The Composer

When you turn 18, you graduate with a specific trade. This is the skill, in some cases, skills that will be your trade your entire life. It will determine your job, your family, everything.

Today is a monumental day: the day that you decide to pick your career. Most students are monitored as they build skills and explore hobbies in classes. Most students already know what they want to be when they grow up. Most students have already applied for their job badges, new courses, and school clubs. You are not “most students.” You have an expectation, a weight on your shoulders. Sure, many other students have family trades passed down from generations, too, you tell yourself. Your friend, Mica, is going to be a pilot. Her entire family is made up of pilots. And then there’s Collin. He’s going to be an actor, just like his siblings, and parents, and grandparents.

But you. Your entire family is made up of musicians. But the Montieros. Probably the most famous musicians ever. Your parents: Carlos and Sara, renowned around the world for their musical talents, and given the fame and fortune of a lifetime when they married. And now you: the youngest of four children (plus a dog and a cat). You bear the weight of becoming yet another musician. Like your grandparents, your parents, your siblings, even the pets are musicians (not professionally, but still).

“Hey, Sakki!” Mica waves to you as you enter the classroom.

“Hey, Mica.” You respond as you sit down, your blue skirt rustling as you settle in your chair.

“What’s wrong, Sakki? You’re usually so excited about these skill-building classes.

“Yeah.” You sigh as you slouch in your chair. “But today is the day we pick our trade, and I’m not sure what to do.”

“Won't you just be a musician.”

“But it’s not that simple. I don’t know if I want to be a musician.”

“You, what now?” Collin comes over and sits in the chair next to you, sandwiching you between him and Mica. “Of course you’re going to be a musician. It’s in your blood, Sakki. Your name literally means composer.”

“Yeah, well-” Your answer is drowned out by the bell. In front of you, your teacher enters the class.

“Okay class, today we’re going to be exploring what career you want to take. Those of you wanting to participate in the arts will stay here. Those with sports will go to room 105, those with business will go to room 106, those with science and engineering 107, those with government jobs 108, anything else will be in rooms 109 and 110. Those of you who are not sure, please talk to me. I’ll direct you to the class that best suits your needs. Please remember you have one month if you want to take a different trade. Please go to counseling after school if you wish to participate in multiple trades.

“Bye, Sakki.” Mica gets up to leave. “See you after class.” You give Mica a small wave.

“Luckily for us, I’m taking part in the arts!” Collin wraps his arm around your shoulder.

“Lucky me.” You give a halfhearted response, looking down into your lap.

“Come on, this is going to be great!”

“Miss Montiero?” Your teacher approaches you. Collin pulls away from his grasp on your shoulder.

“Yes, Miss Gorell?”

“I was expecting to see you go to 105.”

“Well, I think that I’m supposed to be here, you know, in music?” You stare down at your scuffed white sneakers.

“I see. Please know that just because your family is made up of musicians doesn’t mean that you need to be one too. Let’s take this slowly, okay? See how you do in music. Then we can move you to 105, or any other room if you don’t like it.”

“Okay.” You keep your eyes on your sneakers.

“Sounds good.” Miss Gorell walks away and addresses the class as a whole. Before you can think about it anymore, you’re sucked into the lesson.

***

The door to your house creaks open (your parents never bother to oil it). Inside is the usual commotion: Your parents making dinner, your older sister in the music room, the twins playing with the pets, and your baby brother asleep in his swing.

“Mom, I’m home!” You shout down the hall.

“Be quiet, I’m trying to play my piece!” Your sister, Ongaku, is sitting at the piano.

“Whatever Oni.” You stick your tongue out at her. She glares at you for a moment before going back to the piano.

“How was school, Sakkyoku, my little composer?” Your mother comes in from the kitchen.

“It was okay, I guess.” You embrace your mother. “I have some homework to do so I should do it now.”

“How about after dinner, amar?” Your father comes in to hug you. (He’s from Brazil, and sometimes speaks Portuguese to you and the rest of the family. His most common is “amar”, which means “love”.)

“Okay, dad.” You drop your bag on the floor and go to change. “Let me get out of my uniform and then we can eat.” The blue school uniform consists of a white dress shirt, a skirt, legging, and a crisp blue coat. (There were also dresses for girls, but that isn’t exactly your thing. You would’ve gotten away with pants, if you could, but the skirt was the best you could do.)

“Hey, Sakki!” The twins, Kyoku and Uta, come into your room just as you pull on your favorite hoodie. Uta ruffles your hair and Kyoku gives you a hug.

“Do you know what instrument you want yet?” Uta jumps onto your bed.

“Or will you sing like Mom?”

“Maybe she’ll do guitar like Dad.”

“Or what about Piano, like Ongaku?”

“Or drums like me?” Uta drums the air in front of him.

“What about the flute, like me?” Kyoku conjures up an air flute, whistling and dancing her way around the room.

“I’m not sure yet.” You sit on your floor, feeling more hopeless than ever, the menagerie of different instruments your family plays adding their weight to your shoulders.

“Sorry, Sakki, we shouldn’t pressure you. Kyoku sits next to you.”

“I guess it’s not fair, huh?” Uta walks over.

“Suzu’s gonna have it the worst, with all of us musicians.”

“But… what if I don’t want to be a musician?”

“Of course you will, it’s in your blood. Ongaku was born, and they named her “music.” Our parents knew she would be a musical baby. Then me and Uta, “tune” and “song”. They knew we would be musical, too.”

“And you, Sakki. You’re the composer.”

“And Suzu’s the bell. You can tell by his little laugh.”

“And Chowa. She’s harmony. If the dog can sing, so can you.”

“And Chui is the note! And if she can sing, you’ve got to.” You know they’re trying to make you feel better, but with each moment, your stomach drops lower and lower through the floor. All your family is musicians. Their names are music. But deep down, you know you don’t have the talent, don’t have what it takes to play music. But how can you not? It’s in your blood, after all.

***

“Maybe this isn't’ the one for you. Everyone has their own special tune, after all.” You stayed after class every day, all week, trying different instruments with Miss Gorell. So far you had tried all the instruments your family played: the guitar, the piano, the drums, the flute. Today you picked out the violin. It looked special, it was small, but not too small. It seemed elegant, and something your family would want you to play.

“Why don’t you sleep on it, Sakki? And on Monday we’ll come back and figure out what you want to do. Okay?” You nod solemnly. No matter how hard you try, music isn’t something that you’re good at. Your siblings had barely touched their instruments when they knew they were musicians. As your mother put it: they had found the spark inside of them. That was great for them, but you still couldn’t find your spark. 

Your father said the same thing: just keep trying. You would get it eventually. 

Now, you wish it was over. As you walk out of the building, you see the sports kids on the field: playing soccer, playing football, running and jumping and laughing. Your legs itched to be out there, running free, instead of sitting down and playing music. Something inside you seems to glow, but you push it down. You are a musician. You chant this to yourself the whole walk home.

***

“How is music coming along, Sakki?” You shrug and pick at the eggs on your plate. It had been the same thing. You only had a week left to master music, to find your spark. Miss Gorell had been pushing you to try something new, take some time in the other rooms to find what else interested you.

“That bad?” You shrug again.

“I know it’s hard, honey, but the music is there. It’s in you, I know it.” Your mother has been comforting you with the same words as everyone else. As of the third week, you had made some progress on the violin. You knew some notes, you could play some basic songs, but your fingers ached from pressing the strings and holding the bow. Each day you picked up your violin case, it seemed to get heavier and heavier. Everyone in the class seemed to be miles ahead of you, mastering the skills they needed and progressing further and further.

“It’s hard,” everyone had told you “but it will get better.” They said that you just had to practice, and wait, and try and try and try. But was it enough?

No.

“Mom?” you say, looking up from your plate.

“What is it, honey?”

“I don’t think I want to be a musician.” Your mother is silent for a moment. Shocked at what you’ve said. You knew she would be.

“Oh honey, I know it’s hard, but if you keep practicing I know you’ll get better.”

“You don’t get it!” You jump from your chair. “I’m not ever going to get better. I’ve tried all month. I have a week to be able to play the violin. But I can’t. I’ve tried and I’ve tried and I’ve tried. I’ve gone early, stayed after school, but I just can’t do it. You all were able to master your trade so easily. But I can’t. I’m no good at music, or singing, or playing any instrument. I can’t do it…” You burst into tears, the pain and the pressure from the last three weeks pouring out, flooding your face, and releasing itself through sob after sob.

“Oh, sweetheart. I’m so sorry.” Your mother swoops down to hug you, holding you so lovingly and warmly in her arms.

“I know you all expect me to be a musician, but I just can’t do it.”

“I’m sorry we put so much pressure on you. I know this is in no way what any of us expected, but I will support you in whatever trade you choose.”

“Really?” You look up, your eyes puffy and your voice choked.

“Or course.” Relief flows through you. The spark that had been lit before was finally released from its bindings, surging through you and making you know that whatever trade you choose next (and you’re pretty sure you know what it is) will be just the right one for you.

***

“Here she is, ladies and gents, the one and only Sakkyoku Montiero! Her family of musicians will be performing for this game’s half time, so stay tuned!” The loudspeakers blared and the crowd went wild. Inside of you, the little spark danced and weaving it’s way through your bones, surging through you and making you ready for the game ahead. Somewhere out there, your family of musicians is watching you play. The odd one out, the star of a career so different from what was expected. Yet here you are, ready to play yet another game of soccer, your team by your side.

Stepping onto the field, the crowd cheering, the ball at your feet, you know that, whatever happens, this game will be another one for the books.