Mood Diary: Mixed Emotions

When I was a kid, specifically in third grade, we had an assembly where all the sixth graders who played instruments came and put on a little concert for us. The music teachers each got up and introduced each instrument, and then played it a little to let us listen to what it sounded like. Of course, strings were first, and I immediately fell in love with the first instrument they introduced: violin. The notes, though high-pitched, seemed so soothing and gentle to me. I loved the way the violin carried the melody of the songs they orchestra played. I instantly knew that I had to play this instrument.

When we finally started taking lessons, I went to the music store and chose a violin with my mom. This experience was probably one of the happiest in my life. I loved my little half size violin, and I took care of it as if it was my baby. I had every book and CD imaginable about perfecting your playing, and I was one of the few kids who genuinely practiced while they wrote down “half an hour” in their practice log, subsequently forcing their parents to sign it for them. Most kids’ parents didn’t really care whether they played or not, and–because we really weren’t good at all–they didn’t want to hear the squeaking of their instruments on Sunday night before their Monday lesson because they had forgotten to practice all week. I, however, never had that problem. Every time we learned a new song in lessons, we would have to memorize it and come back the next week able to play. Not to be all showboat-y about it, but I was definitely “that kid” who carried the whole lesson group, because I would practice till my fingers were sore every night. Even when I had no idea what I was doing, I kept trying and trying to play really well, because I loved the sound the instrument produced when it was played correctly. My parents were always super supportive of me, and always applauded when I practiced in front of them.

I played that instrument throughout the third and fourth grade, and I grew to really love it. Unfortunately, my school had a surplus of violin-playing students and not nearly enough cellos. Oddly (and, quite frankly, stupidly) enough, at the start of the fifth grade, they chose the best violins to switch and play the cello instead. I was one of those violins. They didn’t even give us a choice. I knew from the second I laid eyes on the cello that I would despise it, and I did. Oh, how I hated that instrument. I had absolutely no idea how to play. My new lesson teacher was awful. I’m convinced that she actually didn’t know how to play, because she literally taught us absolutely nothing. I couldn’t figure out which strings played which notes to save my life. I started practicing less and less, and my shiny, beautiful violin began collecting dust in my closet.

At one point, I started missing school on the days I had lessons just so I wouldn’t have to play that God forsaken instrument. Midway through fifth grade, however, a little before the winter concert, we got a new orchestra teacher. She had been a conductor for a pretty long time, and she was old and pretty cruel to those who didn’t play well. For fear of my music folder getting flung off my stand by her baton, I decided to get my rear in gear and start playing like I should. I began treating the cello the way I had treated the violin: bought every CD and book imaginable about cello playing and practiced for hours on end–so much so that there’s still a little hole in my floor where I used to put the endpin of the instrument. By the time the winter concert rolled around, I was ready–I had my game face on; nothing could stop me from playing Jingle Bells with the gusto of a forty year old cellist at Carnegie Hall.

I remember this distinctly: standing in line with my fellow peers, getting ready to go onstage, rubbing the rosin on my bow like crazy. I recall having trouble tuning my instrument because my hands were so sweaty. I had to keep wiping them on my pants. I was crazy nervous because I really wanted to impress my new teacher and become a star pupil again. As I began walking up the stairs to go on stage, however, my teacher grabbed my and dragged me back into the hall. I was so confused; I was about to be on stage, why was she holding me back like this?

Then, she said the words that I have not forgotten to this day: “What do you think you’re doing here? You aren’t good enough to play in this concert.”

I was humiliated to say the least. I ran away, entered the auditorium doors from the back and grabbed my parents to tell them we had to go home. The whole car ride back, I cried. I didn’t touch the instrument for months after that, and made every excuse to get out of lessons. I told my teacher that ballet interfered with my practice, even though I had stopped doing ballet years earlier. My love for orchestra and string instruments slowly died out, and I stopped thinking about playing altogether.

At the beginning of sixth grade, the music teachers came one by one to our classes and told us to sign up for orchestra for that year. I had no interest in doing so. Then, my old lesson teacher leaned in towards me and asked me if I would like to try it again. I figured I might as well: after all, I had–stupidly–bought a cello because I thought I would be really good at it, and it was just sitting in the corner of my room doing nothing. She said she would come back with my permission slip for my parents to sign, but she never did. That officially ended my orchestra career. That is, until this year.

When we visited the Performing Arts Center and heard that string quartet play so beautifully, it reminded me of how much I loved playing the violin. So, I have decided to learn to play again. I already bought myself a brand-new, full size one, and I’m more excited about it than I’ve been about anything since my dreams of becoming a violinist were snuffed out by my awful teachers.