I’ve heard tales of a Christmas tradition in other parts of the world where carolers appear at a home, serenade a family, and then invite that family to join in the caroling at other homes. As more families join the caroling procession, the singing group grows until entire communities are out singing together. For the vocally inclined, this seems like a lovely tradition. For those of us born without any discernible musical talent, this is a nightmare.
There are so many things I love about the Christmas season and so many traditions I am happy to be invited to participate in. I’ll drive around looking at Christmas lights until my car runs out of gas. I’ll bake gingerbread cookies until I’ve burned through a Costco-sized bag of flour. I’ll put real effort into finding a funny white elephant for a gift exchange and a meaningful scripture for a spiritual celebration. But please don’t make me carol.
I’ve only had the displeasure of being roped into caroling once or twice in my life, and it was one or two times too many for someone with absolutely no vocal gifts.
If I had even a lick of singing talent, I would be the world’s most enthusiastic caroler. You would never be able to get me to stop singing. I would knock on every door in the city and sing multiple solos for every family, regardless of whether or not they wanted me to.
But I do not have one single lick of singing talent. I can’t even hit all the notes in “Happy Birthday.” All three of my children have, at some point in our relationship, looked me in the eyes and pleaded “Please stop singing.” Inviting me to go caroling is like inviting a fish to go hiking.
And the thing about group singing performances is that they’re very much a one-bad-apple-can-spoil-the-bunch scenario. It only takes one person not quite hitting “all is calm, all is bright” high enough for the entire performance to be ruined. I’m going to be that person every single time. And I can’t bear the immensity of that guilt, nor the disservice I’m doing to the recipient of the carols who then has to try and keep a straight face.
Which leads me to my next point — there’s only one Christmas tradition that gives me more anxiety than caroling. And that’s receiving carolers. Because I do not know what to do with my face.
Imagine this: I’m at home on a mid-December evening, cozied up next to the warm glow of the fire in the hearth. Maybe I’m reading “Mr. Willowby’s Christmas Tree” to my children. Maybe we’re watching “A Muppet Christmas Carol” together. Whatever the activity, we’re winding down for the evening and settling into extreme comfort and ease after a day of holiday hustle and bustle. But then there’s a knock on the door.
I open it to find a group of people, standing in the cold. I immediately don’t know what to do, because there’s too many of them to invite inside but it’s also too cold to not invite them in. But before I can even say hello, they begin to sing “We Wish You A Merry Christmas” while making direct eye contact. With me. And I suddenly become very aware of my face and what my eyes and mouth might be communicating. So I do my best to hold a small, pleased smile as they start in on the second verse. And then the third. And then both figgy pudding verses. They just keep going. And my smile is getting tough to hold.
“Good tidings for Christmas and a happy new year,” they finally conclude, and just as I go to clap, say thank you, and close the door, they begin to sing again, in earnest. This time it’s “Jingle Bells.”
It’s a nightmare scenario because there’s no way for me to match their enthusiasm. That smile won’t hold for a single carol let alone multiple ones.
Don’t get it twisted. I love a good vocal performance. In the comfort of performance hall seating, a safe distance from the performers. Not inches away where they can see every blink. I can’t handle that kind of pressure.
Obviously, these problems — not enjoying carolers and not enjoying caroling — are both “me” problems. I respect and admire those who are gracious and enthused when singers appear at their door, and those who enjoy the act of singing about figgy pudding. It’s a wonderful tradition for those two groups of people.
But I have to assume that I am not alone in my discomfort and there are at least a dozen or so of us who would rather not participate. Maybe a couple dozen. So perhaps we could come up with a way to opt out of the caroling tradition? Like turning the lights off on Halloween. Maybe it’s like a no-smoking sign but with musical notes instead of a cigarette. I don’t know, I’m still brainstorming, but I’m determined to find a way to spare the ungifted vocalists and the awkward smilers from another year of carols. For all of our sakes.