(Continued.)
It was midnight and we all had to get up in a few hours, but we followed Carl to the piano and joined in as he began to play one of his own gospel compositions. "Thank you, Lord," we sang over and over again, weaving harmonies as his old friend the bass, the same one he'd heard outside of that practice room in San Antonio, grounded us with melody below and a new friend, a countertenor, soared above. (Being labeled a refugee in your own country is one way to be marginalized; being denied a place in your high school choir because you don't sound like the stereotype of what a man should is another. But the countertenor got the last word, and will be singing as a freshman at Harvard next year.)
(To be continued.)
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