I felt accomplished as we pulled up to the hilltop winery in Northern Virginia. It was at this very winery that I had celebrated my 21^st birthday just a year before – and now I returned one year older and plus one degree. It was the day of my graduation. A rainy day – grey, but celebratory nonetheless. I ran inside to get a feel for how long my family would have to wait for seating. The less than 10-second dash to the door left me soaked.

There was nothing. Not a single seat in the house – let alone enough seating for the party of 16 that was accompanying me. The high ceilings channeled the sound upward making it sound more like a sports bar than a well-established winery. The smell of pine and oak filled the air with hints of brick oven pizza and newly pierced cork. We finally found an opening, after about 30 minutes of standing around. A group of six or so had obviously had its fill of slightly over-priced Virginian wines. They were now making their exit – leaving behind a middle-aged couple. The table surely didn’t have enough seating to accommodate the number of bodies we brought to its smoothly sanded, wooden edges. Understanding the drought of chairs, my family decided to get friendly with the couple and share our newly claimed territory. In my head I thought, “Maybe we’ll be so unbearable that they’ll just leaving.” I was wrong.

The woman of the couple eyed our party intently. She leaned and nodded as we places dish after dish on the table – erasing any trace of her friends previously there. Clearly addressing my grandmother the woman whispered,

“What’s the occasion?”

In reply my grandmother says,

“It’s his graduation.” never revealing her relation to me – although it may have been clear to the stranger.

“Oh, wonderful!” clearly addressing me this time.

“What was your area of study?”

With a hint of proud apprehension I announced, “Vocal performance…with a classical focus.”

More words began bubbling from my mouth as if I had left something incomplete.

“I sing opera!” I exclaimed.

This always happened. I wasn’t sure if I had superimposed my insecurities and unease on the new inquisitor or if she had expressed exactly what she was feeling. Either way, there was a subtle but noticeable change in her face – a bit puzzled. She inquired further.

“So, what will you do with that? Will you go on the voice? I love that show!”

It was about this point during our brief exchange that I had noticed her glossy eyes. Her cheeks, ruddy from alcohol, plumped to a grin as my lips took form of my next response. I had gotten used to answering this question.

“No, no. I don’t really like those shows.” That’s what I wanted to say. That’s what I wish I had said…but I didn’t. Instead, I assured her.

“Maybe, I have some friends that have gone on to shows like that! It’s really competitive, ya know?” I couldn’t believe myself – that I had betrayed my own thought process so eagerly.

“I bet you’re one of those people that could sing the phonebook!” She blurted over my last word.

I manufactured a smile – the same smile I had made probably thousands of times after performances. There I was – like a true performer, getting into character. A singer must always grin and smile when offered compliments. That’s exactly what this conversation was – a performance. Sure, in a way every conversation – every interaction is a performance, but this one felt strangely familiar. It was the feeling I get when I give a bad performance or sing something that I know is just bad music. And then you must greet your audience – look them in the face and deceive them with your smile. Lie to them and look thankful for their being there when truth be told, you wish no one was there to witness it.

I smiled in that strange lady’s face as I deceived her. I knew I didn’t want to go on the voice. I hate the idea of me on shows like that. I knew that what I wanted for myself couldn’t be found in the long lines of some spawn of American Idol and it angered me that she hadn’t thought of that possibility. She hadn’t thought of the importance of my degree.

Every time you turn on the radio to hear a well-balanced voice you should think of the countless hours of voice instruction each singer has had or will have. Vocal coaches like CeCe Sammy, Michah Plissner, Cari Cole change the game and offer us better Adele’s, Baby Face’s, Chrisette Michele’s and Jonathan Cain’s. It seemed to me that the people I come face-to-face with haven’t thought of people who teach others how to sing. Every time you go to a birthday party and sing, “Happy Birthday to you! Happy Birthday to you!” stop and wonder who wrote it. If, you can’t figure it out, sisters Patty and Mildred Hill likely composed the tune in the1880’s – both of which were trained musicians. When you go to your place of worship and hear music, think of the hundreds of years of musical studies that have taken place just for the sacred music you enjoy. With every Hindu Raaga, Christian Hymn or Jewish Klezmer comes generation after generation of trained musicians passing on hard earned knowledge and technique. We musicians don’t just sit around and wait to be useful. Without our training your weddings go silent and your funerals more somber. Your cocktail hours grow duller and holiday parties at work even more mundane than imaginable. Without our training your elevator ride gets a little more awkward and ever family reunion a little shorter than before. Every car ride gets more dismal as you listen to the children argue in the back seat, your grandmother nag, or spouse offer the silent treatment for the umpteenth time. Bands would be full of almost-good piano players, drummer and backup singers because they have never seen a lesson in their lives. Movies would have no film scores because most are played by professional orchestras and scored by trained composers.

It more than pains me to hear people croak, “At least my child didn’t study something like music!” At least? It is an honor to be a musician. It’s an honor to be charged with reminding people to feel. We sometimes get lost in our daily tasks – the tasks that we have manufactured to give our lives meaning and a false sense of dominion over others. We hop into our metal boxes on wheels, drive to concrete blocks of a work place, stare at LED monitors and drag carbon pigment and over pulped wood. You talk to others, but only about superficial happenings. You get back in your metal box so you can do it all again, but when you turn on the radio you are reminded. You start singing, albeit a semi-tone flat, or whistle the same note to the rhythm, but it doesn’t matter – this is your song! A wave of joy comes over you as you ride along singing the song that gets you every time. Maybe you’re at a wedding; it’s your wedding. It comes time for the first dance and you cue the DJ. The song means nothing to anyone else – only you and your partner, but that’s the beauty of it all. Somehow, this song has that kind of binding power. The sound of another human being using their body as a living instrument transcends all. The rumbling low notes and soaring high notes tell every story words could never tell and express exactly what you feel for one another. It is in that moment that you and everyone else are reminded of their humanity.

We trained musicians are the stewards of it all. We pass on the tradition, so that there can be an Adele, a Chrisette Michele, a Baby Face or a Jonathan Cain. So that there can be a Duke Ellington, a Nate King Cole, a Bobby McFerrin and a Ysaye Marie Barnwell. We educate the children – teach them piano, the recorder, saxophone; choir. We make the school plays a possibility – the very ones that create lasting memories and warm your hearts. We write the songs that you love to hear, the jingles that get stuck in your head and the songs that make you cry.

It wasn’t what the woman had said. She hadn’t actually offended me. I was upset with the way of thinking that had brought her and so many like her to the point of wondering, “What possible use could we have for a major like that?” and, “What’s your backup plan?” when she uses people like me in her everyday life. I’m not focused on a back up plan because it distracts from the real one, and the fact of the matter is, I’d rather fail many times at pursing my dream than succeed in avoiding it.

“I don’t know! Where’s the phonebook?” I replied with a counterfeit laugh.

She quickly repeated what I had said to her husband as a tipsy giggle fell from her mouth. The couple left shortly after that. It wasn’t until they were gone that I realized I never got her name.