My 29-Year Love Affair

Nearly three decades of anxiety and elation.

This is a story about innocence among negativity, building and degrading talent, and using all aspects of the past to create an ideal future.

First Dates

The relationship matured pretty quickly. My earliest legitimate memory was listening to Ace of Base’s Happy Nation album on my first CD player in my parents’ bedroom.

Constantly.

Looking back, I didn’t think a 6-year-old could have such an intense emotional tie to anything, but there I was, memorizing every word, and developing a crush on the cuter of the two male singers.

Happiness Among the Rest

Like most people, if you ask me to think about my early life, I will likely mention the happy aspects and leave out anything negative.

I will remember playing with my best friend while The Lion King soundtrack played in the background. I will push away the fact that we moved away because my mother couldn’t stand the neighborhood dog’s bark.

I will remember my brother making up really strange songs when we were bored. I won’t mention the fact that he was probably trying to distract me from my parents’ arguments.

I will remember every song from Bryan Duncan’s Mercy album, as his VHS concert was always on in the house. I won’t say how my mother’s eagerness to sing these songs paired with her intense depression and lifelong mental health battle. I definitely won’t tell you how I was already questioning religion despite singing along with her.

Music was infused in everything, sometimes intentionally, and other times coincidentally. But it gave me exactly what I longed for as time went on: consistency.

Growing Together

I believe a defining moment in a music lover’s life is the realization that he or she can create it. Yes, I played the recorder in 3rd grade like everyone else, so much so that my brother hid my mouthpiece, but everything changed when I started playing the clarinet that summer. I had no choice but to block out my nerves and focus on the notes in front of me. I felt responsible, but, for once, I wasn’t scared.

My father asked my music teacher if he should buy a wooden clarinet for me, and my teacher said he should. I allegedly had more than enough potential to warrant such an investment.

I had never felt particularly “good” at anything before this. I was a complete mess in other ways, vomiting before every day of school, always asking to go to the nurse for an infected earlobe that was really just more anxiety — but during music lessons, I was present. Completely enamored.

Music continued to be a source of pride and comfort from then on. As my skills improved, I was invited to music festivals and was in the all-county band. Sure, I would have an absolute meltdown before sitting in front of the judges or getting ready for a five-hour rehearsal, but overcoming these feelings and doing well in the moment kept me going. It was my first taste of overcoming my own disorder.

Growing Apart

My senior year of high school was full of soul-testing events. I will mention them because they added an unfortunate layer to my views on music, rather than pushing me closer to it like the others in the past.

In order of occurrence: My grandpa died, my boyfriend broke up with me and started dating my friend a few days later, my best friend stopped talking to me because I disapproved of her dating a guy who was horrible to her, I had to confront the idea of college away from home, my dad had his first heart attack, and my mom was diagnosed with stage 3 uterine cancer.

I would sit in my room and listen to music for hours at a time, as usual, but this was passive; my excitement to actively play music was severely waning. Music was becoming a burden, and I unsuccessfully practiced my All-State NYSSMA solo, until I completely gave up. I thought I would feel more ashamed than ever before, but I was completely numb. Secretly relieved.

Trying Again

I tried to join the band in college, but I felt like an amateur among professionals. I craved the satisfaction of getting every note, but I yearned for rest much more. I auditioned horribly, was placed as a third clarinetist, and stopped going to rehearsals after a few weeks.

Sticking with music during college could have saved me from a lot of negative experiences borne from trying to find another niche. Despite it all, I always considered myself a musician, and never gave into the fact that it may have become a memory.

Self-Exploration

As I began the student teaching portion of graduate school, I saw that the elementary school was going to begin a “Clarinet Club” for incoming fourth graders. It was perfect. I had to offer my help. However, in the most symbolic way I could imagine, as I put my clarinet together after not playing for four years, it wouldn’t play correctly. I had neglected it and the pads needed to be replaced. Devastated, I used my mouthpiece and one of the school’s plastic clarinets. It was my fault for not taking care of this delicate instrument. I started to wonder where the potential Mr. Nicolosi had told my father about had gone.

Building a Future

I recently attended a free concert at a nearby church in Philadelphia. I watched the Philadelphia Flute Quartet play their hearts out, despite some of the runs getting lost in the high ceilings of the building. I enjoyed the songs, but mostly, I loved how happy they looked.

I’ve decided to finally get my clarinet fixed. It has now become a justifiable cost. I realized that I cannot become my best self without playing music. I miss it like my closest friend, something I could practice with no judgment, something I was “good” at when everything else threatened to fall apart.

And as with any on-again-off-again relationship, I can’t wait to start over again by picking up where I left off.