When I tell people I'm in a college acapella group people say either one of two things.
"Oh for real that's so cool?!", or the always classic, "Like the Key and Peele skit? The one where the two black people fight over the group?" The latter is then followed by a laugh at the preposterous thought of someone they know actually being a part of an acapella group. It gets no better when I tell them that the group I am a part of is called "On A Sensual Note." As they ask me to explain why some college kids twenty years ago decided to name their group On A Sensual Note, I ask myself, "Why am I in a college acapella group?"
To understand why, we need to look back. The 2013 film, Pitch Perfect made acapella cool my sophomore year of high school. I was a part of a contingent of high school boys who wanted our private boarding school to have an acapella group. In my mind we would be just like the film, singing arrangements off the top of our heads, competing nationally with outfits and choreography. Not only was it an opportunity to potentially showcase my talent, but I could also have another way to escape campus.
It wasn't until, I tried to arrange the creation of this club, that I realized how difficult finding arrangements, or arranging myself would be. My timeline wasn't realistic, and at best I would be laying the foundation for future generations of acapella enthusiasts. So after one meeting, my big acapella dream fizzled.
Fast forward three years and I'm walking on my PWI's quad, at a mandatory activities fair. As I noncommittally signed up for clubs I either had no real interest in, or never heard back from, I saw an acapella group. I had heard about them before. But I mostly dismissed them and the idea of being in an acapella group, it had gone from the coolest thing ever, to lame very quickly to me. However, singing has long been my way to fill the void that life often creates. Singing in an organized setting intrigued me. And if nothing else, I wanted to make it known how good of a singer I felt that I was. At worst I'd be rejected and would blow the group off, and at best I'd casually be a part of an acapella group, no big deal.
But what followed was completely unexpected. After my audition, I was really excited. The guys seemed very cool, and instead of something to just blow off steam, it became something I could see myself doing. As I waited to know if I would be accepted in the group, I grew more and more anxious. I knew I was talented as a singer, but what if no one else saw it. What if I was just a big fish in a small pond? As I received my invitation for acceptance, I immediately felt both validated and excited.
My first few weeks with my acapella group were strange, I didn't really get the humor, I still held on closely to my "stigma", and most of all I was worried that being in an acapella group, would impede my already questionable ability to make black friends. Regardless, I slowly began to love OASN, and all of its members. As the year proceeded, they went from being a "casual" acapella group, to quite honestly my best friends on campus. And yet despite my newfound friends, my love for singing, and my generally positively outlook on college life, I felt an internal struggle.
Every time I walked around with my predominantly white friend group, I questioned myself. "Why am I with these guys?", "Why do I have so few black friends?", "Do people think I'm an Oreo, or something?" Some of it was just my own preconceived notions and insecurities. But some of it came from real things that I heard from people growing. There was black shit and then there was non-black, basically white people shit. No one really talked about acapella, but I doubt it would be on the black shit list.
As I questioned and pondered where I stood as far as my own black identity, life gave me the answer I wasn't looking for. It all came to head on our spring tour in New Orleans. Up to this point in my life, it remains one of my favorite weeks in my life. One night we decided to venture out to Bourbon Street as a group.
As we walked a black man with a friend noticed me. As he made eye contact with me he smirked and then approached me. Only me and him were witnesses in this moment. He came close and casually said something to the tune of, "I see you bro. Do what you do. We can't all be the same." I wasn't the only black person in the group, and I had been slowly amassing more and more black friends, but that didn't matter. He validated my insecurities, and confirmed what I had knew all along. I was a "sellout."
This is something that I grappled with for months. In fact I still grapple with it. But at the same time while I grapple with it, I realize something very important. It doesn't matter. If I want to spend time with people who make me feel good and can do something I'm good at, like singing, that's fine. And if I want to be with people I identify with, who make me feel comfortable, that's fine as well. I'm not just a black person, and I'm not just an acapella singer. Just like I'm not just black or just African. People intersect. In fact intersectionality is what makes people, people.
What exactly makes something black? There are very few things that people can agree upon that are universally black. To try and homogenize ourselves is to limit ourselves. If i'm black, then acapella becomes black by default. Miss me with anything else. Don't try to limit me. I'm not here for that. I'm here for my own advancement.
