Says Who?

Says who? 

Everyone always told me I should write music. They’d say, “Oh, you have such a way with words.” I thought they were right. I would frequently write poems, mostly romantic sonnets which only intensified as my wife and I grew older. She enjoyed the things I wrote for her, and kept them neatly in a special box for safe keeping. She too always wished I’d pursue a music career. She even pitched using the poems I wrote for her, but I always decided against it. I never really felt iit’ when writing music. I was never proud of anything I produced or worked on, professionally. 

For some reason, the notion that I would become something associated with musicians stuck, until one day, recently, at a restaurant, when my wife and I were having dinner. We were lucky enough to be sat outside on the gorgeous night, and we were graced with the sounds of a wonderful street performer. That night really changed my perspective. Not that I had a bad one, but it could’ve been better.

We were at a superb Italian restaurant, Parri’s, a favorite of ours. However the musician was new, we had never seen, or rather, heard him before. My wife had ordered an antipasto, and for myself, a warm, gnocchi soup. 

The performer set up whilst we ordered our food. He set out his wide brimmed hat, for change to be thrown in and placed it inside of his guitar case. His guitar was acoustic. I noted that he was left handed. His cheeks were blushed, and a bead of sweat ran down his forehead, despite it being a crisp 50° or so. Maybe he was trying to get over the hump of performing for the first time. I had to give him props, he got farther than I ever did. I never even bought a musical instrument for myself. I made the conscious decision that I would give him all of my attention, out of respect, and maybe it’d give me a push to go the direction I needed. 

Our food came and we indulged ourselves as we usually did. I was halfway through my bowl of gnocchi when I had to stop and take special note of the busker. I didn’t have to give him my attention, he demanded it. His presence overtook the food I usually looked forward to eating, this time, it was a secondary thought. He began with a soft tune from his guitar, a steady rhythm, for his relaxing, stoic voice. 

“Nobody can tell you

There's only one song worth singing

They may try and sell you

'Cause it hangs them up

To see someone like you

But you've gotta make your own kind of music

Sing your own special song

Make your own kind of music

Even if nobody else sings along”

The first verse broke me. My face swelled up, it could’ve popped, but instead, I shed a tear. I didn’t recognize the song, but it resonated with me, I connected with the words. At that moment, I began to think back about things that had transpired during my life. I had two young, successful boys. One twenty seven, the other twenty one. I thought about how they both played in the marching band when they were in highschool, and my youngest even continued his practice into college. That was music I was proud to make. Something I was happy to call mine. Other thoughts raced through my mind, of things I’d not thought about in years. 

I recalled over a decade ago, when I’d make a breakthrough in reducing production cost for the company I work for, which resulted in a promotion. This allowed me to do extra things for my family, take them on special vacations, buy them gaming systems, get them the music lessons they begged for as kids. Take them to the schools of their dreams. 

My eldest son already graduated from college, working in his own field, an accountant, he always loved math. I couldn’t be more proud. He was doing what he loved, I’m just glad he was able to get the opportunity. My youngest, still in college at Georgetown, was pursuing his love of music, also with a passion for acting. He one day would become what I never could. But I helped them get there, I could and should be proud of that. 

I looked to my wife, who also seemed to be deep in thought. I didn’t disturb her, I’d hoped, maybe, she was coming to the same realization as I. Instead, I just grabbed her hand and gave it a reassuring squeeze. We’d only grown deeper in love over the years, kept each other going, even when things seemed down. Nothing could break us. 

The busker continued, 

“You're gonna be nowhere

The loneliest kind of lonely

It may be rough goin'

Just to do your thing's the hardest thing to do

But you've gotta make your own kind of music

Sing your own special song

Make your own kind of music

Even if nobody else sings along”

This also brought back some memories. As I mentioned before, everyone always told me I should write music, or perform. I felt like a failure once, not able to write a song I was proud of, or a poem I could show to a record label. I felt like no one understood. I would show people, and they would tell me they liked it, but I needed more than that. I needed substance. So I stopped, I felt I would never achieve such a thing through music. 

“So if you can not take my hand

And if you must be goin', I will understand

You gotta make your own kind of music

Sing your own special song

Make your own kind of music

Even if nobody else sings along”

The busker only reinforced the realization I came to at the restaurant that night; I may not have grown into the thing people wanted, or thought I would become, but I still succeeded. I just wished I'd come to that realization sooner. I married the love of my life, fathered two wonderful children. I will grow into a grandfather, and hopefully a great grandfather. 

 I used to think that I was a failure, because I compared myself to what people thought I could become. Well, let me tell you, when you’re a kid, you can become anything, if you put enough work into it, so don’t take it personally when instead of growing into a doctor, you grow into a hard worker, a parent, a spouse, a person. It’s everyone’s first time living.