Strength

A short glimpse of a young girl's life, and where she is strong.

         “You better hurry and get yourself out at that bus stop! I am not taking your lazy butt to school today Jazzy!” her father yells through her locked door, and staggers away. Jazzy tosses her sheet music into her book bag and opens her door; clouds cigarette smoke and the stench of whiskey dwelling in the hallway. She waits for her father to be seated in the Lazy Boy before proceeding passed; avoiding the undesired scrutiny. As Jazzy turns the knob she yells over her shoulder, “Goodbye dad I love you,” ignoring the usual “get out!” that follows as she shuts the door.

            Jazzy treads slowly toward the bus stop listening to the crisp melody of leaves under her boots; she always found amusing rhythms everywhere she went. Jazzy enjoyed the sound of the hustle and bustle of feet against the pavement; the unique pitches of all shoe types. She even found appreciation in the cool carols of the wind’s whines, whooshes, and whistles; her hair a swirling fireball in its gales. As she sat on the grey bench she excitedly grabs her sheet music from her bag. Gazing at the Italian Aria in her hands she felt like she held her own private world. Each page she turned becoming her perfect escape to slip away from a stained reality. 

            THWACK! Her music papers flew through the air far and wide, and like that she is slapped out of her haven. “What a loser!” the girl who interrupted her laughs. Jazzy scampered to collect all of her pieces mid float, more hurt emotionally than physically. “You suck! That judge is going to eat you alive today! Pathetic!” the girl sneered, her words like a venomous bite. The bus pulls up as Jazzy tried to organize her music score, and attempts to tune out her vicious classmate. The girl shoves Jazzy aside as she struts onto the bus.

              With her music safely in her hands again, she climbs the steps and sits down. “Hey don’t let her get to you. She’s just jealous because you’re a better singer than her,” her friend Angel says. Jazzy just smiles at her friend not wanting to jinx herself by saying anything to Angel’s compliment.

 “My dad thought I had school today. He completely forgot it’s Saturday,” Jazzy said as she stared vacantly out the window.

            Their teacher made his rounds on the bus, checking on each student aboard. He bounces around from seat to seat, creaseless face beaming as if it were Christmas. “Hey girls! All set?”

Jazzy and her friend gave enthusiastic nods, truly excited both about their solos and Mr. Moore. 

“Jazzy you’re going to do great, no worries. You’ve put in a lot of work,” Mr. Moore pat her on the shoulder and moved along.

            PSH! The air breaks yelped as the bus jerked to a stop. They arrived at a much larger school where they would perform. The school had a rather majestic feel with a serious, pale brick façade; giving off intimidating vibes. Jazzy took a deep breath as she stepped off the bus; the chilly air flooding calm through her nose to her whole body. She was finally there to unleash all of her hard work. As she proceeded into the school she saw Mr. Moore on his cell phone, his brow furrowed. When he finished he took Jazzy aside, “Jazzy I have a little bad news. The school accompanist can’t be here today due to a family emergency.” 

“That’s okay Mr. Moore you have the CD don’t you?” Jazzy smiled.

Mr. Moore scrunched his face, “Actually I didn’t on account I figured we had a piano player.”

           Jazzy’s face dropped, no music meant she would have to do it A Cappella; a style she wasn’t familiar with. Mr. Moore put a hand on her shoulder, “Hey, you will do fine. You have put in so much time you know this song backwards and forwards. Just remember how you’re supposed to breathe, concentrate, and you’ll be fine.” Jazzy remained silent and smiled back. When she walked into what served as the lobby, she filled out the necessary paperwork, to find that she would be performing first.

            She walked steadily to the classroom dedicated to the medium-low, Alto voices like her. Jazzy took a deep breath, stared at her music reading the title over and over again; Il Mio Bel Foco. She loved to sing in foreign languages; the words carried an airy elegance with them. The door opened, a white haired stern woman asked her to come in. The judge ran her through the usual batter of questions: where she was from, what she was singing, etc. “So where is your accompanist, or will you be using a CD?” she asked.

“Well, actually, I will be performing A Cappella. My pianist couldn’t make it, and my teacher forgot my CD.”

“That is your responsibility young lady. You should have come well prepared. Begin when ready,” the judge snorted, her irritation shown in her now visible wrinkles. The judge’s eyes were turned sharply on Jazzy. She now faced a new type of scrutiny, except this was something that she could handle, and even looked forward to; her time to face all of the critics and show them who she really was. 

            Jazzy set her music on the stand, felt a surge of adrenaline as she took a deep breath. As her first note sprang from her mouth, her pitch was dead on. Jazzy’s voice becoming a seamless roller-coaster hitting every dynamic. All of her Italian pronunciation and diction carrying goose bump accuracy; not a single diphthong.  Jazzy was lost in the words, the tune, and disjunction of the song; her range spot on. She forgot all about the lack of music; she felt strong, confident, and in control. Never letting her air run out, remembering to breath across her back, her voice staid solid. This moment, was the moment she lived for, the high of performing; a guaranteed score of Outstanding.

           

           

Author's Note

Incase the content of the situation is unclear the setting has to do with a solo performance for N.Y.S.S.M.A. (New York State School Music Association). For N.Y.S.S.M.A. students pick a specific level that they can perform at, practice, travel to a different school, and then sing, or play, their solos in front of a judge receiving a score when the event is over. Students also must do a sight reading part to their performance. This is where the judge picks a random piece, or section, of music and the students must attempt to do it without any previous knowledge of the piece. The different levels of scoring are as follows (lowest to highest): Poor, Fair, Good, Excellent, and Outstanding.