As I began to fix the joints together, I reminded myself of what I had to go through to get this far. The only reason I was selected to play in the orchestra was because I never listened to myself on days like these. My mind wanders and I smile, thinking about the recognition I have gotten— from both musicians and ordinary people. I have nothing to be unhappy about.
. . .
I was an insecure girl of only ten years who had come to live in a new town with new people and a new school. I had somehow managed to sleepwalk through an entire month of school, carrying the baggage of an instrument and another life in my small, innocent hands.
I had thought of quitting oboe many times throughout the past few months. It was just unnecessary weight and a reason to leave home early in the morning that I could honestly do without. Even with the constant encouragement of my teacher, there was nothing in me that wanted to continue playing an instrument that most people equated with the sound of a duck (a dying one at that).
As the school bus screeched to a stop, I quickly surveyed my surroundings before grabbing my lunchbox and oboe and nearly running up the aisle to get out. I didn’t want to be at school anymore. I didn’t want to be a sixth grader anymore. I just wanted to be home.
I began taking slow steps down the stairs, making sure not to slip and land on my face. Movement caught my attention and I warily glanced behind me, my heartbeat suddenly speeding up in fear of the worst.
“It’s the awesome oboe player!” someone shouted from behind me, and I suddenly froze. My heart skipped a beat and I almost thought I couldn’t breathe when I recognized the voice. The most popular boy in the entire sixth grade had just called me awesome in front of an entire bus full of people. I’d barely spoken a few words to him all this time, mostly intimidated by his good looks and charm, but I guess he saw something in me that was worth drawing everyone’s attention to.
I blushed a little, hid my face in the folds of my scarf, and ran down the street to my house as fast as I could. It was all just a cruel joke, I thought, my mind racing. He’s just looking for another girl to play with and I made myself a target.
I could never admit to anyone that a boy gave me the determination to work harder towards becoming an actual oboist. I guess I got some kind of sick motivation from answering his questions and watching him fawn over me for the next year. It kept me from quitting oboe and ending any progress that I could have made. In a way, it brought me to where I am now.
And if I could, I would tell him. I would tell him that even if what seemed so important then is insignificant now and we have gone our separate ways, I still hold dear that one moment where his words made me feel like my heart was going to explode. And as I ran away into the crisp October air, my blood pounded heavily in my ears and reminded me with every passing beat that my name and image laid in the bulky case I carried with me.
. . .
As I lifted the instrument to my mouth in this present moment, I felt familiar shivers coursing through my hands as I prepared myself to take a breath. Suddenly I realize what I need to make myself feel better.
I reach into my music bag to pull out something calming and familiar. I’m not in the mood for Mozart, I think as I find what I am looking for in a sea of photocopies of music. Tchaikovsky's Swan Lake. I have played the melody so many times that I am practically sick of it, but I find something new to appreciate about it even from the opening notes of the oboe solo in Act I.
And starting from that first F sharp, I can feel myself flying. My eyes close as I let the music take me away into bliss. Behind my eyelids I see swans— pure white birds floating on a glassy lake. They make no movement as I continue to tell their stories through every labored breath I push out of my lungs.
The swans lazily groom themselves, occasionally ruffling their feathers. One dips its head under the water while the others watch on, blissfully unaware of their surroundings. And though they do cry in small sounds, they are largely quiet and at peace. They remain undisturbed as I play the opening solo.
I wish this peace could calm every storm that rages in my heart, but soon it too comes to an end. Suddenly, all of their heads turn towards an unknown sound, looking for the cause of their disturbance. One begins to honk loudly in anticipation of something threatening and the others join in startling cacophony. As fleeting as the moment they appear, the swans spread their wings and fly away into the darkness that lies behind my eyes. The euphoria that fills me in the heat of the moment is gone, replaced with a hole in my chest. Only the heaving of my shoulders and the heat in my lips and cheeks reminds me of where I am in this moment. I am sitting alone, on my bed, trying to relieve myself of unnecessary stress.
I have only played this piece in a real concert once, but the very first time was for an audition. My first re-audition into the Empire State Repertory Orchestra. Getting accepted the first time was my first large victory in the musical arts, but rather out of place for a time when I lacked the motivation and focus to even complete basic schoolwork, let alone get accepted into one of the most prestigious student orchestras in the Northeast Region.
. . .
I clutched my oboe case like it was the only thing keeping me alive as I took slow, hesitant steps into the school. Last minute thoughts fluttered like the butterflies in my stomach, causing me to have the same thoughts I had for the past two weeks. Do I really have to do this? I can always just try out next year like everyone else.
I was greeted at the door by an older woman who smiled and asked for my name. She brought me to a music room and asked me to unpack. The conductor would arrive shortly and I only had ten minutes to get my act together.
Calm down, I told myself, though my heart was still pounding at the thought of giving an audition in front of someone I had never met before. The closest I had come to something like this was giving a playing exam in front of my band conductor. But that seemed a whole lot less informal than what I imagined this to be like.
My hands shook as I lifted the oboe to my mouth, preparing to play a scale. Something easy, like C Major. I closed my eyes as I warmed up and tried to concentrate on the way my fingers and lips moved, rather than my anxiety. C-D-E-F-G-A-B-C. And back down again. I repeated this several times, feeling some of my fear retreat with every rotation until I had almost completely convinced myself that there was nothing to worry about.
The door clicked and a middle-aged man entered, grinning widely as we met eyes. I made my introduction brief, not out of arrogance and assurance that I would get the position, but because I feared that I might talk too much.
“You’re a high school student, right?” he inquired as we both got comfortable in our positions.
I hesitated for a second. “No, not yet. I’m still in eighth grade,” I replied anxiously.
“How long have you been playing oboe?”
I counted on my fingers. I started in 2011, so that made three complete years. “Three years,” I said rather confidently.
It took you only three years to get to this level? I could practically hear him say it. Honestly, I couldn’t believe it either and here I was, giving my first formal audition as a shy and awkward eighth grader. I am here. I tried to affirm myself in my thoughts, but it all seemed like a dream. It was too good to be real.
“Please begin whenever you’re ready.” His words snapped me out of my trance. I was suddenly brought to the cold reality of my situation. My hands were shaking again as I brought the reed to my mouth and prepared myself for the first note.
And out it went. I felt all of my anxiety fall away as I started playing. It wasn’t sudden, but a gradual loss of feeling as I began to envelop myself in the music. For the first time, I felt as though I really could do this. That I really could get accepted and make a name for myself as an oboist.
I finished the first movement about three minutes later, my chest heaving under my tight shirt as a reminder of the strength I needed to perform— both mentally and physically. I felt relieved. At least I had given the audition. Now, my fate was in God’s hands.
“You should stick around for tonight’s rehearsal,” he said after a minute or two as he stood to leave.
“So does that mean I got in?” I asked nervously.
“Yes.”
I waved goodbye to him as he left and I smiled genuinely for the first time since school began, barely able to contain myself. I had done it. I had actually gotten a position in the Empire State Repertory Orchestra and was going to begin playing there.
. . .
I’ve been in that same orchestra for the past three years. It was a real eye-opener for me at the time. My grades were slipping and I felt as though there was nothing that I could do about it, when there really was. But spending breathless Tuesday nights playing difficult music with people that I had to fight to keep up with gave me something to look at as a learning experience. There were many times where I was tired after school and could not muster up the energy to leave for rehearsal, but had to remind myself that without oboe, I was literally nothing. At a time that I had almost abandoned my academics, there was nothing on my resume except music. It was what was keeping me afloat during this dark time.
And through these heavily charged nights I met many people that I never thought I could. People that valued music as much as I did and devoted the same amount of time and effort into their playing. I would have never gotten that kind of experience any other way.
I also don’t think I regret not being able to place into the higher group. Maybe it has never happened because I keep getting beat by the seniors who have basically secured their position there. And maybe it is partially because I don’t want to leave. What I used to see as only a chore became something that I now look forward to.
At the most basic level —before I began to see the victories that came along with my work— I was constantly pushed by the encouragement of my teacher. I have experienced four long, eventful years of Wednesday nights spent at her house in lessons that I never wanted to end In these lessons I could further understand the mess and the masterpiece that I chose as my instrument. I learned how to tame its piercing nature and manipulate it so that it sounded pleasant, yet distinct from any other member of the orchestra.
. . .
“I can’t do this,” I cried disappointedly after my tenth failed attempt. I partially blamed my failure on my weakness in music theory, but I knew that it was more than not understanding the relationship between the notes on the page. I couldn’t make them come alive the way I could with the others and that was entirely my fault.
“Don’t worry. There’s still six months until NYSSMA and you’ll definitely have it by then. But in the meantime, you need to know how to practice it.” She lifted her oboe to show me how to move my fingers. “You just have to move your ring and pinky fingers so they’re like one finger.”
I repeated the motion on my keys, getting used to the unfamiliar feeling. It was difficult to keep them together and my pinky finger kept slipping out. “But it’s not working,” I mumbled, disappointed in myself.
“And maybe it won’t tonight. Maybe it won’t tomorrow night. Maybe it will continue to not work for a while, but that’s fine,” she encouraged. “Two measures isn’t going to kill the whole piece.”
I looked up at her in disbelief. Out of everything else, this was the only part that I visibly was not comfortable with. How could I make the entire movement flow without part of a crucial run?
I gave up in my persistent thoughts. Runs were never my strength anyways. As I let my guard down, pessimism flooded my brain. The entire piece would be ruined if I couldn’t get that one transition down. Though it seemed wrong, I actually considered it. It really felt as though in six months’ time when I had to perform this piece in its entirety, I was going to mess up in that same place and jeopardize my hopes of getting a perfect score.
But something clicked in me after looking into her kind, gentle eyes. I really could do it. I was holding myself back.
Even with the simple cues of her hands and the steady tapping of my feet, I felt reassured. Two measures was an insignificant difficulty that I could easily work out on my own. It suddenly did not feel like so much to stress about.
After I finished, I felt complete. I felt like nothing could stop me and that there was no limits to where I could bring this piece if I only practiced enough. “Thank you,” I whispered through heavy, labored breaths. “Thank you for everything."
. . .
I have never experienced a passionate relationship, but I know what it feels like to come home angrily hating the thing that is the very core of my existence and then crawl back to it at the end of the day because it was the only thing I had that would help me relieve myself of daily stress. And even when my fingers are cramped and my lungs are screaming for me to stop and breathe, I don’t listen because this kind of pain is the only kind that gives me the hope that will bring me to a better place. It hurts more than it should, but if I stopped playing the day I breathed out too far or cramped a finger, I would have quit a long time ago. Even when my lips are tired and swollen, I keep playing because nothing else will help me get better.
I am never tired of this love-hate relationship and never have been in all the time I have been learning oboe— even on days like today where I could swear to anyone that I am tired of standing out because of a stupid instrument. And on the days that I think that I want to be a regular student, I remind myself of the people who backed me up all this time— consciously and not —because without them I wouldn’t be half the musician I am today or half the person either. Nor would I even have a story to tell.
