A large body slams into mine, shoving me against a hard metal railing and forcing the breath out of my lungs. I stop my head-banging and turn to see a tank of a man, tattooed to the nines and reeling with alcohol consumption. He stumbles towards me and lays a hand on my shoulder: "Hey sorry about that...you okay?" I nod yes and he gives me a thumbs up, then wanders back into the crowd. A moment later the boy next to me has the same experience and I reach out a hand to him. "Hey you alright?" He looks up grimacing, nods, and we both smile. It's all part of the concert, right?
First rock and roll concert experience: Alcohol? Check. It's EVERYWHERE. It's seeped into my clothes, in my hair, in the sweat of those around me. Gluing my feet to the floor. Volume? Check. Standing a yard from the speakers my ears have already been assaulted by the wailing guitar chords, the singer's grainy voice shouting an inch from the microphone, and the screams of fans behind me. Insanity? Check! The pounding bass is contagious, vibrating through my bones and shaking me around. The people behind me (mostly drunk) are spinning crazily into one another, bouncing off of other bodies like so many pin-balls in an act of mosh-pit madness, eyes closed and obviously possessed by a sense of spontaneity that I have never felt.
One young man is shoved too hard and crashes to the floor. He come up swinging, and it looks like a fight. But the man that shoved him holds his hand out and helps the young man to his feet, and the two join the melee again laughing. I shake my head, bemused. I don't think I'll ever understand what the attraction of alcohol is.
The lights flash faster and the hard metal screams from the speakers, throwing the pin-ballers into a frenzy. My friend Taber turns his attention from the stage to throw a protective arm out every time someone's body hurtles in my direction. As one song ends and another begins, one of the Blacktooth Grin's sound men appears next to us. "Some crazy shit is about to go down. You'll want to protect your friend better. Here, stand like this." He illustrates by placing one hand on either side of me grabbing the bar, his body shielding me from harm. Taber takes his place, and I'm surprised at how much safer I feel. Somewhere in my subconscious I note that the man didn't tell us to relocate or to flee for our own safety. Even the most violent of the drunks is not asked to leave. Perhaps this is what rock and roll brings out in people--a sense of community where there are very few rules beyond common sense: "don't puke on anyone" and "don't invite the fuzz."
Before Grin does a final number the lead singer invites his son on stage. He can't be more than twelve, but already he sports a mohawk and piercings. Those who had been in full destructive mode a moment before rush to the stage railing to cheer this young rocker on, and as the boy begins to sing the entire crowd reaches decibels to raise the roof. The kid's face is glowing and I can see pride shining in his dad's eyes as the two share the microphone, connected by a father-son activity far removed from Sunday night football or golf.
Each time I feel impact behind me I ask Taber if he's alright, trying to relax when he reassures me he's fine. Without knowing I'm doing it my head is banging to the beat and I'm screaming the chorus along with everyone else. Kathy and Tracy are doing the same next to me, and every once in a while our eyes will meet and we'll be bobbing in unison, connected by the music.
After the Grin leaves the stage Taber and I wander off to try to score him a drumstick from the band. When we return unsuccessful the next band has finished setting up and are starting sound checks. I can already tell that they will be different from the last group. Instead of rows of plastic cups filled with beer they have water bottles. Many of the drunk fans have faded out into the crowd or taken seats by the bar, leaving behind a younger and more sober group by the stage.
Destrophy challenges all my preconceptions of rock and roll. Their stage presence is a paradox of professional confidence and humility, rather than the brass in-your-face attitudes of the previous three bands. I'm grateful that the bassist is of a different breed than Malachi's bass player--a young, arrogant twit who spent more time winking at girls than actually strumming notes. Destrophy's bass and guitarist don't battle for attention; like all good musicians, they show their passion for the music in their faces and their hands, eyes closed to the crowd before them. The music transports them away from screaming fans and to a place where very few of us have ever been; where music is God and God is in every note.
The drummer reminded me of Animal on the Muppets--a crazed kind of look on his face while he beat the living daylights out of the cymbals, a whirlwind of spinning sticks and Mylar and metal. For all I know, the guy could be on speed, improvising the whole thing. But if he's the glue that holds the band together, then Destrophy is indestructible.
The lead singer makes sure to thank all the bands opening the show, the fans, and the Knitting Factory, setting him way above the other bands in my view. After the concert is over Destrophy comes out to meet the fans, to sign things, and even to give out hugs. Still on a post-concert high, I got a poster signed and a hug from the lead singer Ari. I shook the drummer's hand and wondered if comparing him to Animal would be offensive. And then we were off. First rock concert experience officially over.
I might have come away from Unholy X-mas believing that all rock and roll was noise and alcohol. I might have come away thinking to myself "thank God I wasn't smashed into jelly against the stage by the crazies." These thoughts may have crossed my mind during the first half of the show, but the last hour changed it for me. Destrophy proved to me that rock can still be rock without being terrifying, and that decent people can exist on and off the stage.
I'm looking forward to my next rock concert in the spring, and this time I'll come a little more prepared. I'll wear shoes that I don't care about getting stepped on. I'll bring money for CDs in case I end up loving the music so I won't have to stand back with empty pockets. And I won't bring any preconceptions about the bands I've come to see. I'll let the music speak for itself.
Tuesday, December 15, 2009
Friday, December 11, 2009
To Dance Again
The symphony of swelling violins, the labored breathing, the staccato of wood smacking linoleum in time to a choreographed rhythm inside the mind...I am swept up in it all.
I remember the smell of shoe resin and elastic and wood and sweat. I remember the feel of smooth wooden bars, muscles stretching taut, satin rubbing on my ankles, pressure on my toes inside their pointe shoes. I remember the nerves right before the music began, running through step after step in my head and wishing that my arms and legs could express the jubilation of flight found in dance.
Last night I went to the Nutcracker ballet for the first time in three years. I helped pass out programs, and as line after line of young girls in their finest dresses passed me, their faces all smiles and radiance and hope, I remembered being that age. I remembered the awe at watching the dancers leap and twirl with grace, the burning desire to be like that someday. It was once the only future I could see for myself. Ten years of ballet lessons and the only thing I still carry with me is a love for the art and, occasionally, the quiet wistful wish that things had turned out differently.
I auditioned for a part in the nutcracker three or four times. A ladybug, a party girl, a fairy. All were denied me as I stumbled through each audition, my nerves and my general lack of grace making me an easy target for disqualification. Each year I would get my hopes up, only to see them dashed by the dismissing hand of the ballet master and an apologetic smile from my ballet teacher, Mrs. Bean. I had trouble remembering fast combinations of footwork. Always had. If I practiced long enough I could always appear decent in our spring performance next to all the other girls in my class. But it seemed the Nutcracker was just too high a bar for me to clear.
And then in my sixteenth year a miracle happened. Now fairly confident on pointe shoes, I decided to try to audition for a part as a waltzing flower, knowing that if I failed this fourth and final time I might never try again. The ballet master stood stern and intimidating before us, his great muscular strength and grace evident even in the way he was standing. There were eight of us altogether in the room, most of the girls in more advanced classes and years than I was. After stretching and going through a few warm-ups, the ballet master lead us through the first few steps of the dance.
He would begin a sequence of steps, showing it to us slowly first, then up to speed, making sure we could see clearly each transition from one movement to the next. We stood behind him in a line memorizing what we saw and trying to copy it in the row of mirrors before us. I knew that I wasn't the most graceful of the girls there. I knew that I was messing some of the steps up, slopping through a few in a rush to get to the ones I remembered best. After almost an hour of audition, I could feel tears building in my eyes, impairing my vision and furthering my frustration with myself for not being able to keep up.
After half an hour more the ballet master gathered us around him, looking each of us in the face. "Ive decided...to keep all of you. I think that with a little work all of you will do the company proud."
At this I cried freely, disbelieving the impossible. Ecstatic girls rushed out to the foyer to be congratulated by Mrs. Bean and our parents. I lagged behind the rest, still in a state of shock. The ballet master approached me and asked me why on earth I was crying. "This is a happy thing!" he said, a look of concern on his face. I confided in him that I didn't expect to make it, and at this he seemed to grow visibly more wise and aged before my eyes, contemplating what I had said. Finally, he replied:
"I could do this performance with seven girls. Or six. Or five. But I could see that each of you wanted this so badly, and I know that it's this desire which will make you practice and become perfection at the performance. Will you do that for me?"
I nodded yes. Over the next two months I practiced like I had never practiced for anything in my life. I listened to the music as I fell asleep, and woke with dreams of dancing figures still in my head. I practiced wherever I could--in the living room, at the studio, in empty rooms after school. When it came time for dress rehearsal I felt ready. My mom video taped the whole thing and we watched it together. I was amazed to see that I looked no different than the other girls. I did not stick out like a goose on a stage of swans.
The actual performance, I'm sorry to say, I do not remember much of. I know I didn't trip. And I know that my legs only shook a little. My family and friends came out to see me, and I got a bouquet of orange roses at the end.
After that triumph I made the decision to stop going to ballet lessons. My job, my school, and my other commitments took up so much time that I knew something had to give. I knew that I would be kidding myself if I thought I could be a professional dancer, although I still love ballet. I ended my ten year struggle with success, and rarely look back.
But sometimes, like last night, I watch the curtain go up and hear the cues of the music and watch the dancers in perfect harmony with the stage...and I wonder. What if?
I remember the smell of shoe resin and elastic and wood and sweat. I remember the feel of smooth wooden bars, muscles stretching taut, satin rubbing on my ankles, pressure on my toes inside their pointe shoes. I remember the nerves right before the music began, running through step after step in my head and wishing that my arms and legs could express the jubilation of flight found in dance.
Last night I went to the Nutcracker ballet for the first time in three years. I helped pass out programs, and as line after line of young girls in their finest dresses passed me, their faces all smiles and radiance and hope, I remembered being that age. I remembered the awe at watching the dancers leap and twirl with grace, the burning desire to be like that someday. It was once the only future I could see for myself. Ten years of ballet lessons and the only thing I still carry with me is a love for the art and, occasionally, the quiet wistful wish that things had turned out differently.
I auditioned for a part in the nutcracker three or four times. A ladybug, a party girl, a fairy. All were denied me as I stumbled through each audition, my nerves and my general lack of grace making me an easy target for disqualification. Each year I would get my hopes up, only to see them dashed by the dismissing hand of the ballet master and an apologetic smile from my ballet teacher, Mrs. Bean. I had trouble remembering fast combinations of footwork. Always had. If I practiced long enough I could always appear decent in our spring performance next to all the other girls in my class. But it seemed the Nutcracker was just too high a bar for me to clear.
And then in my sixteenth year a miracle happened. Now fairly confident on pointe shoes, I decided to try to audition for a part as a waltzing flower, knowing that if I failed this fourth and final time I might never try again. The ballet master stood stern and intimidating before us, his great muscular strength and grace evident even in the way he was standing. There were eight of us altogether in the room, most of the girls in more advanced classes and years than I was. After stretching and going through a few warm-ups, the ballet master lead us through the first few steps of the dance.
He would begin a sequence of steps, showing it to us slowly first, then up to speed, making sure we could see clearly each transition from one movement to the next. We stood behind him in a line memorizing what we saw and trying to copy it in the row of mirrors before us. I knew that I wasn't the most graceful of the girls there. I knew that I was messing some of the steps up, slopping through a few in a rush to get to the ones I remembered best. After almost an hour of audition, I could feel tears building in my eyes, impairing my vision and furthering my frustration with myself for not being able to keep up.
After half an hour more the ballet master gathered us around him, looking each of us in the face. "Ive decided...to keep all of you. I think that with a little work all of you will do the company proud."
At this I cried freely, disbelieving the impossible. Ecstatic girls rushed out to the foyer to be congratulated by Mrs. Bean and our parents. I lagged behind the rest, still in a state of shock. The ballet master approached me and asked me why on earth I was crying. "This is a happy thing!" he said, a look of concern on his face. I confided in him that I didn't expect to make it, and at this he seemed to grow visibly more wise and aged before my eyes, contemplating what I had said. Finally, he replied:
"I could do this performance with seven girls. Or six. Or five. But I could see that each of you wanted this so badly, and I know that it's this desire which will make you practice and become perfection at the performance. Will you do that for me?"
I nodded yes. Over the next two months I practiced like I had never practiced for anything in my life. I listened to the music as I fell asleep, and woke with dreams of dancing figures still in my head. I practiced wherever I could--in the living room, at the studio, in empty rooms after school. When it came time for dress rehearsal I felt ready. My mom video taped the whole thing and we watched it together. I was amazed to see that I looked no different than the other girls. I did not stick out like a goose on a stage of swans.
The actual performance, I'm sorry to say, I do not remember much of. I know I didn't trip. And I know that my legs only shook a little. My family and friends came out to see me, and I got a bouquet of orange roses at the end.
After that triumph I made the decision to stop going to ballet lessons. My job, my school, and my other commitments took up so much time that I knew something had to give. I knew that I would be kidding myself if I thought I could be a professional dancer, although I still love ballet. I ended my ten year struggle with success, and rarely look back.
But sometimes, like last night, I watch the curtain go up and hear the cues of the music and watch the dancers in perfect harmony with the stage...and I wonder. What if?
Monday, December 7, 2009
The Soul of Jazz
Every once in a while there will come an event which shatters your perspective. It rips through your calm exterior and forces you to make a decision: have courage and do your best to pick up the pieces (whether literal or figurative), or fall apart. Sometimes, you do both.
Out of all the classes that I am taking this semester jazz band is by far my favorite. I've been playing the tenor saxophone for a little over three years now, and while I could say I do so because I love the deep tones and the reedy melodies and the winding harmony, mostly I play tenor because of jazz. I am not an expert on the genre. I don't own Kenny G or Miles Davis tapes or know of more than a couple of famous saxophone players. On my ipod the only jazz I own is Ella Fitzgerald and Count Basie, and they are only played when I get tired of everything else.
But something about jazz speaks to me in a way that most music can't. It's a melancholy journey to more desperate and simple times. It's a complex emotion that can make your heartbeat jump one moment and bring tears to your eyes the next. And what I love most about jazz is that it's all heart. Sure there are dynamics and tempos and beats written in the language of music, but these things are more guidelines than actual rules. You could set a piece of jazz music in front of twenty different jazz musicians, and each one would come up with a different interpretation of it. Fast. Slow. Smooth. Staccato. It's all relative. Especially the solos.
In high school I took jazz twice in the early morning hours of winter semester. A small group of about twenty or so of us would arrive at 7 AM, shake the snow and frost from our coats, and go through the normal routine: softening reeds, warming up mouthpieces, tuning the bass and the guitar, experimenting with new drum rhythms. By 7:10 we were warmed up, and soon the first few notes (always a little out of tune) would gather and collide in the air. Sometimes we sounded great. Sometimes we didn't. It was always a process. Our solos, for the most part, were written out for us. The only solo I ever had in two years of the class was on my grandfather's flute. We were playing "Cute," a Count Basie favorite, and the swift lilting melody of the flute had been written out note for note directly from the Basie recording to paper by our conductor's wife. I practiced for a month and a half to get that solo down, and was surprised at how after several rehearsals I could feel the notes as if from my soul, my fingers moving easily from memory.
My first day of jazz at college was terrifying. For one thing, there were less than a dozen of us. Only one person per instrument, except for two alto saxes. I'd never been the only tenor before. All of them were upper classmen except for myself and the trumpet player Brad. Our music stands were bare, and our teacher Rob Walker explained that today would be an exercise in improvisation. Improv!! I'd never tried it before. Rob picked a key signature, B flat minor, and the percussion section started us out. A simple rhythm. A few chords from the bass and the piano. Then the trumpet picked out a melody from somewhere in his mind, and the rest of us followed suit. A lover of harmony, I struck a deep A flat to fill out the chords of the other instruments, and while I tried to move around the scale a little I always returned to this note as my anchor.
Then Rob threw the curve ball. We would go in a circle, taking turns at solos completely improvised, for twenty four measures each. On my first try, I was tentative. I tried feeling out a melody, picking notes at random and gaining more confidence when they worked with the rest of the band. By the second and third tries I was actually feeling something. It was that old familiar prickling somewhere deep inside. I was jazz. Jazz was inside of me. Deep blues and purples, bright reds and oranges, it was every color of my soul.
Now the semester is drawing to a close, and we finally had our winter concert four days ago. Although I had now been practicing improvisation for over four months, I felt no more secure in my solos. One week I was able to get a great reaction out of Rob and out of the band, urging the percussion on with notes that worked and a few bold wails on the high notes. The next week it seemed every other note was wrong, my saxophone squeaked and my fingers faltered. Now it was the day of our performance, and I could only hope that this time around would be a hit and not a miss.
At the beginning of rehearsals I got out Lola. She's a Selmar Mark Six, one of the best of its day. Forty years ago this saxophone was the highest quality model money could buy. Now she's worn from years of passing hands from student to student, her brass no longer shiny and bright, her keys sometimes sticking, her octave trigger constantly needing fixing. But her sound is the same. I always marvel that instruments manage to maintain their tone years after human aging has stripped us of ours. Lola had somehow ended up a school district instrument, being loaned to high school students over the years and gaining her fair share of dents and repair bills from clumsier musicians. When I first opened the case it was love at first sight. I kept her all my high school years and couldn't bear to part with her for college, striking a deal with the music office to purchase her for a relatively cheap price. Mr. Burger helped me remove the school district numbers off of the case and off the saxophone bell, and that was it. She was mine.
Before I left for Caldwell I took Lola to the only instrument repairman in town (and in my opinion of the best on the planet). He advised me to take good care of her, warning that because of her age eventually she would just wear out, and then my only option would be to sell. "She'll be worth a lot. Those Selmar's sure were something!" Dave said. The thought of selling Lola makes me sick, but I took his warning to heart. I am careful in taking her out of the case, I clean her with care and I make sure not to press the keys too hard or force the mouthpiece into place.
But for some reason last Thursday tragedy struck. Mid conversation with another band member, I placed Lola on my chair and reached up to put the neckstrap over my head. The chairs were upholstered with a slick fabric, and without my knowledge Lola was slowly slipping sideways at a crazy angle to the floor.
CRASH.
Time froze. I heard collective gasps all around the room. "On the day of concert!" somebody moaned. I dared to look down. There was Lola, face down on the hard wooden floor of the stage, one of her rods dislodged and visibly separated from the rest of the instrument, like a broken bone sticking out of the skin. I picked her up with trembling hands, feeling out the damage. I felt like a nurse checking a fallen child for bruises. Two bent rods, one rod and pad completely dislocated, the lower C pad wasn't working, there was a new dent in the lower bell. I put the instrument to my lips and tried an experimental runthrough of the scales. To no avail. It sounded like a herd of zebras.
I felt the tears come then. I had failed Lola. It was like pushing a grandmother down the stairs. She was old! She might not come out of this. The tears fell harder. How would I play the concerts now? What would I do? The band instructor took her out of my hands and confirmed the damage, asking the rest of the band if anyone had an extra tenor. Erica, a clarinet player, did. She rushed to the storage room to get it. I knelt by my case and put Lola away piece by piece, my face still hot and damp.
The next hour and half was a blur to me. After rehearsal I went to the cafeteria for a quick dinner, knowing I would pass out if I didn't eat something. But my stomach was still churning from the accident. I could barely hold the salad down and chug a glass of milk when I ran to my dorm to change into concert black clothes. Then I arrived back at the auditorium a half hour before everyone else, alone on the stage. I pulled out Erica's saxophone and ran through my pieces, experimenting with the key changes and the feel and weight of the instrument.
Every saxophone is different. You can't sit down and play any random one like the piano. The weight, the feel, the position of the keys...even the tone can be completely different from one model to the next. I was used to Lola. She was the only sax I knew. Using a new one was the equivalent of giving a singer a new voice box, or a dancer a new pair of feet, minutes before call time. Erica's was a Bundy II, a much heavier model made specifically for students but not necessarily for concert musicians. It could reach the lowest B flat easily where Lola struggled, and I didn't have to constantly press the octave key down when reaching the lower scales. But it was harder to reach that C sharp. Harder to transition through the opening phrases of Sister Sadie. Harder to move quickly through the notes on Dubinishka. These things I learned before the concert, becoming familiar with the replacement sax so that there would be no surprises during the performance.
The symphonic band concert was first, and our group of forty or so students surprised ourselves by performing better than in any of our rehearsals throughout the year. This gave me confidence when the stage was cleared for the jazz concert, and I felt a smile return to my face as we opened with Sister Sadie and I didn't miss a beat. When it came time to solo I stood with confidence, feeling new colors in the jazz than before. The green of bruises, the white of healing, the clear blue of a perfect C major. My sound was different, but jazz was the same.
The last notes of our final song lingered in the air, and the audience burst into applause. I ended up telling and retelling my tragedy to a visiting jazz instructor, my parents, the other members of the band, and some of my friends on campus. My parents carried Lola's case and her broken body out to the van, me following behind solemnly like a funeral procession. They would take her back to Idaho Falls and to Dave, who I knew would perform a miracle on her and restore her to her splendor.
In the meantime, I've been listening to an awful lot of jazz lately, hearing all the colors and wondering what inspired each one.
Out of all the classes that I am taking this semester jazz band is by far my favorite. I've been playing the tenor saxophone for a little over three years now, and while I could say I do so because I love the deep tones and the reedy melodies and the winding harmony, mostly I play tenor because of jazz. I am not an expert on the genre. I don't own Kenny G or Miles Davis tapes or know of more than a couple of famous saxophone players. On my ipod the only jazz I own is Ella Fitzgerald and Count Basie, and they are only played when I get tired of everything else.
But something about jazz speaks to me in a way that most music can't. It's a melancholy journey to more desperate and simple times. It's a complex emotion that can make your heartbeat jump one moment and bring tears to your eyes the next. And what I love most about jazz is that it's all heart. Sure there are dynamics and tempos and beats written in the language of music, but these things are more guidelines than actual rules. You could set a piece of jazz music in front of twenty different jazz musicians, and each one would come up with a different interpretation of it. Fast. Slow. Smooth. Staccato. It's all relative. Especially the solos.
In high school I took jazz twice in the early morning hours of winter semester. A small group of about twenty or so of us would arrive at 7 AM, shake the snow and frost from our coats, and go through the normal routine: softening reeds, warming up mouthpieces, tuning the bass and the guitar, experimenting with new drum rhythms. By 7:10 we were warmed up, and soon the first few notes (always a little out of tune) would gather and collide in the air. Sometimes we sounded great. Sometimes we didn't. It was always a process. Our solos, for the most part, were written out for us. The only solo I ever had in two years of the class was on my grandfather's flute. We were playing "Cute," a Count Basie favorite, and the swift lilting melody of the flute had been written out note for note directly from the Basie recording to paper by our conductor's wife. I practiced for a month and a half to get that solo down, and was surprised at how after several rehearsals I could feel the notes as if from my soul, my fingers moving easily from memory.
My first day of jazz at college was terrifying. For one thing, there were less than a dozen of us. Only one person per instrument, except for two alto saxes. I'd never been the only tenor before. All of them were upper classmen except for myself and the trumpet player Brad. Our music stands were bare, and our teacher Rob Walker explained that today would be an exercise in improvisation. Improv!! I'd never tried it before. Rob picked a key signature, B flat minor, and the percussion section started us out. A simple rhythm. A few chords from the bass and the piano. Then the trumpet picked out a melody from somewhere in his mind, and the rest of us followed suit. A lover of harmony, I struck a deep A flat to fill out the chords of the other instruments, and while I tried to move around the scale a little I always returned to this note as my anchor.
Then Rob threw the curve ball. We would go in a circle, taking turns at solos completely improvised, for twenty four measures each. On my first try, I was tentative. I tried feeling out a melody, picking notes at random and gaining more confidence when they worked with the rest of the band. By the second and third tries I was actually feeling something. It was that old familiar prickling somewhere deep inside. I was jazz. Jazz was inside of me. Deep blues and purples, bright reds and oranges, it was every color of my soul.
Now the semester is drawing to a close, and we finally had our winter concert four days ago. Although I had now been practicing improvisation for over four months, I felt no more secure in my solos. One week I was able to get a great reaction out of Rob and out of the band, urging the percussion on with notes that worked and a few bold wails on the high notes. The next week it seemed every other note was wrong, my saxophone squeaked and my fingers faltered. Now it was the day of our performance, and I could only hope that this time around would be a hit and not a miss.
At the beginning of rehearsals I got out Lola. She's a Selmar Mark Six, one of the best of its day. Forty years ago this saxophone was the highest quality model money could buy. Now she's worn from years of passing hands from student to student, her brass no longer shiny and bright, her keys sometimes sticking, her octave trigger constantly needing fixing. But her sound is the same. I always marvel that instruments manage to maintain their tone years after human aging has stripped us of ours. Lola had somehow ended up a school district instrument, being loaned to high school students over the years and gaining her fair share of dents and repair bills from clumsier musicians. When I first opened the case it was love at first sight. I kept her all my high school years and couldn't bear to part with her for college, striking a deal with the music office to purchase her for a relatively cheap price. Mr. Burger helped me remove the school district numbers off of the case and off the saxophone bell, and that was it. She was mine.
Before I left for Caldwell I took Lola to the only instrument repairman in town (and in my opinion of the best on the planet). He advised me to take good care of her, warning that because of her age eventually she would just wear out, and then my only option would be to sell. "She'll be worth a lot. Those Selmar's sure were something!" Dave said. The thought of selling Lola makes me sick, but I took his warning to heart. I am careful in taking her out of the case, I clean her with care and I make sure not to press the keys too hard or force the mouthpiece into place.
But for some reason last Thursday tragedy struck. Mid conversation with another band member, I placed Lola on my chair and reached up to put the neckstrap over my head. The chairs were upholstered with a slick fabric, and without my knowledge Lola was slowly slipping sideways at a crazy angle to the floor.
CRASH.
Time froze. I heard collective gasps all around the room. "On the day of concert!" somebody moaned. I dared to look down. There was Lola, face down on the hard wooden floor of the stage, one of her rods dislodged and visibly separated from the rest of the instrument, like a broken bone sticking out of the skin. I picked her up with trembling hands, feeling out the damage. I felt like a nurse checking a fallen child for bruises. Two bent rods, one rod and pad completely dislocated, the lower C pad wasn't working, there was a new dent in the lower bell. I put the instrument to my lips and tried an experimental runthrough of the scales. To no avail. It sounded like a herd of zebras.
I felt the tears come then. I had failed Lola. It was like pushing a grandmother down the stairs. She was old! She might not come out of this. The tears fell harder. How would I play the concerts now? What would I do? The band instructor took her out of my hands and confirmed the damage, asking the rest of the band if anyone had an extra tenor. Erica, a clarinet player, did. She rushed to the storage room to get it. I knelt by my case and put Lola away piece by piece, my face still hot and damp.
The next hour and half was a blur to me. After rehearsal I went to the cafeteria for a quick dinner, knowing I would pass out if I didn't eat something. But my stomach was still churning from the accident. I could barely hold the salad down and chug a glass of milk when I ran to my dorm to change into concert black clothes. Then I arrived back at the auditorium a half hour before everyone else, alone on the stage. I pulled out Erica's saxophone and ran through my pieces, experimenting with the key changes and the feel and weight of the instrument.
Every saxophone is different. You can't sit down and play any random one like the piano. The weight, the feel, the position of the keys...even the tone can be completely different from one model to the next. I was used to Lola. She was the only sax I knew. Using a new one was the equivalent of giving a singer a new voice box, or a dancer a new pair of feet, minutes before call time. Erica's was a Bundy II, a much heavier model made specifically for students but not necessarily for concert musicians. It could reach the lowest B flat easily where Lola struggled, and I didn't have to constantly press the octave key down when reaching the lower scales. But it was harder to reach that C sharp. Harder to transition through the opening phrases of Sister Sadie. Harder to move quickly through the notes on Dubinishka. These things I learned before the concert, becoming familiar with the replacement sax so that there would be no surprises during the performance.
The symphonic band concert was first, and our group of forty or so students surprised ourselves by performing better than in any of our rehearsals throughout the year. This gave me confidence when the stage was cleared for the jazz concert, and I felt a smile return to my face as we opened with Sister Sadie and I didn't miss a beat. When it came time to solo I stood with confidence, feeling new colors in the jazz than before. The green of bruises, the white of healing, the clear blue of a perfect C major. My sound was different, but jazz was the same.
The last notes of our final song lingered in the air, and the audience burst into applause. I ended up telling and retelling my tragedy to a visiting jazz instructor, my parents, the other members of the band, and some of my friends on campus. My parents carried Lola's case and her broken body out to the van, me following behind solemnly like a funeral procession. They would take her back to Idaho Falls and to Dave, who I knew would perform a miracle on her and restore her to her splendor.
In the meantime, I've been listening to an awful lot of jazz lately, hearing all the colors and wondering what inspired each one.
Sunday, November 29, 2009
Thanksgiving
For me this Thanksgiving was not gravy and white meat. It was not quirky relatives and children running underfoot and the frosty, earthy smell of winter forthcoming on the air. It was not sitting in my sweats watching movies with loved ones and trying (unsuccessfully) to maintain my winning streak in Phase Ten.
Certainly all of these things occurred over Thanksgiving break, and the four days spent at home in Idaho Falls were filled with upside down pumpkin pie and christmas lights and laughter and moments shared with family. It was filled with hugs and tears and comfortable silences.
But what Thanksgiving really was for me this year was a reminder of the fragile brevity of this life; the swiftness with which the world cranks out another twenty four hours like a ferris wheel delivers its passengers gently around its cycle--offering in shifts a breathtaking view of the entire world spread out before you one moment, and your feet touching the cold ground the next, a little disoriented and unsure of where you should travel to first.
We visited my grandfather in the assisted living center he was placed in a few weeks ago, and the whole car ride there my stomach was in knots. Maybe it was because I had been reading The Notebook and images of Noah cradling his aged head in his hands and sobbing quietly while his wife slowly forgot every piece of her life were swirling in my head. Maybe it was because it was my first time seeing him since the reunion last summer and I wasn't sure how much he had changed. In any case it was with trepidation that I entered the building smelling of cinnamon and sterilization and clean laundry and followed my parents to a commons room full of cousins and aunts gathered around a solitary figure in a wheelchair.
I approached the chair and waited my turn, looking at the colored turkeys and empty puzzle boxes and magazines, my eyes avoiding the frail form I knew to be my grandfather. At last I stepped forward, took his small withered hand in mine, and looked into his deep rheumy eyes. "Hi Grandpa."
One second. Two seconds. Three. He didn't remember who I was. He could recognize me but didn't know why. I could feel tear-pressure building behind my eyes. And then..."Why hello beautiful!" he declared just as jovially as he did every year when we first walked through the door, arms open wide for a hug. In lieu of an embrace he squeezed my hand a little and looked me in the eyes. "Are you still playing my flute?" The ancient silver flute was a gift from him in my seventh grade year at school when I was starting band, almost as many years old as my father. Maybe older. I can still remember Grandpa playing it for me on one of our visits, the notes a whispered vibrato but still ringing pure and clean in the air. He wouldn't be able to lift it now.
"Yes. Yes I am" I smiled at him. I didn't have the heart nor the willpower to tell him that I haven't picked the instrument up since last spring at our jazz concert in Pocatello, being the only student who could play both the saxophone and the flute. He smiled back, and another relative stepped forward to greet him. "He looks so....small." I thought as I wandered away.
My grandfather has always been a mighty oak tree, the patriarch and head of our large family. To me he represents the sum total of honesty and courage and hard work that a lifetime can create. I never thought I would see him so...helpless.
I was relieved to see his stubbornness had not subsided with his weight and strength. He was able to come to dinner with the rest of us and insisted on making the traditional opening speech about families and being thankful, just as he has every year. I couldn't stop myself from wondering who would be giving those speeches in a few years when Grandpa couldn't.
Entering the dining hall, I scanned the room for a place to sit. My entire life I have had the unique experience of being a middle cousin. The majority of my relatives' children are older, married with children. As a college freshmen there is not much that I can relate to with them beyond a "how are you?" and "how's the family?" Then there are the younger cousins, all boys, who once held a grudging respect for my nintendo skills and ability to keep up with their fantastic games of the imagination. Now they have reached an age where, as a member of the opposite sex, I represent a foreign planet full of cooties and strange feelings and bizarre thoughts better left unexplored.
So I was relieved to see my sister's children had reserved me a place right between them. I spent the meal with an excited four year old waving his mashed potatoes and yelling "let the feast begin!" on one side, and an intelligent seven year old holding her pink lemonade like the finest wine glass and making a toast to anything and everything on the other.
Of all my roles in this lifetime, the role of aunt is the one I like best. I wouldn't trade seeing Tyler try his first olive, or watching Kayla protect her youngest brother Landon, or hearing Dainen shriek with laughter as I chase him around and around the living room for all the power and wealth in the world. The only regret I have when it comes to being an aunt is that I don't have the time that I want to spend with them. College prevents me from visiting them more than a few times a year, and they grow so FAST. First steps and sentences and performances and karate lessons can pass you by easily while you're studying for midterms seven hours away.
Sunday morning I awoke, dressed, and packed my things for the drive back "home" to Caldwell. I went to church for an hour to hear one of my good friends from high school give his farewell talk before heading to Portland Oregon for two years as a missionary. He looked the same for the most part, standing tall and nervously tapping the pulpit as he spoke, the words coming easily the longer he spoke. But when I looked at him again as he took his seat, I was startled to see he was somehow older in my eyes. He was embarking on a new and trying path, and I suppose everyone looks a little older when they make life-changing decisions.
I looked down the bench on either side of me. Young men and girls that I had grown up with, growing every day into the adults that I will meet later, with husbands and wives and children and grandchildren. How strange to think that I've gotten older too. Have I changed? At what age do you really become an adult? In my heart I am the same as I have always been. More mature now in my ability to be patient and dismiss things that might have hurt me years ago. But I still procrastinate. I still do my laundry only when I've run out of clothes to wear. I still stumble to class with my hair a mess and some caffeinated beverage to wake me long enough to take coherent notes before returning to my dorm to sleep. I still wish on stars and say a quick prayer when I hear ambulance sirens. I sometimes sleep with a stuffed bear clutched to my chest, and on some days I still feel so homesick I can't do anything but stare out the window and wish I could travel as easily as the leaves borne on the wind.
Days pass too quickly. A week goes by and I can't remember a single time I laughed out loud or tasted chocolate. Another week goes by and I can't remember a time when I DIDN'T have a reason to smile. At times I just want to shout the world into a standstill, halting the shifting sands of time for just one moment. I don't want to take a single second for granted.
Certainly all of these things occurred over Thanksgiving break, and the four days spent at home in Idaho Falls were filled with upside down pumpkin pie and christmas lights and laughter and moments shared with family. It was filled with hugs and tears and comfortable silences.
But what Thanksgiving really was for me this year was a reminder of the fragile brevity of this life; the swiftness with which the world cranks out another twenty four hours like a ferris wheel delivers its passengers gently around its cycle--offering in shifts a breathtaking view of the entire world spread out before you one moment, and your feet touching the cold ground the next, a little disoriented and unsure of where you should travel to first.
We visited my grandfather in the assisted living center he was placed in a few weeks ago, and the whole car ride there my stomach was in knots. Maybe it was because I had been reading The Notebook and images of Noah cradling his aged head in his hands and sobbing quietly while his wife slowly forgot every piece of her life were swirling in my head. Maybe it was because it was my first time seeing him since the reunion last summer and I wasn't sure how much he had changed. In any case it was with trepidation that I entered the building smelling of cinnamon and sterilization and clean laundry and followed my parents to a commons room full of cousins and aunts gathered around a solitary figure in a wheelchair.
I approached the chair and waited my turn, looking at the colored turkeys and empty puzzle boxes and magazines, my eyes avoiding the frail form I knew to be my grandfather. At last I stepped forward, took his small withered hand in mine, and looked into his deep rheumy eyes. "Hi Grandpa."
One second. Two seconds. Three. He didn't remember who I was. He could recognize me but didn't know why. I could feel tear-pressure building behind my eyes. And then..."Why hello beautiful!" he declared just as jovially as he did every year when we first walked through the door, arms open wide for a hug. In lieu of an embrace he squeezed my hand a little and looked me in the eyes. "Are you still playing my flute?" The ancient silver flute was a gift from him in my seventh grade year at school when I was starting band, almost as many years old as my father. Maybe older. I can still remember Grandpa playing it for me on one of our visits, the notes a whispered vibrato but still ringing pure and clean in the air. He wouldn't be able to lift it now.
"Yes. Yes I am" I smiled at him. I didn't have the heart nor the willpower to tell him that I haven't picked the instrument up since last spring at our jazz concert in Pocatello, being the only student who could play both the saxophone and the flute. He smiled back, and another relative stepped forward to greet him. "He looks so....small." I thought as I wandered away.
My grandfather has always been a mighty oak tree, the patriarch and head of our large family. To me he represents the sum total of honesty and courage and hard work that a lifetime can create. I never thought I would see him so...helpless.
I was relieved to see his stubbornness had not subsided with his weight and strength. He was able to come to dinner with the rest of us and insisted on making the traditional opening speech about families and being thankful, just as he has every year. I couldn't stop myself from wondering who would be giving those speeches in a few years when Grandpa couldn't.
Entering the dining hall, I scanned the room for a place to sit. My entire life I have had the unique experience of being a middle cousin. The majority of my relatives' children are older, married with children. As a college freshmen there is not much that I can relate to with them beyond a "how are you?" and "how's the family?" Then there are the younger cousins, all boys, who once held a grudging respect for my nintendo skills and ability to keep up with their fantastic games of the imagination. Now they have reached an age where, as a member of the opposite sex, I represent a foreign planet full of cooties and strange feelings and bizarre thoughts better left unexplored.
So I was relieved to see my sister's children had reserved me a place right between them. I spent the meal with an excited four year old waving his mashed potatoes and yelling "let the feast begin!" on one side, and an intelligent seven year old holding her pink lemonade like the finest wine glass and making a toast to anything and everything on the other.
Of all my roles in this lifetime, the role of aunt is the one I like best. I wouldn't trade seeing Tyler try his first olive, or watching Kayla protect her youngest brother Landon, or hearing Dainen shriek with laughter as I chase him around and around the living room for all the power and wealth in the world. The only regret I have when it comes to being an aunt is that I don't have the time that I want to spend with them. College prevents me from visiting them more than a few times a year, and they grow so FAST. First steps and sentences and performances and karate lessons can pass you by easily while you're studying for midterms seven hours away.
Sunday morning I awoke, dressed, and packed my things for the drive back "home" to Caldwell. I went to church for an hour to hear one of my good friends from high school give his farewell talk before heading to Portland Oregon for two years as a missionary. He looked the same for the most part, standing tall and nervously tapping the pulpit as he spoke, the words coming easily the longer he spoke. But when I looked at him again as he took his seat, I was startled to see he was somehow older in my eyes. He was embarking on a new and trying path, and I suppose everyone looks a little older when they make life-changing decisions.
I looked down the bench on either side of me. Young men and girls that I had grown up with, growing every day into the adults that I will meet later, with husbands and wives and children and grandchildren. How strange to think that I've gotten older too. Have I changed? At what age do you really become an adult? In my heart I am the same as I have always been. More mature now in my ability to be patient and dismiss things that might have hurt me years ago. But I still procrastinate. I still do my laundry only when I've run out of clothes to wear. I still stumble to class with my hair a mess and some caffeinated beverage to wake me long enough to take coherent notes before returning to my dorm to sleep. I still wish on stars and say a quick prayer when I hear ambulance sirens. I sometimes sleep with a stuffed bear clutched to my chest, and on some days I still feel so homesick I can't do anything but stare out the window and wish I could travel as easily as the leaves borne on the wind.
Days pass too quickly. A week goes by and I can't remember a single time I laughed out loud or tasted chocolate. Another week goes by and I can't remember a time when I DIDN'T have a reason to smile. At times I just want to shout the world into a standstill, halting the shifting sands of time for just one moment. I don't want to take a single second for granted.
Saturday, November 7, 2009
One Year Older, And Wiser Too?
“The supreme happiness in life is the conviction that we are loved. Loved for ourselves, or rather, loved in spite of ourselves”—Victor Hugo
Today I turned nineteen. It is not one of those monumental turning of the years like sixteen or twenty one or forty…but it does set me apart from the high school age and suggest that I am moving up into the adult years. It hints at bigger decisions. Forks in the metaphorical road of life. More to do and see and become. It also implies that I actually have a clue what I’m going to see and do and become. This would be a fallacy. But I won’t admit it. No college student wants to admit that their future is one giant neon question mark. We would much rather pretend we walk with purpose, and that our feet take us somewhere remarkable.
If you ever wonder where the light is on your coldest, darkest day, tell someone it’s your birthday. The well wishing and congratulations pour forth with almost obnoxious ernest, people pressing their smiling faces into your personal space to make damn sure you fulfill the “happy” part of the date of your birth. Nowhere on a birth certificate do I see the writing “…and annually this child SHALL have a happy day upon this date!” The hypocrisy that no one really sees is that on his or her birthday, the individual has already been in existence for a number of years, and needs no sudden reminder of that existence in order to feel complete.
In any case, I’m not really complaining. I got what felt like hundreds of birthday regards from people on my Facebook page, and also via phone calls, texts, snail mail, packages, e-mails, and word of mouth. Friends and acquaintances and family that I had not heard from in months suddenly appeared before my eyes briefly to utter a single sentence or two and remind me of their place in my life and mine in theirs.
The ones that meant the most to me were the few that came quietly and yet with such overwhelming sincerity and love. My grandma called to sing in her wavering tenor voice just as my mother has done for her children and I will do for mine. A few of the digital messages went well beyond just the simple “happy birthday” and inquired about me personally, asking about my midterms and my personal well-being as if they truly wanted to hear the answer. Most fascinating of all, a coworker from back home called me and we had a five minute conversation involving him overcoming his faltering confidence to send the necessary regards, while I answered his questions, somewhat amused and flattered, and in return asked about work and our mutual friends in Idaho Falls. It was incredibly brave of Travis and yet incredibly natural for him to call and have a conversation that was possibly longer than most conversations we ever had the entire time we worked together.
My friend Tim once told me in a few sentences what I found to be one of the most profound discoveries of my life: "you don't need a reason to dislike yourself. You DO, however, need a reason to love yourself. And once you find that reason you can stop doubting yourself and be happy."
There are too many reasons that I can think of to not like myself. I procrastinate, I’m lazy, too often I’m blind to the needs of others as I focus on ME ME ME and my worries and fears. I have been dishonest and said things I didn’t mean. I’ve been hurtful and selfish and cruel. I’ve been ignorant and stubborn and disrespectful. I’ve been so full of pride that I’ve pushed God out of my life entirely to pursue what I knew I would regret later. Most of all, I have been ungrateful.
But still, there is this unexplainably selfless circle of people who love me and look out for me and support me. I am in constant amazement and admiration of these friends and family (although to me, blood relations and true friendships belong in the same category. There is no distinguishing difference in the measure of love and respect I hold for all of them)that despite everything remain a part of my life for better or for worse. They care enough to celebrate with me, cry with me, laugh with me, and discover with me.
I'm not suggesting that any of these are new revelations. I didn't have a sudden lightbulb Aha!! moment this morning when I woke up another year older and discovered I suddenly had people who loved me. I have known it all along. But it took uprooting my world, living in a town world's apart from everything familiar, and being independent for the first time for me to understand the monumental impact of a phone call or letter. I had to stand at a crossroads where I could clearly see my past spread out behind me and my future branching a million different ways in front of me...to see that the present is solid beneath my feet because of the people who have gotten me here.
I guess what I'm really trying to say is thank you.
Today I turned nineteen. It is not one of those monumental turning of the years like sixteen or twenty one or forty…but it does set me apart from the high school age and suggest that I am moving up into the adult years. It hints at bigger decisions. Forks in the metaphorical road of life. More to do and see and become. It also implies that I actually have a clue what I’m going to see and do and become. This would be a fallacy. But I won’t admit it. No college student wants to admit that their future is one giant neon question mark. We would much rather pretend we walk with purpose, and that our feet take us somewhere remarkable.
If you ever wonder where the light is on your coldest, darkest day, tell someone it’s your birthday. The well wishing and congratulations pour forth with almost obnoxious ernest, people pressing their smiling faces into your personal space to make damn sure you fulfill the “happy” part of the date of your birth. Nowhere on a birth certificate do I see the writing “…and annually this child SHALL have a happy day upon this date!” The hypocrisy that no one really sees is that on his or her birthday, the individual has already been in existence for a number of years, and needs no sudden reminder of that existence in order to feel complete.
In any case, I’m not really complaining. I got what felt like hundreds of birthday regards from people on my Facebook page, and also via phone calls, texts, snail mail, packages, e-mails, and word of mouth. Friends and acquaintances and family that I had not heard from in months suddenly appeared before my eyes briefly to utter a single sentence or two and remind me of their place in my life and mine in theirs.
The ones that meant the most to me were the few that came quietly and yet with such overwhelming sincerity and love. My grandma called to sing in her wavering tenor voice just as my mother has done for her children and I will do for mine. A few of the digital messages went well beyond just the simple “happy birthday” and inquired about me personally, asking about my midterms and my personal well-being as if they truly wanted to hear the answer. Most fascinating of all, a coworker from back home called me and we had a five minute conversation involving him overcoming his faltering confidence to send the necessary regards, while I answered his questions, somewhat amused and flattered, and in return asked about work and our mutual friends in Idaho Falls. It was incredibly brave of Travis and yet incredibly natural for him to call and have a conversation that was possibly longer than most conversations we ever had the entire time we worked together.
My friend Tim once told me in a few sentences what I found to be one of the most profound discoveries of my life: "you don't need a reason to dislike yourself. You DO, however, need a reason to love yourself. And once you find that reason you can stop doubting yourself and be happy."
There are too many reasons that I can think of to not like myself. I procrastinate, I’m lazy, too often I’m blind to the needs of others as I focus on ME ME ME and my worries and fears. I have been dishonest and said things I didn’t mean. I’ve been hurtful and selfish and cruel. I’ve been ignorant and stubborn and disrespectful. I’ve been so full of pride that I’ve pushed God out of my life entirely to pursue what I knew I would regret later. Most of all, I have been ungrateful.
But still, there is this unexplainably selfless circle of people who love me and look out for me and support me. I am in constant amazement and admiration of these friends and family (although to me, blood relations and true friendships belong in the same category. There is no distinguishing difference in the measure of love and respect I hold for all of them)that despite everything remain a part of my life for better or for worse. They care enough to celebrate with me, cry with me, laugh with me, and discover with me.
I'm not suggesting that any of these are new revelations. I didn't have a sudden lightbulb Aha!! moment this morning when I woke up another year older and discovered I suddenly had people who loved me. I have known it all along. But it took uprooting my world, living in a town world's apart from everything familiar, and being independent for the first time for me to understand the monumental impact of a phone call or letter. I had to stand at a crossroads where I could clearly see my past spread out behind me and my future branching a million different ways in front of me...to see that the present is solid beneath my feet because of the people who have gotten me here.
I guess what I'm really trying to say is thank you.
Thursday, November 5, 2009
Dear Cyberspace...
So i didn't start this blog necessarily for people to read and follow my story with rapt attention, biting their nails for the next installment. I don't intend to have a book published or a movie made of the strange fallacies and events of my life. I just express myself best through writing, and as a true child of the 21st century it seemed natural to get a blog.
Call it a journal, call it ramblings, call it a waste of cyberspace (although I hope you don't :) ) this is simply who i am. Make of it what you will.
Call it a journal, call it ramblings, call it a waste of cyberspace (although I hope you don't :) ) this is simply who i am. Make of it what you will.
A Revelation From an Ungrateful Girl
“It doesn't matter how long we may have been stuck in a sense of our limitations. If we go into a darkened room and turn on the light, it doesn't matter if the room has been dark for a day, a week, or ten thousand years - we turn on the light and it is illuminated. Once we control our capacity for love and happiness, the light has been turned on.”-- Sharon Salzberg
“What the hell am I DOING here?”
I stare blankly at the computer screen, seeing the words sprawling across the page but not really comprehending them. It’s late. With each passing minute my clock will remind me with just a flicker of light that my life is ticking away. It’s another sixty seconds I will never have back again, and yet how did I spend those precious moments?
I glare at the carnage around me: candy wrappers, popcorn kernels, an open jar of salsa, an empty pop can. Around my trash can are more crumpled up sheets of paper than I care to admit in this recycling-conscious town. Probably four or five trees gave up their lives so that I might try (unsuccessfully) to transfer inspiration into the written word. Most of them are covered with doodles and nonsense rather than composition that might awe and ignite the future generations.
Writer’s block. Not really a medical condition but just as crippling as a diagnosis of sudden hearing loss or an amputated limb. Writing is how I breathe. As a fatally clumsy person, I tend to stutter and trip over the English language when I try to make a point out loud. Just as someone with polio might find a release and sudden freedom of expression in water where their handicap no longer exists, I find my release in writing.
But not tonight. The gods of Microsoft Word have decreed that I shall not produce anything worthwhile in these early AM hours, and so I sit. And stare into space. And wonder, for the umpteenth time, if what I am doing really matters.
It’s been a month since I arrived at the College of Idaho. The first few weeks were spent releasing one by one the butterflies clenched tight in my stomach--meeting new people and familiarizing myself with a foreign town. As the novelty of being in Caldwell slowly wore off, so too did my visions of grandeur and achievement and greatness. I am small on campus. I’m swallowed up by hundreds of other faces and personalities that constantly sweep me along and shove me aside with disregard or scrutinize me with fleeting interest. I can disappear if I’m not careful. And honestly? It’s almost not worth the fight anymore.
Every day is like the one before. An unending cycle of classes, homework, familiar faces, routines. Each step I take is the same as the step I took twenty four hours ago. A week goes by in a flash, and on Sunday night before the inevitable “here we go again” groan is the small whisper of a thought: “Did anyone notice? Did anything change? Am I still the same person I was last Sunday? Will I ever matter?”
Not the most cheerful of inquiries, to be sure. Another flicker of light. The damned clock again, reminding me that I could be spending these moments in peaceful slumber instead of stressing myself out. But I can’t help it. All around campus there are people laughing, partying, making friends, and generally having a better time at college than I am. Everywhere is evidence that I am closed up in my little room listening to my music while outside that door things are happening. Lives are being changed. Friendships are being cemented. Why am I still in my room? What keeps these insecurities screaming out in my head? Why can’t I let go?
Why do I care? Is the more pressing question. I don’t need praise and popularity and admiration. I just want to know that what I do today affect’s tomorrow. I want to feel like my struggle at two thirty seven AM is going to change something when I turn my efforts in to my professor in a few hours. I need to know that I matter. To someone. To some cause. To the girls in my hall. To the kids in my classes. I need to matter.
Perhaps this is why I surround myself with hard evidence that I am loved and needed. My room is covered with photographs. Of family, of friends, of smiling faces. Next to the photographs I have written notes from loved ones. A card from my parents telling me they were thinking about me is pinned next to a note from my best friend reassuring me that I am missed. There’s a birthday message from my sister and her children, an e-mail from a past crush, a sticky note with possibly the last written message to me that my aunt will ever make, the writing a little shaky yet because of her health problems. But she took the time to write to me. They all did. That must mean something, right?
Don’t get me wrong. I’m not generally a depressed person. I know that life is too valuable to throw away like that. But sometimes those nagging doubts drag me down. I just wonder what if anything people will remember about me after I graduate here. What are their lasting impressions of me?
Were you the man who saw me on a bad day at Fazoli’s, stressed out of my mind, and out of pity left a five dollar tip to brighten my day? Were you the student in class who saw me from across the room looking like I was about to burst into tears at any moment, and did you wonder why? Were you visiting the dorms the night all of us sat in Lani’s room giggling hysterically for an hour, and did you think to yourself how happy she must be? Were you the family on the Food Bank route when I came to deliver to your house, and could you feel my love for you? There are hundreds of thousands of people who have had their first impression of me already. How easy it is to judge in that instant, and then to look no further. How simple to dismiss me from your mind and never miss the memory of me.
So it helps when out of the blue I receive a message from my father saying he was thinking of me. It helps when a classmate from choir noticed that I was missing for a few days and was worried about me. It helps when the people on my floor invite me out to the movies and we spend the whole night laughing and talking. There is a space in this world for me! There is a void when I’m gone! There is something, however small or insignificant, that I give to those I come in contact with.
In the (literal) dark of my little dorm, and in the darkened state of my mind, there is still light. There always is some door that, when pried open, lets in the rays of confidence and love and friendship. Every day the light comes from a different direction. It’s up to me to not turn the other way when I see them.
“What the hell am I DOING here?”
I stare blankly at the computer screen, seeing the words sprawling across the page but not really comprehending them. It’s late. With each passing minute my clock will remind me with just a flicker of light that my life is ticking away. It’s another sixty seconds I will never have back again, and yet how did I spend those precious moments?
I glare at the carnage around me: candy wrappers, popcorn kernels, an open jar of salsa, an empty pop can. Around my trash can are more crumpled up sheets of paper than I care to admit in this recycling-conscious town. Probably four or five trees gave up their lives so that I might try (unsuccessfully) to transfer inspiration into the written word. Most of them are covered with doodles and nonsense rather than composition that might awe and ignite the future generations.
Writer’s block. Not really a medical condition but just as crippling as a diagnosis of sudden hearing loss or an amputated limb. Writing is how I breathe. As a fatally clumsy person, I tend to stutter and trip over the English language when I try to make a point out loud. Just as someone with polio might find a release and sudden freedom of expression in water where their handicap no longer exists, I find my release in writing.
But not tonight. The gods of Microsoft Word have decreed that I shall not produce anything worthwhile in these early AM hours, and so I sit. And stare into space. And wonder, for the umpteenth time, if what I am doing really matters.
It’s been a month since I arrived at the College of Idaho. The first few weeks were spent releasing one by one the butterflies clenched tight in my stomach--meeting new people and familiarizing myself with a foreign town. As the novelty of being in Caldwell slowly wore off, so too did my visions of grandeur and achievement and greatness. I am small on campus. I’m swallowed up by hundreds of other faces and personalities that constantly sweep me along and shove me aside with disregard or scrutinize me with fleeting interest. I can disappear if I’m not careful. And honestly? It’s almost not worth the fight anymore.
Every day is like the one before. An unending cycle of classes, homework, familiar faces, routines. Each step I take is the same as the step I took twenty four hours ago. A week goes by in a flash, and on Sunday night before the inevitable “here we go again” groan is the small whisper of a thought: “Did anyone notice? Did anything change? Am I still the same person I was last Sunday? Will I ever matter?”
Not the most cheerful of inquiries, to be sure. Another flicker of light. The damned clock again, reminding me that I could be spending these moments in peaceful slumber instead of stressing myself out. But I can’t help it. All around campus there are people laughing, partying, making friends, and generally having a better time at college than I am. Everywhere is evidence that I am closed up in my little room listening to my music while outside that door things are happening. Lives are being changed. Friendships are being cemented. Why am I still in my room? What keeps these insecurities screaming out in my head? Why can’t I let go?
Why do I care? Is the more pressing question. I don’t need praise and popularity and admiration. I just want to know that what I do today affect’s tomorrow. I want to feel like my struggle at two thirty seven AM is going to change something when I turn my efforts in to my professor in a few hours. I need to know that I matter. To someone. To some cause. To the girls in my hall. To the kids in my classes. I need to matter.
Perhaps this is why I surround myself with hard evidence that I am loved and needed. My room is covered with photographs. Of family, of friends, of smiling faces. Next to the photographs I have written notes from loved ones. A card from my parents telling me they were thinking about me is pinned next to a note from my best friend reassuring me that I am missed. There’s a birthday message from my sister and her children, an e-mail from a past crush, a sticky note with possibly the last written message to me that my aunt will ever make, the writing a little shaky yet because of her health problems. But she took the time to write to me. They all did. That must mean something, right?
Don’t get me wrong. I’m not generally a depressed person. I know that life is too valuable to throw away like that. But sometimes those nagging doubts drag me down. I just wonder what if anything people will remember about me after I graduate here. What are their lasting impressions of me?
Were you the man who saw me on a bad day at Fazoli’s, stressed out of my mind, and out of pity left a five dollar tip to brighten my day? Were you the student in class who saw me from across the room looking like I was about to burst into tears at any moment, and did you wonder why? Were you visiting the dorms the night all of us sat in Lani’s room giggling hysterically for an hour, and did you think to yourself how happy she must be? Were you the family on the Food Bank route when I came to deliver to your house, and could you feel my love for you? There are hundreds of thousands of people who have had their first impression of me already. How easy it is to judge in that instant, and then to look no further. How simple to dismiss me from your mind and never miss the memory of me.
So it helps when out of the blue I receive a message from my father saying he was thinking of me. It helps when a classmate from choir noticed that I was missing for a few days and was worried about me. It helps when the people on my floor invite me out to the movies and we spend the whole night laughing and talking. There is a space in this world for me! There is a void when I’m gone! There is something, however small or insignificant, that I give to those I come in contact with.
In the (literal) dark of my little dorm, and in the darkened state of my mind, there is still light. There always is some door that, when pried open, lets in the rays of confidence and love and friendship. Every day the light comes from a different direction. It’s up to me to not turn the other way when I see them.
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