Cash Cow

Twenty-one years of practice, thousands of dollars in equipment and lessons, not to mention the $345,000 debt for a university education, had all led up to this day, this moment, this crossroad. Fiona thought back to the very first of many intersections that, when viewed from above, mapped her life’s path. She marveled that a decision she made at 9 years old would shape the rest of her life. Originally she had asked to play the flute. She loved how it twirled and flitted through the upper registers, seeming to mirror her never-ending enthusiasm for life: pure joy and glee. When she told her parents her plan, her mother, obviously knowing more about her true spirit, gently redirected her focus to the clarinet. 

“Such an old soul, the clarinet, just like you! So wise and kind and jolly. This instrument truly suites the essence of you. And what luck! To have an older sister who also plays the clarinet! She can help you learn so much faster and then you can play music together, just like you used to play dolls together.” Young Fiona had leapt at the happy memory, even though it had never actually happened. Her older sister, Julie was not the doting type. The five year difference causing Fiona, who sang and danced through everything, to be a constant irritant, like a scratchy tag marring the fabric of her sister’s life. Fiona hadn’t given up hope and immediately saw the possibility her mom mapped out so enticingly. She reverently accepted the hand-me-down clarinet her sister had learned on and stoically refused to even glance back at the sparkly flute on display next to the professional model clarinet they were there to get for Julie. Fiona refused to even let herself consider the notion that perhaps this was a conscious decision by her mother to choose convenience over passion, a parent could never be that cruel. 

By the end of her first year, Fiona knew the clarinet had been the right choice for her. She barely even felt the envy that had raged white hot at the beginning of the school year as her friends lovingly polished and cleaned their flutes, all of them more interested in fussing with the instrument than actually playing it. She quickly learned to read music and memorized all of the fingerings before any of the other beginning clarinet players. By the final school concert, she was sitting first chair, front and center, feeling like the star of the show. Unlike every other class subject, music was easy. Spending hours after school and on the weekends running scales and tricky passages only seemed natural. There was nothing else she could imagine doing with her time. She found the accolades her ability brought to be intoxicating, encouraging her to reach for higher and higher goals. By sixth grade she felt ready to audition for the local High School Youth Orchestra. Surprising everyone, but herself, she won a spot. Having only sat in the coveted first chair position for the past three years of elementary school band, her dead-last position in the high school group caused her cheeks to burn with embarrassment. It didn’t matter that most of the other musicians were three to six years older than her, she knew dead last would not be her spot for long.

Fiona’s parents worried about the hyper focus demonstrated by their youngest daughter. They were well aware of the hours she dedicated to practicing, signing off on practice logs required by her middle school band director that averaged a thousand minutes per week. When they gently questioned if maybe she was pushing herself too hard, she rolled her eyes and reminded them that she was only going over a thousand minutes this week because they were allowed to record all the time they spent playing. “This week is Hell week. We had midnight rehearsals on Tuesday AND Thursday because the stupid trumpets would rather throw pencils at each other than actually learn their parts!” She stormed off to pour over the pages of notes citing all the corrections that the conductor wanted perfected before their next rehearsal. 

Fiona had never considered that time not practicing could be beneficial to her as a musician. She practiced until her bottom teeth cut through her lower lip, her fingers cramped and red-hot searing pain screamed through her right shoulder, hinting at the lifelong pain that presently only felt like dedication. The concert went as Fiona had expected, her part flawless, while others muddied the water around her. 

Less than twelve hours after the final note stopped ringing, ending the Spring concert, Fiona was back to work, preparing for the auditions that would determine the seating the following year. She felt giddy knowing that no other clarinet player had started audition preparation yet. In the rare moments when she would stop playing to either mark her sheet music, or tap out a rather tricky rhythm, the sounds of a house party would drift in through her open window. She knew that the party was being hosted by her former best friend, and she would have been invited if she hadn’t already turned down years of invitations, making sure everyone knew that she would rather practice than participate in something as banal as a house party. Fiona allowed herself a moment of smugness, feeling superior knowing that her life had meaning, that she knew what her calling was and there was no one more suited to this life than her. 

Fiona’s hard work paid off when she managed to rise up 13 seats, a record for their Youth Orchestra. She now sat 2nd clarinet, 2nd seat. She was disappointed to not have made it up into the 1st clarinet section, but decided that she was probably just being held back since she was only a seventh grader, and the first chair section had only ever been filled by high schoolers. Also, Julie, now a high school senior, sat only 3 chairs above her. Fiona forgot to be proud of herself and her lofty accomplishment as she fantasized about secretly learning the first clarinet music. The conductor employed a tactic called, “going down the row” during which she would start at the first chair and make everyone play their part by themselves in front of the entire orchestra. It was a fear tactic used to ensure everyone practiced their part. Fiona imagined the shock and surprise when they finally got to her and she played the first part flawlessly after the rest of the first section bombed, as she fully expected them to. 

By the time she graduated high school, Fiona had been the dominating force in the group, solidly placed in first chair for four years. The pressure to keep her spot caused her to whittle back not just her social life, but also her academics. She vaguely remembered finding plant biology interesting and wondering if she might have liked sports, if she had given them a chance.

After high school, she auditioned for all the top music schools, letting everyone know that she would probably pick Juilliard because that’s where her grandmother had studied music, but Oberlin and the Manhattan School of Music were hot contenders as well. But as the rejection letters filtered in, one by one, she scrambled to follow up on the “backup” schools her parents had insultingly made her apply for. Fiona did receive a few acceptance letters, but was denied scholarships or grants everywhere she applied, but thankfully she qualified for both student and personal loans, allowing her to accept the spot (finally) offered by the University of Southern California.

At just a few months shy of 30, and her ever growing student loan debt in deferment, Fiona felt chagrin realizing that the last time she felt limitless potential and fierce joy for her craft was when she was a member of that high school youth orchestra. She had found her place in the music world, not as the super star she dreamed of being, but eking out an existence teaching lessons, picking up gigs in pit orchestras, and still practicing six to eight hours a day just to stay competitive. She wasn’t even sure if she liked what she was doing, feeling like music wasn’t exactly a career, but more of a bad habit. 

She forced herself to shove those thoughts out of her head as she was called in to the audition. She paused as she caught sight of the young woman who would be judging her. Fiona instantly recognized the woman, a rising star in the music world. Ten years Fiona’s junior, this young woman was known not just for her flawless technique, but also for her breathtaking compositions that merged technology and ancient instruments. Her compositions were featured in several blockbuster movies and she was being hailed as the next Danny Elfman. Fiona took a steadying breath, reminding herself what an honor it was to even play for this woman. That even if she didn’t win the audition, just having a chance to play for her would be an accomplishment.

Fiona introduced herself and then played her prepared pieces. Everything felt perfect. Her instrument responded exactly as expected, her reeds produced the lovely deep resonant sound she felt other musicians envied, and even her fingers obeyed the muscle memory she had spent hours teaching to them. When she was done with her prepared pieces, she waited for the young woman to hand her the stack of unprepared music that she would be expected to play next. Except she didn’t get up from her chair. Instead she picked up Fiona’s resume and studied it for a minute.

“It says here you went to USC, they have a great school of music.”

“Yes, that’s right. I did both my undergrad and graduate work there, I know that’s unusual but I had a great TA-ship that offset a lot of the cost…” Fiona trailed off, she knew she was babbling.

“I see. Did you have a scholarship?”

“Uh…well, no. I had a TA-ship for my Master’s, but I took out loans to cover the rest.”

The woman silently studied Fiona for several seconds. Then took a deep breath and said, 

“I am so sorry no one told you this earlier, before all those loans, but you don’t have what it takes to win an audition like this.”

“Excuse me?” Fiona hated how her voice cracked, but she couldn’t understand what the woman was saying.

“Look, your technique is great, but mechanical, you do have a beautiful sound in the middle and low registers, but your upper octave is thin and not voiced right. I would guess it’s due more to the anatomy of your mouth than to your actual skill, in fact your mouth is more suited to the flute, if I had to guess. Whoever auditioned you at USC would have heard these things immediately and would have known that you would never be using the degree you earned for anything more than teaching. Don’t get me wrong, teaching is an incredibly important part of the music industry, but you don’t need a $400,000 education to teach.”

“How do you know they didn’t see potential in me?” Fiona hated the pleading whine she heard in her voice as it escaped her anatomically inferior mouth.

“Because they made you pay for it. All you were was a cash cow to them. They took the tuition you paid them to offer scholarships to the students they knew would make it. It’s cruel and heartless, and someone obviously took pity on you, hence the TA-ship, but you were a willing cash-cow who happily let them milk you dry. You aren’t alone, I’m sure over half your class was there only to provide funds for their stars.”

All Fiona could do was blink back tears as she gathered her things. She didn’t even thank the woman as she scurried out of the room ignoring her request to “send in the next person please.” She slung her gig bag over her shoulders and headed out the front doors of the concert hall. She crossed the street and headed into the Arboretum to try and wrap her mind around what had just happened. As she reflected over the past two decades, she realized that she had in fact been told several times that she doesn’t have what it takes to be a star solo musician. The music school rejections, the scholarship denials, and the need to practice 8 hours a day just to keep up with her peers who seemed to rise effortlessly on their talent just like the cream at the top of a cash cow’s milk bottle. 

Fiona couldn’t decide if she wanted to scream, cry or rage insanely against the injustice. Instead she slumped down onto a bench by the path, in front of a community bulletin board. Feeling dejected, hopeless, and embarrassed, Fiona scanned the posters and flyers about dog walkers and personal trainers. A dark poster printed on heavy, professional-grade card stock caught her eye. It was a recruitment poster for PhD programs at the local state university. Scanning the degrees offered, her eyes stopped at “Doctor of Musical Arts.” The poster promised generous scholarships and grants as well competitive tuition rates and in-house low APR loans. Fiona dug a pen out of her bag and carefully wrote the phone number on her hand, feeling relief knowing that soon she would be preparing for her next audition.