Judgement is Corrosive, Not Insight.

Has anyone compared ambition to mysteries? The answer is a riddle in it of itself. Aspirations are not wishes, they are puzzles. Many men attempt to solve the 'why' and the 'how' of their dreams, only to become apprehensive by the many possible answers the enigma offers, unsure which one matches. They fail to see the trick. Some men choose to only gaze at the puzzle, hoping that examination of its deceptiveness, its intricacy. These men choose to instead judge and dismiss the puzzle as inefficacious, not worth the hours. And all the while, the puzzle wanes, until it becomes pointless, and its ingenuity shattered.

In many ways, judgement of a challenge that you plunged into, without understanding of its weaknesses or acknowledgement of its strengths, is to be a fool.

This is something I wished I knew sooner.

*

"Classy, don't you think." he said, appearing proud of his contribution, "Think the rest of class will be ready?"

"I'm counting on that. Besides, this is the 4th time we've done this. And we've got Mr. McCarthy conducting and none of his concerts have ever gone silent."

I must have lost my smile for a moment, because he asked me why I had the 'blues'. With a grin of a laugh I told him my worry. "It's my mother. She still thinks that I'm not putting enough work into school."

He had just agreed to my suggestion of Mozart symphony no. 40. An iconic piece for sure, even known by those who did not play music, yet we were high schoolers. The simple fact we could perform it at professional level with a full and and orchestra would be more than enough to garner approval from the entire community.

He gave his frequent wacky expression, "Some days, you just don't know yourself do you. Tests aren't everything. She expects you to give her everything she wants. Never mind what she says; you have A's in all your classes, and although she doesn't appreciate it, organizing an orchestra is awesome dude."

John, my curly blonde, shameless, and sometimes unbearably witty friend, had met my mother many times when he came over to practice at my house after school, and I often did the same with him on certain weekdays. On weekends of course, we were caught up in our schoolwork and other commitments. But 3:00-6:00 was the savory period.

"It's not that. I'm just not sure what she'll do if I don't agree, you know. College is soon and her involvement depends on my choice. I need to know she can feel good about this."

"Same, my dad says he's confident I'll make it too, but if not, there are others." We both wanted to go to Juilliard, which was a prestigious school for guys like us. But he remembered as much as I did that both our parents wanted us to major in something 'worthwhile' as they called it.

"Hey, speaking of family, I just remembered, did your dad hear our last concert?" Changing the subject was something I did to disguise my forlorn face.

"Ecstatic." He said with a warm knowing look. "And once your mom sees how committed and important this is, she will too. People appreciate that sort of thing. Now come on, it's Wednesday and there's an aggregation of cheesesteaks waiting."

*

John was my best friend. He had shared my love for music, for strings in his case, and had an understanding of his priorities. Reinforcing this, we were both understood our place, or at least in the current we did. My mother always forced me to look at two roads diverged in a murky wood.

*

I stopped before entering my mom's office. Her claim to fame. The place where she fought, brutally negotiated, and verbally drained the crap out herself and out of others to get what she needed.

I sighed. She wasn't always like this. Never around anyone, especially me and my father. My father had immigrated to America from Mexico about 10 years before my birth with little money. He moved to begin his accountant business with his wife. The work it took just to earn his business 'recommendations' at best beat it out of him, hardly had time or money for examining his health. It quite literally condemned my mother a widow. Taking over and managing my future took its acidic toll and transformed my life into what it is now.

Knowing this was one of the few times I ever did this, I entered my mom's office with my folder of music in my perpetually vibrating hand. Fortunately, she was in there; the centerpiece of her castle. Among her wide laminate desk were loose pens, books, her plastic cup of water, her laptop and a stack of papers, undoubtedly pertaining to her taxing business. I always had a shiver whenever I saw it, even though I had visited it often enough to know the pile granulized over time.

Looking at her, she was standing and pacing the length of the large white-walled room, clutching a phone that was pressed her ear. I couldn't tell what the problem was this time, although I figured one of her clients must have made a mistake because she wore her iconic expression of disbelief when she paused herself. If aphorism had a human daughter, it would be my mom.

The epitome of disappointment struck me when she turned and saw who dared enter her home. But after seeing the shy, scared, and knowing look I had, her eyes softened and turned around to continue her conversation in a less than irritated way. All the while I retained my stone composure, spine stiff as a pipe.

"Alright look, I'll call you back, but until then, try and get the hodgepodge that you call your 'busy life'. Okay?" She hung up then released a sigh full of voice-fullness before turn back towards me. I clenched my folder, bracing myself, yet not breaking eye contact. Mom always knew I was shy, but I never let her believe fear existed.

She asked me what the problem was. I told her that my friend was having trouble and I wanted to help.

Rolling her eyes she said, "Has this been the reason for your decrease in productivity? For your late arrival back home? Has your dream become an obsession again, Ben."

I said nothing as she continued her 'speech', "I expected better from you than excuses at this point. I have worked too hard to get you here and if your friend does not make it, then that is upsetting, but then again so is your choice to make friends with a parasite."

I broke eye contact and looked at the floor taking silent yet heavy breaths. No point in arguing with someone who can end a conversation utilizing reminders of sacrifice. After I stood there, I quickly trudged for the door. Squeezing the nob and pulling it sideways, I was about to step out before she added one more word of wisdom.

"You know very well what will happen if you don't make the right choice. I'm trying to save your from becoming bedeviled by this youthful desire. You don't even know if this is going to work for you in your future. You're going where I want you to go. Don't ask me to reconsider again."

*

Normally, when I had these confrontations, trifle as they may be, I left feeling ashamed that I wasn't following my mother's orders, yet I would be even more ashamed that she wouldn't credit my love of music.

But this time was different. Now, I only felt ashamed of her; that wisdom, not of myself. Weighing John's insight with my mom's advice, the scale of justice became a landslide towards him. My mom saw him as my distraction, a victim of romanticism that I was trying to latch onto.

But it was people like John who were examples, proof that her judgements weren't always correct. They were more....what's the word.

*

Anyway, that's what I hoped to explain to John as we finished studying on the school roof. I scampered up the spiral stairs in the erroding building. Unless we were absolutely sure no one was watching, we used it to review class notes and just talk. As I went up, I noticed he was with three of his other friends who were nothing short of admires of us both. Even though our little group had been friends for over 3 years, it was the first time I took a week off before coming to them. I needed it to prepare for a week compressed with quizzes. But with them over, I came back.

They waved and continued to study their Physics and Calculus notes separately, albeit the occasional group work, where at least one of us shifted our crackling books and notes, spread like poker cards in front of us, over to help. As I sat down next to him, a couple feet away from the others, I noticed he had finished closing his calculus book. It was as though he knew I was going to need his full attention.

Putting my thoughts into much more natural phrasing allowed him to agree with me. "Well, the doctor always said a little rebellion was healthy.", he said giving a half sided smile.

I smiled, but then considered, "I don't want my mom to think I choosing it over her. She's had it hard, we both have. I help her if she needs it but, she needs to accept it too, right."

Lowering his red lemonade, 'the superior refreshment' and his favorite as he anointed it, he opined, "When she tries to wax on about her philosophy, just tell her what you realized, what's best for you. If she's worried you might not be the best, tell her to come to the next concert and show her. And if she's worried about legacy, just tell her you're the next Mozart or something."

I let a laugh limp out, and his unfailing expression softened. "Just remember, Judgment can become corrosive, not insight."

And that is how I let his words become my compass. I let my mother's pontification receive the minimal amount of attention necessary.

Even if we were separate.

*

It was just before my final concert of senior year that my mom decided to overlook our issues no more. I couldn't blame her though; despite my efforts, work at her business continued its faithful shrieks and unrelenting accommodations for several clients. She told me at almost 5 dinners this year that she considered closing and getting employed as a nurse, something she had a bit of experience of when she was in college. But she said it wouldn't be enough for paying bills or even sending me to college. Whenever the controversial subject surfaced amidst her rants, she often gave a one sentence statement and continued.

"Don't forget, this doesn't change a thing. About college or about whatever the hell it is you want. Got it?"

I nodded and would try to change subjects, which brought about the frequent sparring of guilt against relief. I wish I could just tell her. But I thought I was sparring her in this trouble. 'Maybe after she comes to the concert' I thought.

This was my prevailing hope. Yet, there was an innate desire as well, "Maybe after she comes to the concert, I won't have to.'

*

The concert went as meticulous as the planning me, John, and the rest of us scripted. When the audience cheered, all problems seemed to fade in the midst of the shimmering yet unforgiving light, blinding me from seeing the fans. The auditorium, which was more like a professional amphitheater gave way to the roars of the masses.

As we walked off, I think I heard John say he saw some students from outside of our school bring their families here. He said they must have heard a rumor. "Yeah right, mate," said the first chair violinist who was then accompanied by a bass player, "Next time you start a rumor, let us in onnit, alright?"

They all knew as much as I did that John was a master at networking, and made it his unprofessional business to know everyone who was his friend. I didn't know for sure, but I think I was the only of of his friends who he gave advice to, real advice. The thought crossed me as we flooded the practice room, harboring empty instrument cases, stands, folding chairs and tables for us. I slapped him on the back as we laid our instruments to rest in our cases, except me of course. Come to think of it, our instruments might be laid to rest for the last time now.

As John and the rest exuberantly walked out of the practice room door behind the stage out into the amphitheater, I caught sight of my mom at the top exit door. She said she'd come, but it was passive that night at dinner. Instinctively I looked away at John right behind me. Suddenly, amidst the rumble and din of the parents and students, flashing pictures and crowding the players to a pulp, his expression softened yet again and gave me a nod.

"No matter what happens, thanks."

"We'll always keep in touch Ben."

I scurried upstairs, never pausing beyond dignifying the occasional parent or student who congratulated me. I reached the top and burst through the exit door to see her, only her. It was the reception room with many cupcakes, cookies and refreshments awaiting. As she turned to greet me, it looked as though she was happy where were alone for a moment.

"Look, I wanted to thank you for coming. I know it's been shitty with your job and senior year, my applications." A beat. "I'm sorry I you haven't received enough attention. I ignored you."

Her mouth wrinkled in pensiveness, "I just came to see what all the clamor about music was, but if my struggling business and your workload bothers you so much, maybe you're regretting your decision you've made for the past few months. Yes, I'm your mom. I've noticed."

An invisible vomit escaped me and as her expression failed, and instinctively I tried to keep my demeanor strong. 'I'm not weak, never in front of her.' I thought, "I'm not apologizing for this." I gestured behind myself, "This is who I am, and I'm not sorry that I spent every moment of my time working on this, because it made them all happy, it inspired others. Shit, the orchestra I helped set up inspired me. And if that isn't worthwhile, then you're right. This family business that we were forced to take upon is where I belong. I apologize for gliding over you and...dad's shadow, but I don't apologize for my dream."

Her concurrent expression emitted confusion, but it morphed into the epitome of understanding. "I know. If this really means that much to you, then this is where you belong. Not my accounting, or school or whatever else I've pushed at you. I just didn't know if this would work out, you know." Her eyes widened at what she accidentally said, "No, no. I didn't mean it like that..." She held her voice and sighed. "I just wanted to know you have a job that will help you. A job where you can continue to play and be strong. Strength is all I've wanted for you, not my fucking job or the hell I've had dealing with it alone. The life me and him wanted for you."

I knew what she meant and she was struggling to say it, so I intervened, "I understand. I just need to know if you will help me or not."

She lost a tear and smiled, and the iron armor that she wore to protect herself began to melt. She gave me a look that boggled me. It looked like the expression was teetering on the chasm between 'farewell' and 'I finally get it'. For a moment I felt as though it would work out. It looked like her judgments were finished. But I can't know for sure because all metals, corrosive and polished, has a melting point.

*

Do you remember what I said in the beginning. Insights often lead us to sculpt our desires, to solve the puzzle that drives us. For a moment I hoped that her unforgiving judgment had evolved. This could be the proof that judgements can be cleaned and forged into something greater. Maybe this was what I needed to hear to be complete. But unless you look at this story and understand the mind of Ben, truly, I guess you'll never know for sure.

Was this it?

-Ben