Personal Narrative: Trumpet

Instruments of all sizes laid out in front of me, so many choices. My impulsive hands quickly picked up a trumpet. It wasn’t my ideal instrument, I preferred the princess look associated with playing the flute, but I aspired to achieve the swagger of the high school trumpet jocks above me. Likewise, my older brother was a woodwind, so naturally I had to pick an instrument opposite of his. At ten years old, my tiny hands could barely grasp the valves, obviously meant for someone much larger than me. The cold mouthpiece felt foreign on my lips. I squeezed my embouchure and produced a sound so wretched you could almost mistake it for an animal. The grotesque squawk caught me by surprise. I pulled my mouth away and giggled, slightly embarrassed. I began to question my impulsive decision. Maybe I made the wrong choice. A man in front of me cracked a lovable smile and roared a deep contagious laugh. I blushed, initially thinking he was laughing at the ridiculous noise I made. “What a confident sound, I can tell you are going to go far” he chuckled, “Welcome
Today, I sit on stage surrounded by my closest friends who share the same passion as I do. Sitting under the blazing spotlight, I anxiously wait with a fluttering stomach for the cue of my director’s animated hands to start. With the stroke of her hand downward, my mind clears from the stress of school and I can solely focus on making music. I play the grandiose music with enough passion to give the audience goose bumps (the good kind). Now, in marching band, I march for countless hours under the cool fall nights, or blistering summer afternoons with fellow band geeks. Like a big machine, with all the parts working together, each individual person forms to make miscellaneous designs. With sweat dripping down my red cheeks, I play my last note with power until my lungs burn. I break into a wide smile, hearing the roar of applause from the audience above