My Instrument Is My Own

Things were different when I was a child, even though they're the same.

I could pick up a new instrument and play it within the hour. At first, when I played the guitar, my teacher smiled, clapping her hands together and said, “Oh isn't it wonderful that you'll be just like your parents?” Then, I picked up the violin and she became even more enthused, wondering which string instrument will be for me, saying that I was bound to be a prodigy.

Those kind words went away when she found out I could play the piano and the flute.

A little over ten years later and my nickname was Jack. I tried to shake it, but even after graduating through a couple of schools it kept coming back. “Jack of all trades,” they said, before whispering, “Master of none.”

People always looked at me with different eyes. My parents always with sympathetic eyes, some of the teachers too. Other teachers just put me in the corner during music classes, looking at me as though I should've been sent to a special needs school.

Yet, that was better than what my classmates would do to me. One time, a band asked me to fill in for their lead guitarist, got me all the way on to the stage in front of a crowd, and then left me to do an entire song solo. The crowd looked at me with a mix of pity and glee, and then they cheered when I left the stage after the song, tears in my eyes.

I couldn't play any instrument as well as people who were born to do it. The emotion, the meaning, that special something that only naturals could add, that's what I couldn't do and I couldn't find the instrument that let me.

So that was my life, one where I couldn't express myself.

But not all of it was that bad. Since I did have such a strong grasp of music and a range of instruments I could play, people often had use for me, filling in when someone was sick or helping with their composition or tuning instruments. Even if no one really liked me, even if I never felt like I belonged, at least I felt useful.

Though, I did have one friend. My neighbour, a girl a couple of years younger than me, was the sweetest thing ever. She seemed to hide behind her hair and spoke so softly I always found myself leaning in to catch every word. Everyone thought she'd be a wonderful flautist, or maybe a harpist like her grandmother.

Except she ended up being a drummer. What a shock that was, such a quiet girl playing a wonderful rhythm that sounded more like a piano than a drum. Hearing her play, though, I could hear her voice in every beat.

Ah, how I loved those afternoons where I would listen to her drum. Honestly, though, she would've been better off with a flute considering how much she struggled taking that drum kit of hers around, even when I helped her.

She listened to me, though. That's really why I loved her so much, my little sister. When everyone else would put up with my music, she asked to hear it, and she listened to me play the guitar or the flute or even her own drum kit. When no one else could hear my voice, she would listen and the way she laughed and smiled and frowned at all the right times made me think I could find my instrument one day.

I did, too. While humming along to her music, I opened my mouth, and I found my voice.