Memories of Music

 

I met my first love when I was nine.
 

It was the 1965 Fender Stratocaster dad kept in the living room. The body was a three-tone sunburst with mint green guard. The nut filed down to lower the action -- a comfortable play for quick turn-around blues. My chin dropped in its presence. The Strat shone like the sword of King Arthur near the sunlit window, my untouchable Excalibur.

 

Girls don't play guitar, dad said. Girls don't throw rocks at boys and girls don't play with Tonka Trucks. (Might as well tell a kid she can't pick her nose.) I couldn't help it, I had to embrace it.  The one day I straightened the tuning keys (oblivious to the impractical screw up – and so it would look nicer for dad) he put it back in the case and slid it under the bed. There it stayed, until the weekends.
 

Then it happened. I was old enough to join elementary band.

Fifth grade band was my reason for breathing. Students and parents gathered in the gym for the display. (If you didn't join, you went to study hall.) I liked the trumpet. It was too beautiful. It was also too much for dad's wallet. Mom gave me the look. I settled for the snare drum.

 

Dad said, "Why bother? She can't even carry the case."

 

Mom filled out the form. "Aye, como chingas Samuel!"

 

Everyday I brought my practice pad home and everyday I was told to shut the hell up.

 

I was pretty good. No, I was damned good. Finding a place where I fit in was a golden miracle. We held two concerts a year from fifth grade through the twelve. (What is that, sixteen total?) My parents went to one. I got better every year, and it didn't stop at drums.

 

Tenth grade offered a guitar class. I borrowed a twenty-dollar special from my cousin, Dana. The action was high, and the strings were old, but my callouses understood my passion. The next year, I picked up some piano after school on my own. It was easy, once I knew where the notes were on the keyboard. Of course, dad found out. After that, Dana had to pick me up after first bell. Girls don't play the drums; they grow up and have babies and clean house. I asked mom for sack lunches, and practiced during lunch.

 

Weekends were torture. I'd look over my language arts book, watching dad polish and restring while his Salem burned in the ashtray. I was jealous of a Fender.

 

It was twelfth grade when All-State tryouts came around. Mr. Valverde was insistent and said I would ace it. I finally gave in, after weeks of worry, wondering how I'd ever get that permission slip signed.

 

Have you ever wanted anything so bad, you lost sleep over it?

 

The sheet music was a scribble of thirty-second notes for xylophone (treble clef and bass) which meant a week of lunch periods transcribing. My heart said, "YES!" but my mind said, "You're dumber than I thought." I practiced anyway.

 

Self-doubt set in. Maybe dad was right. Maybe I was wasting my time. I could never be as good as dad. I could never march with the Pride Band of NMSU. I worried about failing in front of my classmates in Las Cruces. I worried about disapointing Mr. Valverde. I knew dad wouldn't care, but the whispers, they never ceased. Dad was my personal censor gifted in discouragement and doubt. I pictured him dancing around me, blowing ashtray dust in my face, laughing at my silly adolescent need for acceptance. I made the trip anyway.

 

The soundproof room was cold, not because of the air conditioning, but because of the monstrous alien xylophone parked before a row of wrinkled-faced judges. They chewed on their pencils and whispered to each other. I played two measures (that's about 3 seconds) and froze.

 

I think I'm just beginning to understand why.

 

Censorship will haunt your heart's desires, if you let it, but what if it's something you were meant to do? Doesn't everyone have a talent? I love my dad, but I hate what he did. He broke my heart lots of times, but he couldn't break my love for music.  

 

I bought my first Strat in 98.

Author's Note

Everyone has a gift.