Endure to that Final Moment (My Personal Narrative Essay So Far)

               
    
This is it.  This is the moment I have been waiting for.  This is the moment my parents have waited to see.  This is the moment I have been working hard for, hours and hours of devotion into this one moment.  How will it go?  Is everyone ready?  Is Ms. Fine ready?  Is the audience ready?  The applause ends, and I take my place at center stage, next to the conductor.  The lights burn away my calm façade, and my hands perspire ever so lightly.  I know all too well that there are cameras pointed at me.  I try to muster a smile.  I think it looks more like a grimace.  I cannot see anyone but those on stage.

            Silence. That is all I hear.  I look back to make sure they are ready.  My friends smile at me, giving me a thumbs up.  They have and always have had confidence in me.  They believe in my skills more than I do myself.  I guess that is normal.

            Breath, just remember to breath.  I think to myself as I wait for everyone on stage to get situated.  Don’t keep your legs straight.  Remember: Relaxed shoulder, loose fingers, and listen.  You have gone through this enough.  You know what you are doing.  Focus.  Don’t think of your parents listening to your last high school performance.  Don’t think of anything but the music, the way it speaks, how it is the perfect piece for this last concert.

            I think back to the hours I spent on this one piece of music.  I think of my teacher that gave me the private lessons and taught me so much.

            “And one-two-three one-two-three, there you go,” Mrs. Wallace sings in my ear as I play the music.  “Do not rush,” she sings with emphasis on each word.  Silently she circles parts of the music as I play through.  I no longer wince with every mark.  It is for my improvement.  I know that.  You don’t play the violin for eight years and not learn how to take criticism.  I know it’s nothing personal.

            “Very good, Lysje,” Mrs. Wallace says as I finish the piece.  “Especially for your first time through—you are a very good sight reader.”  Inwardly I beam.  One of my best skills with music—I always had a knack for reading music quickly and picking up the rhythm better than my classmates.  “Now, let’s start from the beginning, but take it slower and let’s work out these kinks.”

            Remember Lysje, I tell myself, don’t rush the beginning.  I keep reading through the music even though I have most of it memorized by now.  I take note of the little scribble marks that cloud the page.  There are fewer now.  I had to go through and erase some so as not to be confused when I actually performed the piece.  Too many marks can make the eyes dizzy.  What tempo will she try to start the piece at?

            “Remember,” I remember Mrs. Wallace saying, “This needs to be an upbeat song, but don’t make it sound like you’re racing yourself.  Keep it the same tempo and one that you can play it at.” 

            Silently I count the beats in my head, hoping Ms. Fine remembers the tempo.  Slowly, Ms. Fine lifts her arms, which seemed to be weighed down by her enormous, black ball gown she seemed to find necessary to wear to this concert. Glancing my way, she looks at me to confirm the tempo and nods her head to the beat.

            Yes.  I nod back.

            Suddenly, she gives four beats with her baton, breaths in quick right before the orchestra is about to enter, and click.  It all comes together.  The entire orchestra comes together at the correct tempo and right time.  I don’t even try to suppress a grin.  I know how hard they have worked to hit that first note just right.  I love them like they are my family.

            “Remember to look at each other, listen to the other parts,” I remember Ms. Fine would say during the many classes our orchestra had together leading up to this concert. “Make eye contact.  Single out a part and listen to the conversation your instruments are having with each other.”

            I imagine the celli looking across the stage at the violins right now, nodding to each other to keep time and the baton in their field of vision.  The introduction is almost over.  Soon, it will be my turn.  I see the microphone in front of me.  I groan on the inside of how every single wrong note I hit will be amplified by ten.

            Breath, I tell myself again.  Silently I say another prayer for comfort.  My hands that once shook relax.  I close my eyes as I listen to the beautiful conversation taking place between my family-like orchestra.

            “You’ll do great!” I remember my Sri Lankan best friend, Sonali, assured me.  “You made it to State with this piece.  Even if you mess up, no one in that audience will know.”

            I smile at her words, knowing that for the most part they are probably true.  Not very many in that audience full of hundreds of proud parents and friends would notice any mistake I might make unless I showed it on my face.

            Remember, relaxed face.  Smile. This time when I smile, it comes more natural.  Only a few more measures until my turn.  The lights don’t seem so intimidating anymore.  Standing up straight, I gracefully place my instrument on my shoulder.  Next, I raise my bow to the strings, and I’m off. 

            As I play I imagine myself back in the practice room with Mrs. Wallace.  I think of the tempo, I listen to her advice. 

            “Don’t forget the trill here,” I hear Mrs. Wallace’s words echo in my mind as I play through that section of the piece.  Notes swim around me, and I am engulfed in the music.  My body starts to sway and move with the melody.  Some parts require more pressure from my bow arm, some parts require I back off and play at a whisper.  Other parts I don’t play at all, giving a grand pause.  I imagine the audience holding their breath before I come in quietly, gradually.  The orchestra, my family, accompanies me in the background, following my lead.  They are good enough; they would do beautifully without Ms. Fine. 

            The song picks up pace as I approach the end.

            “This spot you’re supposed to play faster,” Mrs. Wallace remarks as I play.  “Push it to the max.  Make the audience’s hearts race in anticipation.”

            And I do just that.  With three final, large bow strokes, the song ends.  My violin echoes throughout the room.  The audience erupts, and I know my parents are the loudest.  I receive a standing ovation.  I bow and give credit to the orchestra and my conductor.  I smile a bright smile, almost positive I’m blinding the audience with my happiness.  I did it.