Transference

In an attempt to rectify what my parents had always considered their biggest failure in raising me, I had decided to learn to play music. Not knowing how to even tap out a tune on a piano, this was, of course, bound to be a monumental challenge.

But it was one I was determined to face.

My mother’s birthday was coming up, and after her many years since last playing the clarinet, I had decided to attempt to gift her with music for her birthday- to ease the ache in her soul caused by all three of her children’s apparent lack of musical skills in any regard. It wasn’t as though our childhood had been lacking in music whatsoever- car rides and cleaning always had a soundtrack to them, be it Rock or Alternative, Pop or EDM or Country. My dad played us weird shit. My mom liked what was on the radio. My siblings and I loved all of it. Despite this, not one of us learned an instrument. Perhaps mildly discouraged by the sudden disappearance of all instruments in the house after my acquisition of an accordion, or simply because we were busy with sports and academics, learning music fell off of the radar.

But now it was back on mine. And I was determined to succeed. I wanted my parents proud of me, to see my mother smile when she realized how hard I had worked, how good I was at this. I wanted my father to hug me and tell me that he had always wanted one of us to play an instrument, that I had made him happy. And it was with this warm dream tucked away in a little pocket of my heart that I set out to learn music. There was a minor roadblock, in that I didn’t even know where to start. I presumed finding an instrument would be a good beginning. 

I flipped open my laptop and pulled up Amazon and Ebay and Craigslist. I searched up “instruments”, set my prices from low to high, and got to work. Three iced coffees and a playlist and a half later, I found something within my college student budget- a beat up violin for twenty bucks. If I paid extra they’d include the strings. Figuring those may be important, I paid the extra $7.50 and waited for it to arrive. 

The big day finally came- I snatched the package right from the delivery man and sliced the tape off the top, flipping it open to reveal my magnificent new violin.

Well, new-ish. New to me, in that magical way that used books held secrets to other people’s minds and used clothes carried secrets of other people’s lives. I told myself this violin was privy to the world of music unbeknownst to me thus far, that this violin would be able to help me become extraordinary, would carry my tune to the world, rendering all who heard me play speechless.

It was extraordinarily average. Well loved, or perhaps ill-kept, the varnish was chipped away and worn, and the strings were darkened and discolored. But it was intact and functional with all the parts and pieces, bow included, and most importantly: it was mine. 

I picked it up and rested it on my shoulder, the way I’d seen other violinists prepare to play. In all honesty, I’d only ever seen other violinists once, at the middle school band concert I’d gone to nearly a decade ago, but I figured it couldn’t be that hard if scrawny seventh graders could figure it out. Fancying myself musically gifted, I touched bow to strings, imagined it like a kiss- a precipice for something beautiful. I prepared myself for my own magnificence, wondered how soon I’d be able to learn an actual song, wondered if I should prepare my own composition for my mother’s birthday- something that could move her to tears. 

Then I slid the bow against the strings once before yanking the two apart. 

Tear-wrenching was an accurate way to describe the noise. I took a moment to wonder if perhaps I hadn’t made any sound at all, and instead the stray cat living outside my apartment had died. But as soon as I tried again, I was reassured, at least, of the stray cat’s safety. The safety of all those who may one day hear me play, not so much. 

Realizing that perhaps I had not simply inherited the ability to be amazing at everything I attempted from my mother, I set the bow and violin down, and pulled up YouTube. I was terrible, there was no two ways about that, but I wasn’t about to give up that easily. After all, I wanted to make music; to hear a symphony in sentences, a melody in the monotonous and an orchestra in the ordinary. There is a magic in music- the way it is an act of transference in and of itself. To be able to feel something strongly enough to make others feel something too seemed like an impossibility. After all, I could barely feel passionately enough to feel my own emotions, let alone have other people feel them too. And more than making them feel my own emotions, I wanted to help them with their own. I wanted to not just listen, but create. Something of my own- a projection of self rendered in a new light. How better to control the way the world sees you than to present it in a way of your own creation. Art had always seemed like transference to me, but my drawing skills were worse than my music skills, my acting abilities only went as far as a second grade rendition of the nativity, and I stumbled too much over my words and my feet to ever be a writer or a dancer. 

I needed music to be it.

So I spent hours watching YouTube videos and trying my best. I tuned the violin. I adjusted the way I fit around it. I learned the chords. I pressed my fingers to the strings, and wrapped my hands to fit the bow, and restarted the video on scales and tried again. Everyday. Tune, adjust, learn, press, wrap, restart, try. 

Tune, adjust, learn, press, wrap, restart, try again.

Tune and adjust and learn and press and wrap and restart and try again and again and again. Over and over, every day, until my fingers bled, and the notes didn’t hurt my ears anymore.

No one told me this was going to be painful- that aching and crying and bleeding for art was a real thing. If you could even call finally being able to do scales with a YouTube video playing in the background “art”. I had never had to hurt like this for anything before, but I had never wanted to be good at something so badly before either. Slowly, I improved, but there was so much to learn. Some days, it felt like too much. Other days, it felt like relief- a reminder that learning more would make me better. That maybe this would be the day I learned enough to make my parents proud, to make them realize they don’t have to feel bad about any part of my childhood, that I can still be what they want.

There is no failure in my life- there never has been. 

After weeks of practicing and crying and tuning and adjusting and learning and pressing and wrapping and restarting and trying and trying again, I finally reached my greatest accomplishment. With trembling hands and a faint screech instead of a first note, I slowly played “Happy Birthday”. Each note seemed to shimmer in the air of my empty apartment, caught the light streaming through the curtains and glinted with the promise of more to come. It was shaky at best, scattered in with curses whenever I messed up, and played at a death march pace, but I had done it. The simple melody felt like dancing in the rain and driving with the top down and dreaming of more. I smiled, proud of myself, and set about to play it again.