The Music Never Stops. Period.

This is a personal essay I wrote for my feature writing class about the perils of competition in band during high school. I kinda like it, so i thought I'd post it. I definately learned from this experience, and in light of today...i thought it'd be appropriate. = )

My entire music career comes up this point. This will prove weather or not I am truly talented: the Solo and Ensemble competition. This gives band nerds their bragging rights. I’ve seen people’s sweat and tears over this competition. Slaving away over notes, locked in practice rooms four to five months out of the year, it all would pay off. All in mere ten minutes, and during one solo.
My sweaty fingers glide up and down the metal keys of my clarinet.
I’m next.
My mind searches for data…a note. A key. A change in the song. The tips of my fingers puff over the open holes giving the hollow wood a voice in the stagnate air. One last prayer outside the classroom door: "Ok, God,…" I only have one chance.
This will be the year for me. This will be the year that I can make it to state and prove to everyone that I have true musical talent. I’ve been third to last chair all semester. The other clarinets in my section made it to state last year--all but me and the few others on the bottom of the totem pole, the bottom of our section. Now I am a senior. I must go.
I memorized a four-page piece by Braums--a beautiful silhouette. I played part in front of the class one day.
"Wow. It’s so pretty," says my friend Jasmine.
The first section: long, sad and hollow. I felt with Braums. Lonely in my room playing for hours and hours, I became one with this piece. Leaping and sailing with the notes off the page. My fingers twiddling up the register, warm air shooting through the hollow wooden instrument soothing the ears who heard the melodies.
"Beautiful sound," said Ms. Villareal, my band teacher from last year.
I played for my friends and family.
"You’re gonna do great!" said dad encouraging me one day after I played for him, "I’m so proud of you."
This year I had finally moved up to Wind Symphony, the top band at Frisco High School carrying some of best high school musicians the state of Texas. Certain sections from Frisco fill all or most seats at the 4A All-State Band Competition, some first chairs.
I had stiff competition. They had private lessons.
From working two jobs outside of school my senior year, I could finally afford them now, even though I am also saving up for a leadership conference in Europe this summer. Though I failed to make it to Regionals in the fall, fresh new flowers are blooming in the spring-filled air. I still had a one chance to redeem myself at Solo and Ensemble.
It’s my turn.
"Ok, we’re ready," the girl outside says to me.
I’m ready.
I stride into the room toward my moment of truth. I got this.
"Do you want to sit or stand?" asks the girl escorting me inside the room.
"I’ll stand."
My confidence--only half the battle. My piano accompanist: she started a war.
I play the first half of the piece without a single error but just one bar. Warm and lovely sounds on my reed. Thank God--the half pack of cinnamon Altoids I popped in my mouth this morning to clear my sinuses--they where really working! No cold was going to stop me from state.
Nothing. No one.
Rolling my fingers up and down the keys as smooth as silk, I'm now on the second half of the piece. Skilfully mastering the ugly runs*Brian, my private lessons teacher helped me flesh out, I'm on my way. Brian, a student from the University of North Texas college of music was part of their world renowned program, and an excellent teacher.
Coming to the last five lines of the festive second movement, my piano accompanist struggles to hit the correct black and white keys. Notes clash like train whistles. She’s slowing the speed of my upbeat tempo.
No.
The sounds become unbearable, and I spiral down into a deficit. No more patience! I have nothing left. Angry at the fumbling fingers to my right--
I stop.
She stops.
I let out an exasperated sigh of defeat into the silent air while closing my eyes. Shaking my head. It’s over.
"You want to continue?" asks the judge.
"Could I start in the middle of page four?"
I finish the last four lines of the song with a strong last note despite her mistakes.
"I’m so sorry," said the nervous woman once we were outside. She had ten or so other soloists to play for that day. My solo just happened to have a difficult ending. She felt responsible and only charged me half price. Why the hell did she tell me she could play when she really couldn’t? That bitch. I thought to myself.
We’ll see what happens once they post my score. I just need a I**. The score says it all: Top, Superior. I.
Looking up at the black ink embedded into the white piece of paper posted up in the cafeteria, my eyes filled with tears.
II.
I fled the building immediately. In shame and embarrassment rushed to my car. But I’m a senior!
I soaked the steering wheel with tears on my way to work that day.
I had failed, but I wasn’t because my faulty pianist. It wasn’t because of wrong notes I played.
Later reading the judges comments, I learned that I committed the number one sin at the competition: I stopped playing.
Up to that silent moment of defeat in the classroom, I had never stopped. The time it mattered most, I let the situation get the best of me. Losing didn’t prove whether or not I was truly talented, it exposed me.
If I had not stopped, I would be on my way to state. The man had complimented me on everything else, but my poor choice.
My entire music career came to up this point: a period, not a comma.
This taught me to never stop again, but I only had one chance…



*rolling your fingers up and down the keys quickly
**One.