August 3, 2011
Identity Crisis
Tension sits in the room with us. The pleasant melodies of flute practicing hang in the stairway, a sharp contrast to the angry breathing now. They echo down the stairs, mocking us. My sister stands, hands on her hips. The argument has opened up, again. Fears, worries, and sisterly concern are quickly misinterpreted as over controlling. If we see a loved one stumbling down a rocky path we are supposed to save them, aren’t we? That’s what family is for, isn’t it? We are discussing the apprehension that has been on everyone’s mind as her college application deadlines loom closer.
My sister’s future.
When I think of my sister, quick adaptability is the first thing that comes to mind. My sister has been blessed with the ability to learn and pick up beginner skills quickly and easily. This can be good and bad. If she likes something she will continue with it, but if she doesn’t like any difficulty with a task, she will abandon the pursuit, no looking back. She has been this way all her life, whether it be mastering the English language while eavesdropping on my speech lessons until I bossily told her to get out of the room, riding horses, and most especially playing musical instruments.
Not that she is good at everything. Often this gift makes her a little too self-assured and at times cocky. She almost never listens to anything you say, skimming over your words as if they were on a page of a book as she looks for relevance to herself. I personally find she is the easiest person to get into a fight with on any subject.
A long slim silver body with a gold lip plate and an extra hidden key to assist the flutist to control the high ‘E’ natural from screaming sharp. This new instrument, specially made and designed, was purchased recently as she took the steps towards her goal in making music a major part of her life.
This has been her focus for the past seven years. Even though she didn’t realize that she wanted to study music until she was in the tenth grade, mastering the silver keys, counting rhythms, counting rhythms, controlling her breathing. It has been in her life for over ten years.
Persuaded by me to pick the flute over the oboe in the fifth grade, she then proceeded to master the flute quickly and easily. Then because of my overbearing ‘help’ she quickly switched to the violin before the year was out, (her words, not mine). Siblings should never teach each other anything intentionally.
Typical to her learning ability, she learned the beginning techniques of playing the violin easily, memorizing the notes on the neck of the violin. Within a few short weeks her fingers grew rough with calluses. Though she enjoyed the violin, she grew tired of the orchestra teacher who pushed the beginners into the shadow of the curtains on stage for concerts and the overshadowing feeling that the violin was not the instrument for her.
Returning to the flute in the seventh grade, she immediately stepped back into her previous skill level, excelled, and was happy. The challenge of moving across the country the next year and adjusting to a new music director did not defer her from success in music. Rather it opened new doors as she started at James W. Robinson Secondary School, a school with a high concentration of music classes and music directors with formidable reputations.
After doing extremely well in middle school, her freshman year in high school she auditioned into the second top band and joined the Marching Rams on the field. Although she didn’t know it on that first day on the blacktop music was about to became a major purpose in her every day existence. Soon she would be waking, breathing, and living that marching music; dreams of drill runs would invade her sleep for the next for years from late August until early November. By her senior year she would move on to become a section leader in the Marching Band and accomplish victories by taking on the challenge of playing additional instruments, the piccolo and the clarinet, in both the Concert and Symphonic Bands, (the two highest bands). She would also play the piccolo in Robinson’s orchestra and multiple instruments in two plays with Robinson’s Drama department. Between her music theory classes and playing in two different bands on two different instruments (Flute and Clarinet), a third of her classes in her senior year were centered around music. College applications mailed in and it came time to decide what to major in and how to choose colleges.
‘Music major,’ she said.
‘What are you going to do with a music degree in the real world?’ my dad asked. A practical question considering that the average music major requires as many classes, time, and money as it takes to become a doctor or a lawyer with little promise of a high paying job after receiving a master’s degree. I tried talking her into a music minor. Our mom tried to persuade her into Music education, but she wouldn’t be dissuaded. Music performance it was.
Music isn’t the only thing that she has remained fixated on. When my sister does decide to stick with something she is extremely stubborn. For example, take her obsession with Star Wars that started in the first grade. Surrounded by Star Trek fans, my sister had a lot of chances to call Oli Oli in defeat and bow down to the Star Trek majority. But surrendering has never been on her mind. Although she still hasn’t persuaded the rest of us that Star Wars is the best, she is still defiant. In her green light saber colored walls, she warms up, tossing scales and melodies against the replica light saber hanging on the wall as her flute reflects Darth Vader from the nearest poster laden wall.
Now I sit, listening to her practice her running chromatics before she delves into her current pieces. I wonder how far her obsession with music will go. She has already stuck with it longer than anything else. I worry about whether or not her stubborn will outlive the challenges of being a music major, both the performing and academic side.
My mom worries that she’s clinging to music because she feels it’s her only option. My dad worries about how she’ll make a living. Me, I’m not sure. As I always am when I think of my sister and how she views herself in the world. What motivates her actions? Even though she is the most annoying person in the world most of the time, she is also, in my opinion one of the most strange and interesting. Is this a case of identity crisis? Who knows. Heck, I can’t know what I’m going to be doing two weeks from now, let alone two years. I can imagine. I can hope, but knowing, there’s no way of knowing.
Despite our shared characteristics traits, which are stubbornness, always having to be right, and always wanting the last word in an argument, we stretch to polar opposites on our perspectives. In contrast, I am analytical and full of scrutiny about the world. She, on the other hand, thinks things should just be understood, not overanalyzed and hates to dissect anything.
When I think of my sister’s future with rose colored glasses of optimism it seems simple. She’ll excel at Mason, finish her master’s degree, be offered a big opportunity to play on Broadway on the woodwind grouped instruments: clarinet, flute, piccolo, and oboe. I see myself visiting her on weekends, getting front row tickets to the shows. But realistically it isn’t going to be that easy, even if things work out in the best possible scenario. Although it looks easier to exam the lives of others, it isn’t.
It is like watching a movie, but no matter how much you would like to rewrite their script; you can’t live their lives for them. They have to make their own story. Each day they have to decide who they are going to be.
Yes, yes. I know I’ve made a confusing metaphor, sis. I can see you rolling your eyes and thinking: why can’t she just say what she means in a simple and direct way?
Although sixty percent of college freshman change their majors, I hope that she sticks with it. If by fate or choice, she doesn’t, I know that whatever she chooses as her field of study she will be able to adapt to it, but complimentary tickets to Broadway shows and having a place to crash in New York City sure would be nice.
July 21, 2011
Identity Crisis or The Music Path
When I think of my sister, quick adaptability is the first thing that comes to mind. My sister often had the ability to learn and pick up beginner skills quickly and easily. This can be good and bad. If she likes something she will continue with it, but if she doesn’t like an aspect of the task she will abandon the pursuit. She has been this way all her life, whether it be mastering the English language while eavesdropping on my speech lessons until I bossily told her to get out of the room or playing musical instruments. Not that she is good at everything. Granted, she almost never listens to anything you say, skimming over your words as if they were on a page of a book as she looks for relevance to herself and I personally find she is the easiest person to get into a fight with on any subject.
A long slim silver body with a gold lip plate and an extra hidden key to assist the flutist to control the high ‘E’ natural from screaming sharp. This new instrument, specially made and designed, was purchased recently as she took the steps towards her goal in making music a major part of her life.
This has been her focus for seven years. Even though she didn’t know that she wanted to study music until she was in tenth grade, silver keys, counting rhythms, controlling her breathing….it has been in her life for over ten years.
Persuaded by me to pick the flute over the oboe in the fifth grade, she then proceeded to master the flute quickly and easily. Then because of my overbearing ‘help’ she quickly switched to the violin by the end of year, (her words, not mine). Siblings should never teach each other anything intentionally.
Typical to her learning ability, she also learned the beginning techniques of playing the violin easily, memorizing the notes on the neck of the violin. Within a few short weeks her fingers grew rough with calluses. Though she enjoyed the violin, she grew tired of the orchestra teacher who pushed the beginners into the shadow of the curtains on stage for concerts and the feeling that the violin was not the instrument for her.
Returning to the flute in the seventh grade, she immediately stepped back into her previous skill level, excelled, and was happy. The challenge of moving across the country the next year and adjusting to a new music director did not defer her from success in music. Rather it opened new doors as she started at James W. Robinson Secondary School, a school with a high concentration of music classes and music directors with formidable reputations.
After doing extremely well in middle school, her first year in high school she auditioned into the second top band in high school and joined the Marching Rams on the field. Although she didn’t know it on that first day on the blacktop music was about to became a major purpose in her every day existence. Soon she would be waking, breathing, and living that marching music; dreams of drill runs would invade her sleep. By her senior year she would move on to section leader and accomplish victory by taking on the challenge of playing additional instruments: the piccolo and clarinet. She would also join the pit to play multiple instruments in two plays, play piccolo in orchestra, have a third of her classes her senior year be in music, play in two bands on two different instruments (flute and Clarinet), and take the available music theory classes in her junior and senior year. Then it came time to decide what to major in and how to choose colleges.
‘Music major,’ she said.
‘What are you going to do with a music degree in the real world?’ my dad asked. A practical question considering that the average music major requires more classes, time, and money than the majority of other majors and with the hard work, there comes little promise of a high paying job after receiving a master’s degree. I tried talking her into a music minor. Our mom tried to persuade her into Music education, but with she wouldn’t be dissuaded. Music performance it was.
Now as I sit, listening to her practice her running chromatic and scales before delving into her pieces. I wonder how far her obsession with music will go. She has already stuck with it longer than anything else.
My mom worries that she’s clinging to music because she feels it’s her only option. My dad worries about how she’ll make a living. Me, I’m not sure. As I always am when I think of my sister and how she views herself in the world. What motivates her actions? Even though she is the most annoying person in the world most of the time, she is also, in my opinion one of the most strange and interesting. Is this a case of identity crisis? Who knows. Heck, I can’t know what I’m going to be doing two weeks from now, let alone two years I can imagine. I can hope. But knowing, there’s no way of knowing.
Despite our shared characteristics traits, which are stubbornness, always having to be right, and always wanting the last word in an argument, we stretch to polar opposites on our perspectives. In contrast, I am analytical and full of scrutiny about the world. She, on the other hand, thinks things should just be understood, not overanalyzed and hates to dissect anything.
When I think of my sister’s future, it seems simple. She’ll excel at Mason, finish her master’s degree, be offered a big opportunity to play on Broadway on the woodwind grouped instruments: clarinet, flute, piccolo, and oboe. I see myself visiting her on weekends, getting front row tickets to the shows. But it isn’t going to be that easy, even if things work out in the best possible scenario.
I guess it’s easier to look at other’s people lives, like watching a movie, but no matter how much you would like to rewrite their script; you can’t live their lives for them. They have to make their own story. Each day they have to decide who they are going to be.
Yes, yes. I know I’ve made a confusing metaphor, sis. I can see you rolling your eyes and thinking: why can’t she just say what she means in a simple and direct way?
Although sixty percent of college freshman change their majors, I hope that she sticks with it.
July 13, 2011
500 word exercise: POV of the person being profiled “Tick, tick, tick…”
The metronome pounds on the metal stand. Urrrh. I look back to the wicked rhythms disguised as dancing black notes. Why won’t this rhythm work? I silence the metronome and stare down the notes, tapping out the notes upon my keys. Click, click, click. The keys tap against themselves. My fingers forcing them into synchronization/time. Deep breath. I allow the metronome to dictate again.
My ampposure lines up on my new gold lip plate. The melody flies out smoothly, slipping up and down over the black hills of notes from the page, until-
“Urrm!”
Scratchy, scratchy. What was that?
I let my flute drift in my hands as I lean out into the hallway. My older sister is scribbling away. What could she possibly be scribbling about the horrible mess I just played? She looks up, noticing the silence and smiles at me.
“This is really creepy,” I tell her. She just smiles.
“I know, that’s why I am in the hallway, not in your room.” It doesn't make it any less annoying. I frame a smile.
“Whatever,” I say, acting like it’s nothing as I return to my stand and my music. Anakin slowly turns into Vader on my wall poster as I return. I can feel my shoulders tense, knowing that there’s someone listening in. I shake my head and try to relax. Someone is listening. Not just anyone, it’s someone who once talked me into playing the flute in the first place so she could get a better flute for advanced band. Now she doesn’t even play. Why doesn’t she play anymore? It doesn’t make any sense. She used to be a band ahead of me. I used to listen to her play at a young age and now? Now, she sits outside my door listening to me practice as she writes for her writing class, trading a flute and grand music for pen and paper.
The clicked-click starts again as I turn on the metronome. Raising the flute up, I breathe in and focus on the notes. Here I am. Me. Here, as a servant in front of these notes I can do something good. I can make simple black notes on a page resemble lyrical melodies and pitches. Breathe, phrasing. Breathe, 'piano'-it must be softer. Breathe, louder, louder until the climax. The notes climb high, bouncing off of the window in front of me. Sunlight turns into a spotlight. If only I could smile, but that would mess up my ombosure. Frown. Breathe,-
“Trash and Recycling!” my mom calls up the stairs.
I sigh. Can’t the stupid trash and recycling wait a fringing minute? I’m making music. Why does the trash and recycling have to be taken out right this minute?
My sister sits, ignoring the announcement silently.
“Coming!” Not. I breathe, being pulled into the music again. Nothing else matters right now except for this darn rhythm that won’t cooperate with me. My fingers slip on top of one another. Anger rises in my chest. Urrm! Why won’t my fingers play this? Stupid, stupid fingers!
That’s it. I rip the pages of the song off of the stand and fling it to the ground, satisfied when they descend to the ground, bent.
“I’ll try that song tomorrow.” I breathe, falling into another song of melodies, ignoring the call of chores and the scratchy-scratch of pen on paper.
