My American Dream: A Personal Analysis
When I was six years old, my youngest brother went to college. I was born 13 years after him, 15 years after my older brother, and 16 years after my sister. As a kid, I idolized my siblings. They were all amazing at music, got into amazing schools, on top of an amazing list of accolades. Being the children of working class immigrants, they really embodied the American Dream. Growing up with my role models around me, I felt it was extremely important to be like them, to be the best in every endeavor. This attitude instilled a sort of immature and arrogant pride in me when I was young. Competitiveness flowed through my veins from day one. The same year my youngest brother left for college, my mom signed me up for violin lessons. Two small violins
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were sent to my house for me to try out, but I didn’t know which one I liked better. It wouldn’t have mattered anyway; it wasn’t up to me. Playing violin wasn’t my favorite activity, but the word tolerate comes to mind when I remember my years of learning.
After I had played for a couple of years, I auditioned for the Youth Orchestra. The Youth Orchestra practiced on Sunday afternoons for two hours, but I was always more concerned with how my fantasy football team was doing that week. My playing was mediocre, I was consistently in the middle of the section. The bittersweet smell of sticky rosin dust that players treated their bow with invariably hung in the air. Those two hours were spent on autopilot, I only tuned in to play a part I especially liked. There was plenty of challenging music in our repertoire, so there was always something I could play better, but it never bothered me enough to focus. My thought was that I’d never be good enough to be in the front of the section, but I was constantly too bored to try. I always left rehearsal with a crooked jaw from holding my violin up and ready to take a nap. Each year the orchestra does a competition for the graduating seniors. The winner plays a concerto with the orchestra. During my third year, the winner was a violin player, Luke. His selection for the concerto was Zigeunerweisen, or Gypsy Airs, by Pablo de Sarasate. At the first rehearsal of that year, we played the piece for the first time. With a wave of our conductor’s baton, the orchestra played the dramatic opening phrase. A minor melody accompanied by a timpani roll rang out. And there was a pause. Complete silence the soloist as he raised his violin to his chin. In a sip of a breath he dragged his bow across the strings, echoing the same motif. These simple notes emanated from his violin with such a passion, loving each note to form a beautiful phrase. His bow rested on a single tone before one bow stroke sent his fingers flying up the strings. The rest of the concerto proceeded in the same manner, seamlessly incorporating every single technique known to the violin. The opening was hauntingly dramatic, with melodies of unmatched grandeur. The adagio middle, which often had two voices written for the soloist, was performed with spine-tingling delicacy. By the finale, his speed, technique, and accuracy by which his fingers executed the notes on the page turned the orchestra into an audience. At that point we had all stopped playing to watch him fold himself up into the sheets of his own melodies. However, without the mentality of someone who wants to improve, the amazing performance at the first rehearsal of the year didn’t inspire me.
It didn’t make me want to improve. Rather than absorbing the kind of awe and passion such an instrument can evoke, I just disregarded it as having no relevance to myself. I still viewed playing violin as a boring chore. Actually, I only did orchestra for one more year after that. I could never be as fast as him, so why even try. In the same decision, I stopped playing violin entirely.
How good would I be by now if I hadn’t quit playing? What if I attacked each rehearsal as if I was Luke? What if I studied every single mark on the page and understood the composer’s intentions, turning them into my intentions though the wood? It doesn’t matter.
I now play the alto saxophone. When I play the saxophone, I feel. I don’t think about Luke, or how much better everyone else is. I’m not on autopilot, waiting to finish. I’m breathing my soul through my instrument. My mind occupies each groove, I connect with every melody, and I perform every run. I’m in the moment, placing each flick of the tongue against the reed. My mind isn’t worried about what my brothers would play it, or whether I’ll ever be proficient enough. It doesn’t matter. This is my
performance.
were sent to my house for me to try out, but I didn’t know which one I liked better. It wouldn’t have mattered anyway; it wasn’t up to me. Playing violin wasn’t my favorite activity, but the word tolerate comes to mind when I remember my years of learning.
After I had played for a couple of years, I auditioned for the Youth Orchestra. The Youth Orchestra practiced on Sunday afternoons for two hours, but I was always more concerned with how my fantasy football team was doing that week. My playing was mediocre, I was consistently in the middle of the section. The bittersweet smell of sticky rosin dust that players treated their bow with invariably hung in the air. Those two hours were spent on autopilot, I only tuned in to play a part I especially liked. There was plenty of challenging music in our repertoire, so there was always something I could play better, but it never bothered me enough to focus. My thought was that I’d never be good enough to be in the front of the section, but I was constantly too bored to try. I always left rehearsal with a crooked jaw from holding my violin up and ready to take a nap. Each year the orchestra does a competition for the graduating seniors. The winner plays a concerto with the orchestra. During my third year, the winner was a violin player, Luke. His selection for the concerto was Zigeunerweisen, or Gypsy Airs, by Pablo de Sarasate. At the first rehearsal of that year, we played the piece for the first time. With a wave of our conductor’s baton, the orchestra played the dramatic opening phrase. A minor melody accompanied by a timpani roll rang out. And there was a pause. Complete silence the soloist as he raised his violin to his chin. In a sip of a breath he dragged his bow across the strings, echoing the same motif. These simple notes emanated from his violin with such a passion, loving each note to form a beautiful phrase. His bow rested on a single tone before one bow stroke sent his fingers flying up the strings. The rest of the concerto proceeded in the same manner, seamlessly incorporating every single technique known to the violin. The opening was hauntingly dramatic, with melodies of unmatched grandeur. The adagio middle, which often had two voices written for the soloist, was performed with spine-tingling delicacy. By the finale, his speed, technique, and accuracy by which his fingers executed the notes on the page turned the orchestra into an audience. At that point we had all stopped playing to watch him fold himself up into the sheets of his own melodies. However, without the mentality of someone who wants to improve, the amazing performance at the first rehearsal of the year didn’t inspire me.
It didn’t make me want to improve. Rather than absorbing the kind of awe and passion such an instrument can evoke, I just disregarded it as having no relevance to myself. I still viewed playing violin as a boring chore. Actually, I only did orchestra for one more year after that. I could never be as fast as him, so why even try. In the same decision, I stopped playing violin entirely.
How good would I be by now if I hadn’t quit playing? What if I attacked each rehearsal as if I was Luke? What if I studied every single mark on the page and understood the composer’s intentions, turning them into my intentions though the wood? It doesn’t matter.
I now play the alto saxophone. When I play the saxophone, I feel. I don’t think about Luke, or how much better everyone else is. I’m not on autopilot, waiting to finish. I’m breathing my soul through my instrument. My mind occupies each groove, I connect with every melody, and I perform every run. I’m in the moment, placing each flick of the tongue against the reed. My mind isn’t worried about what my brothers would play it, or whether I’ll ever be proficient enough. It doesn’t matter. This is my
performance.