Searching for the Music Within

    I couldn’t hear the music. New and old friends put their arms around me, the harsh lights from the stage enhancing our imperfections…

 

     I sat in the middle of a colorful room with my purple backpack and matching lunchbox in hand. This was the day. My foot tapped eagerly amongst the toys that were splattered everywhere on the worn carpet as if the toy box had exploded and left a terrible mess. The bell rang to signal the end of the school day, but I bolted out of the classroom before the ringing stopped. I ran as fast as I could, my pigtails bouncing with every quick step I took; I did not stop running until I made it to the living room of my home. My chest heaved for air, and I stood with my mouth gaped open as I stared in awe of my new shiny black piano.

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     I was five and, like most five-year-olds, adored the gesture of getting something new to play with. I hopped on the piano bench, and my feet dangled to the beat of the only song I knew how to play, “Mary Had a Little Lamb.” Every day for the next couple of years, I would continue to run home from school with excitement to play my piano, filling the living room with the more complicated music of Beethoven or Debussy. My piano teachers would demand that we always learn a piece of music hand separated. Still, I disobeyed and joyfully but sometimes frustratedly forced my hands to coordinate with one another as I learned a new piece. I’m sure it was excruciating for my parents to listen to the incorrect and clashing notes I played, but I never heard them say a word.

 

     As the years went by, school began to get more serious as they prepared

kids for the not-so distant days when we’d have to start applying to college. Additionally, I was going to school every Saturday to learn Mandarin, and every other day, seeing a tutor. I told myself I did not have the time to practice as my piano sat in its same place, being played less and less with each passing school day. I still managed to learn and memorize a set of repertoire that I had to perform in front of an evaluator for a program

called Certificate of Merit, but it was getting harder for me to find the time

to practice.

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     Ten years of my school work buried me as my inner thoughts became more powerful and infectious. My piano teacher gave me the last set of pieces I had to learn for my advanced level piano test- Brahms, Chaminade, Beethoven, Bach, Ginastera... I can’t do this.

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     I didn’t go back. I stopped playing the piano. It’s weird how something you love so dearly can change so suddenly. I dreaded going to school and stopped playing in the orchestra and jazz band because I told myself I would not have the time to practice. I remember the day when my dad broke the news to me of what the first two years of college would entail: Why do I need to take classes like math, history, and science again? What was the point of high school? I forced myself to realize there was a purpose for this and decided it was my choice to make the most of the many years I still had left of school.

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     As quick as my decision to stop playing music, stories and characters began to fill my head. I genuinely felt so much joy analyzing works by Tenessee Williams, the same joy I had for playing the piano. My love for literature and storytelling bloomed as I read more and more novels; a spark of creativity filled my cluttered mind. Now, I had a new reason to run home from school. I began writing my stories, and within a couple months, I completed a full-length play about a musician.

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     I could hear the music through the giant speakers behind us. It was my music, the music I wrote on my piano that I ran home to every day when I was five years old. Going into my senior year of high school, I decided to go back to the piano to finish my last Certificate of Merit test. I realized I was not as happy as a person without playing music in my life. The music I played
brought joy to myself, a pleasure I wanted to share with other people. I stood watching the last scene unfold before my eyes, the gentleness of the clean notes from the piano filling every inch of the theatre. My friend looked over at me with tears in her eyes as the lights went dark.

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     People and characters I had envisioned in my head for so long stood around me as we took our last bow together. Through the drama department at my school, I was given the opportunity to see my play come to life on my school’s stage. The emotional connection that came with the music and books I read was something I wanted to try to replicate with the aid of the information I learned from school.

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     As we grow older, we take in the information taught to us in a different way- a way that can be more meaningful and purposeful to our interests and everyday life. Education does not necessarily ever end. Although many students might feel forced to be learning topics that, at that moment, might seem unnecessary, everything we learn builds up and can bring significance in one form or the other. As my professors and elders have taught me, reading whenever you can will help you grow as a writer while continuously listening to a range of music will help you grow as a composer.