My parents bought me my first violin when I was 5 years old. I had begged them for months after I went to a Dixie Chicks concert with my dad. We drove to the local music store a few miles from our house in Mobile, Alabama, where I picked out an American-made, wooden violin and a bow to accompany it. My dad paid the $68 bill, and I started lessons the following week.
My teacher’s name was Enen Yu. I remember my intimidation as my mother led me by the hand through her front door while my violin case slammed against the sides of its frame. Mrs. Yu was a young Chinese woman who greeted me with a slight bow. Her circular face was covered in little dark spots and she had slick, black hair that caressed the small of her back.
For the next 13 years, every Sunday, my lessons took place in a narrow sunroom, just left of the front door. The room consisted of only nine items: a clock, two pictures of a very large cat, a stool, a large mirror, a music stand, a light blue rug, Mrs. Yu, and myself. I stood on the rug with my music spread out in front of me, while Mrs. Yu watched over my right shoulder as she balanced on the edge of the stool.
I was not a natural violinist. I squeaked my way through every lesson for years, before finally playing a sound that somewhat resembled a note. Mrs. Yu, more often than not, had her long, delicate fingers rubbing her temples as she simply stated, “Again.”
When I did master a particular piece, Mrs. Yu’s made the blisters and the soreness worth it. Before reaching for her own violin and playing the piece with me, she would give me an encouraging pat on my back. Mrs. Yu had the ability to make me feel like I had done something truly remarkable for myself. In those moments, I could never dream of quitting.
By eleventh grade, the only time I unzipped my case was on that black bench. Practicing was always a nuisance, and I claimed to never have time for it. So, quitting seemed easy at the time.
Therefore, after 13 long years, I quit. It was the hardest choice I ever made, and every now and then I regret it. However, I am beyond thankful for every one of those lessons because playing taught me how to be patient, diligence, and a deep respect for classical music.
If I could give any advice to a 5-year-old, it would be to pick up an instrument. Whether it be the violin, a flute, the guitar, or, hey maybe even some bongos, playing an instrument is one of the most rewarding experiences I believe a person can have, despite its frustrations.
So, who knows? Maybe I’ll pick up my violin again some day. As for now, I am completely content with where I am and my musical past.
