Happy

a story about a children's choir and a simple song

On May 18, 2014, a select group of parents, likely from the Boston community, ferried their 7-9 year olds to UMass Boston for a weekend performance of their choir. I’m not sure how aware the parents were of the event, but I feel certain their choral director understood the setting. And I feel even more certain that the director said, “Ugh,” out loud as he pondered the appropriate song choice for tiny singing pixies to share on an afternoon far beyond their grasp of understanding.

Dear Choral Director: Your song choice lives forever in my heart. It only takes a single beat on the radio for me to channel your singers, start clapping my hands overhead, giggle, shutter and close my eyes, falling straight back into the moment. You made a good choice.

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Happy by Pharrell Williams, set to the key of elementary-school-soprano, opened the 2014 Resiliencey Forum for Survivors of the Boston Marathon. Definitely practiced, the kiddos in mostly matching whitish shirts and khaki pants stood on a platform, triangular in assembly and clapped to the skies as their tiny voices sang to us.

Dan and I were undecided about attending the forum. The one year anniversary of the bombing just passed and I, dissociated by traumatic necessity, spent the year floating above my body. Together, we were starving to find a path where our lives intersected again. Our 2013-2014 was marred by diverging paths, loss of communication, perhaps even a loss of hope, and inability to imagine a future.

We walked hand in hand, mine likely clenching his with white knuckles. The anticipation of seeing someone…meeting someone…who didn’t think I belonged, or worse, someone that I knew, was nearly enough to keep me home. My threshold for fighting was low and at Dan’s suggestion we attended.

After parking the car, we wondered closer to the giant UMASS building. Chairs with a few aisles between them, two podiums and a mini platform built up by three or four stairs created a formal setting. As soon as we got there, my body dropped into an overwhelming state. I jetted down the hallway to the bathroom while harried parents half pulled their child in the direction of the room. I remember thinking how odd it was that so many children came to the forum. It simply didn’t occur to me that the event had them in mind.

I got back to my seat a few minutes prior to the beginning. Dan held my hand tightly. I likely sat, leg bouncing, sweating, scanning, scanning, scanning the room. Who is here? Who do I know? Who have I seen before?

If the room were a clear container, it wasn’t hard to see all it held. Tears fell, grief rested on the shoulders of moms and dads with grown children at their side, grown children sat with parents next to them with shadows of yesteryear- vulnerability shone from their entire beings. Friends sat next to “their people.” The ones they saved, the ones they laid next to or tied tourniquets on. First responders reconnected with the wounded and eyes lit up bright as clicks of recognition flipped time backwards and forwards and back again.

And then, just as there wasn’t enough oxygen to circulate through the room- the director lifted his arms and an audio tape of background beats began to play. The children began to clap in semi coordinated rhythm and sang:

It might seem crazy what I am 'bout to say

Sunshine, she's here, you can take a break

I'm a hot air balloon that could go to space

With the air, like I don't care, baby by the way

No one knew what they were saying, but everyone knew the beat and the song. I’d like to say I laughed, but in the moment, heavy in my seat, I think I went more towards- WTF is going on? No one here is happy. On they went:

Clap along if you feel like a room without a roof

(Because I'm happy)

Clap along if you feel like happiness is the truth

(Because I'm happy)

Clap along if you know what happiness is to you

(Because I'm happy)

Clap along if you feel like that's what you wanna do

Do it right now. Start singing. Throw your hands overhead and clap like you’re in a choir. Can you put yourself in this moment? Are you crying? Are you giggling? Are you wishing it ended? Are you grateful?

I’ll tell you this. When you’re suffering from PTSD, and I use the word suffering given that at the time I hadn’t even said the term PTSD out loud, let alone in reference to myself…when you’re suffering from PTSD and schoolchildren perform their hearts out, mumbling their way through too-fast verses and recovering proud and strong in happy chorus, you don’t know what to make of your life. A lot of- “how did I get here?”circles and swirls around your foggy head.

The song ends with a repeat of the chorus four times in a row, interrupted only once with a six line, dream like cheer, sung in diminishing volume:

HAPPY Happy Happy Happy.

HAPPY Happy Happy Happy.

HAPPY Happy Happy Happy.

HAPPY Happy Happy Happy.

HAPPY Happy Happy Happy.

HAPPY Happy Happy Happy.

Those children left an imprint in our heart that can never be undone. Their parents had no idea as they rushed their singers from the car, part hovering them above the floor, part running, likely commenting on the untuckedness of their shirt or the wonkiness of their collar, that the room awaiting was bent and busted and broken. Their parents had no idea that an ill-suited song for the occasion would live on in households like mine ten years later.

To those students- thank you. I hope I clapped then. But I certainly clap now. Every time I hear the song, whether alone or in company- my hands go up above my head mimicking yours as I whisper, Happy, happy, happy, happy and smile.

Photo Credit: Foad Roshan

Lyrics by Pharrell Williams