to its full potential. To him, the success of the boys of the choir in mastering challenging works of music was recognition enough for each choirboy. As a bonus, each choirboy got a ‘rank’, which was determined by seniority first, and then individual accomplishment. 

Dr. Scott understood that developing individual talent within the choir is an evolution: a choirboy could achieve full potential in the four or five years that the choirmaster had with him. What Dr. Scott accomplished with choirboys who began under his tenure was incredible, indeed; and the fruits of this effort became evident as members of the eighth-grade Class of 2009 and 2010 achieved distinction in solo and marquee performances throughout New York.  There was a risk that he assumed: attention to top choral achievers could affect the morale of other choirboys. The largest culprit to maximizing the potential of a choirboy is middle-school biology: the awkwardness of voice cracks in seventh and eighth grades. When that happens, the choirboy fades gracefully into the sunset. But for the other average choirboys, would lack of attention cause hard feelings? The answer is that Dr. Scott gave attention to all, even when it was discreet. Reports one member of the Class of 2008, “Dr. Scott really did care about me”. The tangible results of this effort was one-on-one voice lessons for all, and an MVP list to recognize personal accomplishments commensurate with one’s ability.

Faced with a slew of ‘retirements’ forced on by changing voices in the Class of 2007 and 2008, John Scott had other ways to develop the musical talent of students who were once star choirboys. One such way was his keen interest in evaluating, and performing, student compositions of music. This unspoken program had started under Dr. Gerre Hancock, a recognized choral composer who embraced expressionism in his compositions. He was an improvising organist, composer, and choirmaster; who as I recall, in his final year, mentored Hank Rosenthal in music composition. Dr. Scott, who was also a composer in traditional-style choral works, expanded this informal program, and, with the confidence of his expertise, allowed the choir to sing some student compositions.  Among members of the Class of 2005 and later, who had experience with Dr. Scott, there is a disk jockey, several performing musicians and singers, and composers. (Class sizes average seven students per year). As long as you had the courage to embrace your talent, Dr. Scott would be there to point you in the right direction.

Dr. Scott was a man wholly dedicated to his work as a liturgical musician. He was a fan of Dietrich Buxtehude and J.S. Bach, German Baroque organists and composers. He was a renowned organist, and his performances of fanfares and voluntaries would draw a crowd of choirboys to the organ console. He was a composer. He was an ambassador to the best England had to offer, in hors d’oevres and tea. He was, first and foremost, a conductor and choirmaster. In this role, he developed untapped talent from each member of the choir. He was convincing and personable: he was the face of public relations during a campaign to raise funds for the renovation of the century-old Grand Organ at Saint Thomas. His mainstay phrase was: “to the Glory of God”- “Ad Maiorem Dei Gloria”. Dr. John Scott’s legacy lives on with the Saint Thomas Choir of Men and Boys as it moves forward through this challenging time. “Dedication and Professionalism”; “A Great Star”; a “Most Accomplished Musician”. These are words that my friends from Saint Thomas Choir School used to describe Dr. John Scott in the days after he left the world. His legacy lives in the musical performances of Saint Thomas Choir School alumni, in their compositions, and in our memories.

Is there a Frat House of the Sea?

(This post is a continuation of my previous post)

As members of a forgotten industry, one thing civilian seafarers in the US lack is a social support network within the industry. Divorce is unsurprisingly common, yet the trial of separation brings other couples remarkably closer. This begins with the understanding of your loved one's career. The strongest relationships between Kings Point men tend to be those with women who grew up in a military or seafaring household. It often involves 'tying the knot' in marriage years earlier than landlocked peers- how many 23-year old college graduates do you know whom are engaged or married?

On commercial ships, the level of communication with loved ones is governed by the munificence of shipping companies. Some older ships in the US fleet lack email or radio-telegraph service for crew members; their family members live in "river city"- reduced communications- between port calls. In the go-go nature of modern shipping, few shipping companies (Matson Lines being a notable exception) host welcome-home events, or other recognition for spouses and family members.

Since the US Government is the largest employer of civilian mariners, there are shared experiences  for the hundreds of 20-something's who "man the victory fleet" each summer and fall, as engineers, mates, and stewards' utilitymen. Questions we didn't think about as cadets, college students, or short-order cooks now find answers from voices of experience, or the Delphi method (8 people can't be unanimously wrong). These issues include powers-of-attorney and choosing an insurance plan. Currently, there is no comprehensive website to address these questions related to civilian life at sea, though GCaptain comes close. My second week of work sent me to New Jersey, where I and the other maritime college graduates, who have up-to-date training, joined the newbies in basic safety classes. This gave us engineers and mates an opportunity to guide the others through the ropes of life-rafts and such. Time between exercises gave the chance for the group of us engineers to hypothesize about hefty situations requiring our professional consideration: one example is the "leaky oil pipe" jury-rigged to send oily water overboard of the ship. This is a practice strictly banned in commercial shipping, and discouraged by our environmentally friendly allies. Would we notify the Inspector General, or would we join the culture of complicity?

While mates receive significant department-specific classroom instruction before reporting to a ship, engineers like myself will receive on-the-job instruction. In international terminology, I'll be an "Officer in Charge of an Engineering Watch". It has dawned on me that I could be on a ship next week. I have a short list of items to take care of at home this weekend. Other than those tasks, my bags are packed and I'm ready to go.

Ready for sea, for real

I have gotten the feeling that I've been away from the blogosphere for too long- two weeks, to be exact. During this time, I started my job as an engineer- official title is Third Assistant Engineer- with America's largest employer of civilian seafarers- the US Government.

Two weeks ago, I started with a week of orientation in Norfolk. Lodging, food stipend, commuter bus and friends ( two classmates from the USMMA) were provided. By starting work at 6:30am, the can-do attitude of seafarers protected is from rush-hour traffic. One old salt remembered when all the per employment and new hire business was taken care of in one day. A sign of our times, a total of one hour was allotted to payroll and benefits, with many more hours given to human relations presentations discussing how we ought to be treating each other already. Between work, commuting, an afternoon workout, and fine dining during Norfolk's restaurant week.

One thing about this job is that it hasn't been a lonely beginning. For whatever reason, about a quarter of my class answered the call to "man the victory fleet". They will be coming in "flights" that start every two weeks, and their numbers will grow through the summer. Some tangible benefits of this job include extended port visits, safe working conditions in a managed-stress environment, camaraderie and commiseration, a 56- hour workweek (compared to 84 hour workweeks required by some American ship companies), a preferred union card after 3 years, should one decide to take shipping jobs from a union hall. One final benefit is transportation provided during "shore leave" in port. I remember on a coal ship I sailed as a cadet on, the freshly graduated engineer was shocked that it cost $50 to get to and from the closest strip mall by taxi. "That is the industry", remarked the wise chief mate.

On a per- hour basis, the pay is lower than what one could find on a commercial ship. Yet there is little fretting, because of the little perks, and the old saying, "money isn't everything". Taking a job "manning the fleet" is a lifestyle choice.

Pioneers, Oh Pioneers

When I think of patriotism, I conjure up memories of Reagan-era glories such as Rambo, the Battleships Iowa and New Jersey, tractors, Top Gun and Full Metal Jacket. I also think of hot dogs and the traditional family, with an overweight Dad with a suntanned neck. 

I do not forget the real patriots:  the daughters of pilgrims, the sons of Ellis Island, and the brides of World War Two. There is no more American story than one’s ancestors looking for religious freedom in the 1700’s; or arriving on the streets of New York in the 1890’s, penniless but ambitious and willing to work hard; nor the brides of Europe arriving home with ordinary soldiers who defeated the Axis in 1945.  This is a beautiful story, encompassing the narrative of (Caucasian) America.  In remembrance of our ancestors who embodied masculinity and the risk-taking of new ideas, it is due patriotism to “use government policy to incentivize work” (a.k.a., cut welfare), in conjunction with “letting the bull loose”, to recreate the Gilded Age that created the American Dream in the minds of our great-grandfathers. 

As I walked with my family in Washington, DC to the Fireworks on the National Mall on the Fourth of July, I saw many young Americans sporting attire boasting of American pride. Seeing the first several groups, I suspected that they were southern frat boys and sorority girls: Washington, DC is still the gateway to the South, where country music plays at large gatherings that include suburbanites, and talk of “open season” is not just a figure of speech. But it became clear to me that these Chubbie shorts-wearing, boat-shoe sporting, patriotic tank-top bearing, Oakley-popping peers represented a greater demographic than I had imagined.   

Here is some background: Facebook counted 26 million profiles bearing rainbow flags- enough, upon rough estimate, to represent one in seven Facebook profiles in the US. In addition to those “out and proud” about their sentiment on gay marriage, there must be many quiet allies who choose to appear neutral on the issue. I had reason to believe that a number of those young people I saw dressed like “Born in the USA” patriots…must support gay marriage. 

Smart and wonky conservatives sense something in the air. Editorialists and targeted papers, such as the Washington Examiner, have been poking holes in the presumption that the liberal consensus among young people is permanent. They have pointed to cases where young people have been more enthusiastic than their older counterparts in supporting Republican newcomers like Ed Gillespie and Ken Cuccinelli in Virginia, or Republican Patrick Mara’s base of support in DC’s shoebox-condo neighborhoods. (Perchance, Gillespie and Mara are moderate and liberal, respectively, on bedroom issues). With young voters, Republican luminaries accept that no news is good news: many young people are apathetic about politics or are registered Independent- an opportunity for party growth. They look at young people and their love for disruptive technology like Apple’s I-Phones or Uber, and their impatience with government interventions like liquor license moratoria. Furthermore, they don’t like being un-employed or under-employed, and have an aversion from joining unions (Chicken or Egg?), instead, preferring to “compete on the open marketplace under a new relationship with their employer, where individual initiative is rewarded”. That phrase- originally a talking point in the Washington Examiner- slipped into my subconscious and got me in trouble with a relative last Thanksgiving. To these editorialists, the app-using, uber-riding, condo-living, “millennial” young people; who are mostly pro-gay marriage, but delightfully queasy on abortion and undecided on immigration; are patriots who are looking for direction from the fatherly hand of the Grand Old Party, with reasonable accommodation for their support of gay marriage. 

Neither is every Chubbie-wearing bro a member of the College Republicans. (They are the group whose 2013 report shocked the Party leadership’s assumptions about young adults).  You can be patriotic, and staunchly liberal. The thirty-something financial analyst who licks his chops about putting a true conservative on the Supreme Court to reverse a punch-list of 5-4 decisions, has no higher moral ground than the twenty-something arts major bemoaning the democratically elected Republican leadership of Capitol Hill. Better, ask this question: do your liberal friends love to participate in flag burnings? No.  John F. Kennedy, a so-called Cold War Liberal, had this to say in his Profiles in Courage:

“If by a "Liberal" they mean someone who looks ahead and not behind, someone who welcomes new ideas without rigid reactions, someone who cares about the welfare of the people-their health, their housing, their schools, their jobs, their civil rights and their civil liberties-someone who believes we can break through the stalemate and suspicions that grip us in our policies abroad, if that is what they mean by a "Liberal", then I'm proud to say I'm a "Liberal.”

Kennedy may have identified himself as a liberal for that era; yet it is hard to deny him his status as a true American patriot. Despite the media narrative, it’s important to remember that we are not divided as ‘red states’ and ‘blue states’; but the shared experiences of rural, suburban , or urban life, with regional variations, unites communities across state lines and the two great continental mountain ranges, the Appalachians and the Rockies. We are one nation under Oakleys, Chubbies, and Vineyard Vines.

Tiki, Travels, and Taking a Job

Last Saturday, I graduated from the US Merchant Marine Academy in Kings Point, NY with a degree in Marine Engineering and Shipyard Management, as well as an Engineering Officer's License for ships of any size.The Saturday commencement was a capstone to three days of event, and late nights spent wishing farewells, rather than studying for a test. My greatest personal accomplishment was winning the Seabulk Tanker prize, earning a pair of binoculars and my name on a plaque in the Marine Transportation building, or Bowditch Hall.  

In addition to the pomp and circumstance, I had to make logistics happen to "leave no trace" upon my departure, asides from my name in Bowditch Hall. Since I had my own room for the last half of Senior Year at the Academy, I never felt that I had too much "stuff". Because Washington, DC, my home, is within driving distance of Kings Point, NY, I kept items that my farther-traveling classmates left behind: things like home accessories, Academy gym gear, class notes, and textbooks. This past week, I have been going through the plastic tubs to determine what I actually ought to keep with me for the future, what will stay at home, and what can be sent to Goodwill. The weekend came as a conclusion to this routine, and Mom treated me to lunch at a restaurant in the local Chinatown known as "Eat First". I couldn't help but notice the drink menu. It was a near facsimile of a 1960's tiki menu I had saved on my computer. Many of the drink names evoked a particular island, Oriental destination, or means of getting there: "Lava Mountain" for Hawaii, "Singapore Sling", "Mai Tai" for Polynesia, and "Navy Grog" are a few of the example.  That was a throwback, as well as an appetizer for my future career.

During my Sea Year at the Academy, I had the fortune to visit a handful of island ports: Saipan, Guam and Hawaii, all associated with the United States. Saipan was where I had spent considerable time among the locals, and got to try the local cuisine.
As for the Orient, I visited a small town in Korea, where the gastronomical specialty was meat roasted on a stick, accompanied by kimchee.  This was pretty similar to the Philippine-inspired dishes found in Saipan consisting of roast meat with rice or noodles. Indigenous dishes consisted of fish and roots. Of course, a proper tiki menu could be found at the major resorts that catered to tourists, most of whom traveled five hours by air from Japan and Taiwan. To better appeal to American tastes, tiki restaurants often used Chinese food to supplement a Polynesian menu. Tiki torches and lei are much more appealing to tourists than acknowledging the realities of working-class life in the Marianas.

"Eat First" in DC is not the only Chinese restaurant with an inclination for tropical drinks. The more upscale Elena's near Kings Point, NY does this as well, and I am sure that many other Asian restaurants keep a tropical theme, as well.  You can order a tropical drink and fantasize about the tranquility of tropical islands and the exoticism of the Orient. Sailors young and old have been, or will go, to these far-flung locales.
The difference between today and Tiki's heyday fifty years ago is the ease of travel by airplane, and the resorts that cater to travelers' material pleasures. So-called exotic islands are no longer the sole domain of sailors on merchant ships and the Navy's Seventh Fleet, or Marines who stormed the beaches during World War Two. The mystique is less mystifying.
 

 

Finished With Engines (Part II of II)

     Once you get through the first license test, you know what to expect. With anxieties lowered, all you need to focus on in the material. And if you do not feel confident in the performance of your test, never look back once the test is over. I invoked this principle several times when classmates asked me about specific questions on exams that were already done. Triple-check your work: Transpositions of answers can sink an otherwise stellar performance. If you think you failed, count the number of questions you have no idea about (100% wrong), then add those questions you guessed between two choices (66% wrong), and figure out how many you are uncertain about (33% wrong). Add these up, with the proper proportions. When the final results came out, I was surprised by how accurate my metric served me. Call it Sawatzki’s Rule. 

     Monday was dedicated to Diesel engines, the primary mode of propulsion of merchant ships. The easiest subject was Safety, which I studied for. This was advantageous, as I finished first and had plenty of time to study for the next test, Generals. The toughest exam was Generals, and Electrical was an unexpected blessing. The final two exams were on Steam propulsion, which is present on older vessels, as well as in niche applications such as liquid gas carriers and nuclear ships. The class expected to do well, as much of our classroom instruction focused on elements of steam systems, from turbine design to thermodynamics.  

     On the final test, I did a full triple-check. This was the end, and there was no need to rush. Most engineering midshipmen pass all tests on the first round, but sometimes it is quite arbitrary who fails a single test. I bided my time by packing my belongings to take home. Lunch was catered from Chipotle, which was enjoyed by all. We were told to report to Wiley Hall at 2pm for the results to be posted, but there was a bit of a delay. During the meanwhile, classmates talked with nervous anticipation, never making plans for next week (so as to avoid a ‘jinx’). Results were posted just a few minutes before 4pm. 85% passed all seven tests the first time, and another 10% had one test to remediate in the next week. My parents had traveled from DC for the bell-ringing ceremony, so the stakes were raised on me passing the first time. Which I did: a low of 79 on Generals, and a high of 100 on Safety. 

     My mood was a bit subdued, in solidarity with those who were retaking their tests on the following Wednesday. But for those who were truly uncertain about their results, a passing result was cause for immense celebration. To me, ringing the bell was an effort in maintaining old traditions, tethered by my parents’ wish of a solemn event, despite efforts of the Academy’s administration to formalize, and tame, the occasion.

  

     After the bell was rung, and the tassel removed for the sake of peace-and-quiet, the local park was filled with gleeful seniors who earned their stripe. After sunset, the convoy filled the local firemens’ outfit. I had a fine dinner with my family in Roslyn, but upon the advice of my company officer, a 1977 graduate, I made sure to spend time afterwards with my Kings Point family of classmates. With the significant number of seniors beginning their travel on the next day, the celebrations ended fairly early, to the pleasure of the “townies” in Great Neck.  

All Boilers Firing (Part I of II)

The final trimester started in March with General Dempsey’s visit to the Academy, followed by St. Patrick’s Day and a celebration for 100 nights before graduation, all in the same week. License preparation books had been issued at the start of the year, and had been referenced on occasion to study for tests in other practical engineering courses.  But for now, the spiral-bound books, 1000 pages in total, sat on the shelf, as license exams were safely 75 days away. There were exact reasons why the festivities were packed into one week: Capstone and License Prep.

For senior-class engineers, Capstone in the third trimester is the culmination of a year’s worth of research, calculations and reports. Third trimester gives the opportunity to finish up on tasks left incomplete before Spring Break, as well as preparation of a presentation to industry specialists. We finished on April 9^th, and, with known intentions, the pace of License Prep picked up to fill the void.

The challenging part of License Prep was weekly tests. As engineers, you would aim to score an ‘A’ on Monday each week. That meant an exemption from the Wednesday test, so you had a full two extra days to study ahead for the next section of material. As we got acclimated to the material, the pages of studying each week increased from 40, to 60, to 80, and then 110 pages per week. Over the course of these 9 weeks, I took a day off for a high school reunion, and then a Saturday evening in the final week. Almost every waking hour was committed to productive use in the classroom, in the books, playing sports, eating, or it was mourned as lost. Midshipmen you never knew as studious were found in the library. As I had a private room, I took advantage of the sunlight and turned a dresser beneath the windowsill into a desk.     

As I mention in my last post, the U.S. Merchant Marine Academy is the only federal academy whose graduates must take these tests. In exchange, from the 1940’s to 2012, graduates received the equivalent of a warfare pin two years before junior officers from other academies. While graduates of the other academies had a relatively easy semester academically, and were now on “Post Graduation leave”, we were hunched over those license preparation books in our rooms, the library, or in the outdoor sun.  Saturdays were happy study days, as you’d feel as if you were prudent, and always hoped to get far ahead enough to enjoy the evening off-campus.

 Our license prep coordinator then prescribed a dose of rest and relaxation during Memorial Day Weekend, which started on Thursday evening after final exams. That was favorable news that I and a number of classmates took with a grain of salt. It was Fleet Week in New York. Haze gray ships were in the harbor, and Blue Angels were flying over the South Shore of Long Island. A question arose about saluting graduates of the same class, who happened to have an earlier commissioning ceremony. A bit of research uncovered that, in a change from days of old, Naval Academy graduates now share the same official commissioning date as NROTC graduates from other colleges.  

That rest and relaxation was anticipation for “self-disciplined 12-hour days” of studying. During the following week, I read through those three spiral-bound books again. I then read old notes, took practice tests, and read good textbooks on pertinent subjects: electric motors, diesel engines, and refrigeration. I even took a look at the sea projects I completed while sailing the world as a cadet. A strange mood enshrouded the senior class. We knew that the underclassmen were enjoying the sunlit evenings and neon nights with weekend passes, but we had a mission to pass these license tests that were 6-5-4-3 days away.  I never “talk shop” in the dining hall, but that was most of what I heard this week. To break the heavy mood, I’d ensure that I sat with a “deckie” major for meals, since we had no tests in common, and therefore had to talk of more pleasant things.

Eventually, it was Sunday night. I confided that I did the best I could with time I had to study, and said a prayer. License Week is when regrets come to hit, if you have blown away time. I prepared the materials I needed for the test ahead of time; placing calculator, ID, pencils, eraser, and a straight-edge in a Ziploc bag. In the morning, I gave fifteen cents to the Amphitrite Fountain, an age-old tradition. Someone had loaded the fountain with rubber duckies, each bearing the message “Good Luck”. That was a pleasant touch. We flocked under the Truxton Archade, and savored the moment, since one should not start a test in fear. We were about to cross a bridge that each graduating class has crossed, and complete the transition from midshipman to mariner. It was 7:45am on June 1^st, and we were ready to win this final game.