Music Lessons

The flute or the clarinet? Sleek or blasting? Delicate sounds that trill or bold ones that fail me as I try to break out a few notes? Two choices, as opposite as can be.

My aunt demonstrates both. Temptation begs me to take the flute. It's light and my tongue bucks the taste of a wood reed against it. Yet, I don't know about rolling the instrument against my lips with correctness.

I'm not a patient person. Practicing is boring at times. I have little tolerance for a lack of instant success. Images of mastery flood my mind. I ask myself, 'If others can do it, why not me?'

In the end, the clarinet wins out. To this day, I believe that my mother wanted me to choose it over the flute, and she teamed up with my aunt to convince me. My mother and I butted

heads. My aunt was, and still is, one of my favorites.

This musical journey takes place at a young age. Fifth grade? Sixth? I don't even recall the reason for my interest in the first place.

I will never forget traveling to New York during my first year in the Jefferson County Prep Band. Chicago comes the next year. Both cities have a special place in my memories. I remember the leader’s assistant writing the letters NYC on a gigantic board. She does it in

the slowest way possible to build excitement and anticipation. We lose our crap.

Screaming, laughing, and crying flood the cafeteria. The thought of traveling to these exciting cities is quite a bit for us to take in. The farthest I ever travel from home is to Indiana; I live in Kentucky. The idea of competing in national championships leaves me with stars in my eyes and my dreams.

The work to get there though is not the happiest for me. Band practices start at eight every Saturday morning. The school where these sessions take place is forty-five minutes away. This means my mother and I leave the house no later than seven. To the young me, this is criminal.

Then, the band members without the funds to plunk down the money for each trip sell goods throughout

the year. The costs include a ride on a Greyhound bus, hotel accommodations for three nights, and meals.

Raising money includes selling popcorn, candy, and cleaners. I'm certain that my mother does most of the sales with her co-workers, and my grandparents buy most of the inventory the band leader expects me to sell.

Life skill learning takes place. It’s more than making sounds come from the instrument. The art of holding the clarinet, getting enough moisture on the reed, and finger placement enchant and distress me. I tangle with perseverance and confidence.

The clarinet would never be a favorite of mine. At one point in my two years, I remember telling my mother about my desire to try the oboe. It never happens because she refuses to pay for a second instrument. I have no idea how I might have liked it.

Being young during this time gave me opportunities to grasp life and development. I recall a young boy, Alan. He has a cool hairstyle, stands a few inches shorter than me, and I follow him around after practice in the cafeteria at Medora Elementary. He is not impressed with me. His mistake.

Growing up means certain body changes. I have to understand the importance of showering because I sit close to others. Over one hundred of us squeeze in a tight, fan shape with music stands and chairs. We sit a few inches apart.

Any amount of scent from a heavy perfume like the type I prefer or a whiff of body odor gets noticed within minutes. Even scented soap is out. We are just too close, and our prepubescent forms do not handle aromatic products.

My other not so fun life lesson is shaving. I wear pants to school and ignore my legs most of the time. Fine hairs poke out at first. Stockings cover them up. I’m not overly concerned.

Then the hairs became coarser and darker. I will never forget the final practice before leaving for New York. My mother told me to shave before she came home from work. We wouldn’t have any extra time before needing to get to the school.

Being young, I watch television instead. I wear a skirt that day. It only comes to my knees. I became aware of how bad my legs look as we file in to perform. Our families attend the session. Everyone, including Alan, focuses on my legs.

I remember my face burning. I could feel the shade of crimson overtaking it. Nausea sets in, tears form in my eyes. I fight for control of my emotions. I chide myself for not shaving. Alan smirks. I want to crawl into a hole. Alan smirks. Not just a little – no, it’s a full-blown one. I think to myself, ‘Next time I’ll shave.’ This moment will never go away.

The reason I didn’t shave is that I didn’t know how to slide the razor across my legs without cutting my flesh. The burn of doing this is worse than having hair on my legs – until that day.

My friends rush to support me. One of them gives me pantyhose to hide what I can of my legs. I am relieved to have something, anything.

Leaving for New York is a chaotic moment. Over a hundred of us run around the parking lot, trying to find our assigned bus. Thankfully, my mother is there to guide me. I have my giant, red and black tartan pillow to help me sleep on the bus.

Pulling out is a fun time for all of us. Plenty of family wave and cheer us on. My dad is there. This is a surprise for me. It hasn’t been easy for him to drive after his accident, and my parents are in the middle of rebuilding a relationship. Divorce isn’t easy for any of us.

We arrive in the wee hours of the next morning. It’s chilly even in May. The hotel, as it turns out, is close to a dump. Doors don’t work, television sets don’t either. All I care about is that I am in New York City, the city that never sleeps.

It truly doesn’t. I don’t care. I love to watch the traffic race past on the busy streets. Carriages pulled by striking horses add to the appeal. The lights dance as I stand in awe at the tiny room’s window in awe. Everything from the noise to riding the subway for the first time electrifies me with curiosity each day.

The leader does clean checks with us each night just to make sure we shower. Good room inspections increase the chance of getting to go inside McDonald’s first for breakfast. This is a big deal because the first group has the most time to eat, and they get actual seats instead of standing. It’s all exciting – even though my three roommates and I never quite win a spot in the first group to eat.

Learning to play isn’t easy. Band class is challenging. The teacher is an older man that prefers a marching band. He tells us weekly.

This is where I meet Jaime, a girl I never learn to like. I laugh at her jokes. She just isn’t that funny. I sit with her and a few fellow students at lunch. I listen to her drama with boys.

It doesn’t help that she moves my books from the beginning chair in the row the first day. I put them there to save my seat while I sharpen my pencil. I’m forced to sit in the last chair. Then the teacher tells us that the prized seat is the one she is in, and he makes a big deal about her. This is before he hears her play. I never earn the first chair. She never lets me forget it.

Eventually, she moves and I see my chance. Sadly, it’s the end of the year and I am out of patience. I no longer care for the clarinet. I just want to get through the year.

Near the end of me playing the clarinet comes with the trip to Chicago. This time, I shave and make sure I look good. I even add a bit of makeup and curl my hair.

Just as in New York, I feel enthralled with the windy city. It’s not quite as busy or filled with as much noise. We go on walking tours and find food carts with a variety of treats. The vendors happily hand out samples and smiles.

I guess the only part that is less than happy is at the official dinner for all the competitors. I am the only girl in the band without a date. Some boy is without one. One of the other band members at the dinner table points out that we should pair up. I glance at the solo boy with hope in my eyes that he’ll sit by me. No luck, the look on his face tells me that isn’t happening. Laughing, I see it as his loss.

The trips are more than opportunities to see new areas of the country. Sure, attending a performance at Radio City Music Hall, visiting the Empire State Building, riding on a ferry, going to the top of the Sears Tower are all cool experiences. No doubt in my mind.

Winning gold in New York, my first year, and silver in Chicago, my second year gives me an idea of success. I don’t like getting up early every Saturday morning. I am not fond of the leader. Her tough style conflicts with my thin skin. I have my heartbroken, and I’m mortified a few times when my changing body betrays me.

In the end, I’m happy for the life lessons. I survive them, and the experiences give me something to tell my daughters. I have a way to show them how to overcome and succeed – not just tell. I’m proud that I stick it out even when I desperately want to quit. I learn way more than how to play the clarinet.