Memoirs of a Young Clarinetist

Today, the mother of one of the kids in the youth orchestra shared with me an essay that her daughter wrote for her class. It was about me. It's interesting to see how a kid will alter the actual events in the interest of creative re-telling. I'm not complaining about this... I do it myself. Honestly, I like this kid's sense of narrative. I think she's got a future as a sit-com writer. Anyway, I thought I'd share it with you. You'll see my interjections in green.

Heather Simms (Name changed to protect the guilty)

7 December, 2007 (A date that will live in infamy)

I will never forget my first attempt at being in an orchestra. It was my first non-beginner experience and required a try-out. ("try-out" heh... try-outs are for sports. Auditions are for music groups. She's a cute kid. We'll let it slide.)

I've always played in band where everyone is screaming, goofing off and annoying the director. (and this is different from my school because......) In orchestra it's a whole other ball of wax. Most kids are afraid to blow a note without a signed sheet from the director.

In order to get in, I had to try out. (Aud.... oh bugger it all) I chose The Battle Hymn of the Republic to play and labored over it day and night. On the day of the audition, a tall, plump man with dark thinning hair and a Yoda on his shirt led me into a small eight by five foot room. (Okay, first of all, I don't own a Yoda shirt. Besides, it's highly unlikely I wore a T-Shirt at all on audition day; I'd want to look professional seeing as how the kids dress up when they audition. I think Miss Heather just wants to remember me as she knows me... as the guy who would wear a Yoda shirt, and in that she is correct. The words "plump" and "thinning" are distressing, but not unfair, unfortunately.) As I began to play I could feel the sweat trickling down my forehead and my fingers were shanking. I knew I was making a lot of mistakes but I just kept playing (Good Girl). Next the man gave me a piece of music I had never played and told me to play it,and then asked me to play a C major scale. (I'm a rat-bastard that way)

My mother received a phone call the next day. The orchestra had called to let me know I had made it in. My mom began screaming and jumping around like a mad woman. (Given the creative account of her first impression of me... I'm going to take this one with a grain of salt. It's a good visual image, though) When she finally got a hold of herself we discussed rehearsal and concert dates and times.

Finally the big day arrived. I walked into a room full of musicians older than me. I was the only Caucasian woodwind, the only female clarinetist and did I mention the youngest. I was the minority. (the token gringo baby chick) Everyone was sitting still as if they were statues. I walked over to the music stand with my name on it and took a seat. (I don't know about you, but as I'm trying to imagine this from her perspective, I'm seeing the stand and chair about three times bigger than they really are.) There were five pieces of classical orchestra music on the stand that were all very difficult and had notes that I didn't even know existed (Scientists had only recently discovered them in a tomb in Egypt.)


After sitting scared with no one to talk with or calm down or ease my nerves, in walks the tall plump man with dark thinning hair (phhhht) from my audition. Yikes! HE is the orchestra director. (DUM DUM DUUUUUUUUUUUUM)

"You, blonde in the back row" says the director.

"Me?" I ask sheepishly.

"Well, I can't call you blonde in the back row forever," says the director.

"I'm Heather," I Said

"Let me hear your concert A, OH! And I'm Mr. *MAESTRO*," he responds.

(Okay, I'm pretty sure this exchange didn't happen. Ms. Heather forgets that we put signs with the student's names on the stands facing the podium... which is the only way I'll remember these kids who I see only one day a week. But still, it's a good scene, and I like how I come across like Darth Vader in the beginning.)

By the end of practice my lips were sore, my tongue felt as though it was vibrating and my fingers seemed permanently curved as if holding my clarinet. When we got home, near lunchtime, my little brother and Dad had just started breakfast. (My kind of family) They asked where I had been and I explained every last detail to them.

It ends up I love orchestra practice with Mr *MAESTRO*'s sense of humor. The comical way of using the In-and-Out menu to explain timing and measure counting (...long story...) and he always has a funny nickname for every classic we play. (that's really Robert, the program director, with whom I share conducting responsibilities, but... whatever) Best of all I am no longer afraid to play in front of other people and now am a featured woodwind ind the Wind Ensemble. (Aww.... bring me the Kleen-ex)


Orchestra has helped my confidence in front of others. Oh, and Mr. *MAESTRO* is a great director even with his freakish obsession with Star Wars (I have no idea what she's talking about) and evil llamas . (Okay, she has me there) I have also learned not to judge a man by the Yoda on his shirt.

(I don't care that it isn't true... that is the best closing statement of any essay ever written. Ever!)