The first time I ever came into contact with a stringed instrument is when my sister brought home her third-grade sized viola and plucked the low, twangy strings in awe. I sat rapt beside her, begging her for a single tough of the glossy wood. Elise shook her head with a smirk that accompanied the temperamental relationship of two sisters less than two years apart in age. I stomped off in a fuss. Why would I play the violin? Because my sister told me no.
I was walking to violin class in Fifth Grade with an acquaintance. We were talking about what our music teacher asked us to do constantly.
“I never practice.” She admitted with pride.
“Me too.” I shrugged.
I walked into the music room then, greeting a teacher who had dreams of what our small bodies and instruments could become. I had dreams of receiving the most ribbons for playing songs accurately. I had no desire, however, to do the one activity that could help me beam in pride at years end. Why do I play the violin? Because I want shiny accolades on the scroll of my violin.
The eyes of my orchestra director in the seventh grade gleamed with enthusiasm. He took out his cello delicately, displaying a note of care I had never witnessed for an instrument. He proudly adjusted the cuffs of his shirt that only partially covered his inky black tattoo of Maine, and directed the room of curious students to close their eyes and just listen. In the black of my eyelids I saw an eighteen wheeler pass by on a snowy freeway, an ambulance whistle away towards a car accident, the pops of color and satisfaction that adorned Bach’s Cello Suite No. 1. I saw why my hipster, talented, young teacher settled for a low paying teaching job in the middle of a nowhere State. I saw how music can punch one in the gut while embracing all the same. Why do I play the violin? Because I wish to be that in love, that passionate, about music.
I entered the tiny shop of the instrument maker, excitement coloring my rosy cheeks. He asked if I was Grace, if I was here to pick out my own violin. I could only nod. In his main room was a shelf dedicated to the wooden wonders that occupied my Sophomore Year ambitions. I picked a violin after playing through several, shaking fingers attempting to hold the bow steady. It’s tone is sweet, rich and full, pure beautiful sound. A realm of possibilities opened as my parents and I thanked the kind man while he packed up my new possession. No more renting a cheap instrument. I now had a manifestation of the commitment I meant to undertake. Why do I play the violin? Because there was no turning back now; I have begun to make a reality out of my childhood imagines.
The pianist plays the accompaniment flawlessly in the beautiful recital venue. My knees knock. I can’t get my bow straight; my entire arm is shaking. The solo I had been honing for months unraveled under my tentative left hand. I do not know where I am, I am lost. I stop playing, my heart sinking to my stomach like the weight of the world. I listen raptly. For thirty seconds, the pianist plays on her own. The church is silent in the June heat. I recognize where I am, and jump back into the piece. At the end, I ignore the applause and the praise from family as hot tears find their way to my eyes. I run to the bathroom, heaving quivering sobs of failure. Why do I play the violin? I just don’t know anymore.
I slid to the floor of the dingy basement, putting down my violin and cradling my head in my hands. The metronome still ticks on, the catalyst of my breakdown. Maybe I’m not good enough. If I can’t get up to speed for four measly measures of sixteenth notes, how can I compete with the best for a spot in All-State? I gazed at the instrument, now affectionately named Sylvester, and pushed it away. But then I remember: my middle school teacher who pushed me so hard because he knew I could be better, exhilarating successes among the shortcomings, hours of practice that have been invested into this one five minute audition. I turn my music binder to a familiar tune. A smile graces my lips as I dwell in the memory. Why do I play the violin? Because it is a release from my torturous thoughts, my favorite language to speak. It is my home, my happy place. It is a shard of my soul.