Personal Narrative Analysis

I walk through double doors that are held open by regrets and anxiety. My instrument is in my right hand; dragging me to a crowd of people. My music is in my left hand; puncturing a hole that reminds me of my sins. The tights I am wearing squeeze so tight that my legs are suffocating. My hair is pulled back revealing my identity to the world. My black dress is fitting for the funeral I am going to. This will be the most competitive competition I will be in. I greet my director as I walk into the chaotic gym. People are crying with tears of joy, tears of frustration, and tears of sorrow. People are playing loud enough that it creates a massive chord of sharps and flats. Each note is bursting my ear drums; turning my insides out. Empty
cases are scattered throughout the gym, reminding me of the empty souls that are here. Posters are hanging on the wall, stating who will be accepted into a musical career. My audition isn’t for awhile yet, but each minute feels like hours.
Hours and hours of practice have lead up to this moment. Thousands of dollars have determined my fate of being in this exact spot at this exact time. I notice my competition throughout the room as I practice the 12 major scales. Each note I play shakes. Anxiety is pumping through my heart and into my veins. I am breathing in nerves and exhaling confidence. The past years, my scales have denied me access to a musical career. After a while, the nerves force my legs to walk through the hallways of the ghost school. After walking for what seems like miles, it is my audition time. As I make my way through the hallway, I watch people walk out of the room with tears down their face. Each tear I see shoots my heart with feelings of familiar failure. Family swarms around me, waiting for my time to enter the room. I feel as if I am waiting in line for a physical exam during the Holocaust. Each step I take feels like a forceful push that ignites off of my
tears. Soon, it is my turn to walk in.
I am shaking violently while I state my name and solo I will play. Then, I take my final deep breath and I play. My solo is executed precisely while my etudes carry a precious sound throughout the room. Each note played darts straight into the judge's eardrums; forcing him to pay attention to me. My scales go from low to high and high to low with perfect rhythm and sound. The judge etches notes into stone that will forever change my musical career. I finish, thank him, and exit the room feeling confident in how I performed. Only a few moments later, a poster of recalls was hammered into a wall; noting who will be closer to having their name under the “accepted” list. When I spot my name on that list, I was ecstatic. However, my musical career is still not guaranteed. Something, somewhere, will go wrong and I won’t be accepted. Being accepted has been my dream for so long. I have worked for four years trying to deserve this spot more than anyone else. There is no way I can give up that dream
now. I walk into the room once more and play more of my etudes and scales. Everything goes smooth until I get to a scale. These scales have screwed me over before, and they will not screw me over again. I can feel my Adam's apple as I ask to restart the scale. After restarting and proceeding with a better scale, I walk out of the room feeling myself drip sweat out of my pores. My stomach is in my throat as I try to speak to my director of the performance I just gave. After swallowing my stomach, I declare that I would not be accepted due to the horrid scale I just performed. However, I still waited for this list to clarify that I did not get in and that my career as a tubist is over.
After days of waiting, Vanna White finally walks out to display a list. The first words read “TUBA ACCEPTED” with sections under that exclaim who will be accepted into the orchestra and who will be accepted into the band. I cover my eyes because I can not bare to see my career stolen from me. This moment determines my future. This moment is what drives me. After hearing people scream with failure and cry with happiness, I open my eyes. I then joined the people crying because “Emily Tigges” was written next to the word “band”. Finally, it is my turn to show the world who I am. It is finally my turn to attend the nationally recognized Iowa All-State Band.