Stepping onto the stage, feeling the collective gaze of the audience while moving into the bright spotlight of the room. In my hands, a piece of lukewarm metal that has become an extension of the soul. I take a deep breath and look up into the audience, reminding myself that this performance is a demonstration of everything I have worked up to, where countless hours have been spent practicing and working hard to achieve just one step closer to success. Then, glancing down to the music that had been engraved into my eyes, moving the instrument into ready position such that the lips touched the colder part of the brass. I begin to play.
One summer day during my fourth grade year, the summer sun shone bright through the clear glass doors, lighting up and intensifying the contrast between the green on the living room tree and the wood borders around the door’s glass. Kicking around the slightly deflated soccer ball that my sister left out as per usual, I was asked which instrument I wanted to play. It came quite suddenly, but not really. After the short hiatus from piano, my parents wanted my to get back into some instrument for 'my future success' or something. She gave me two options: continue playing piano, or begin to play a new instrument. At the time, I didn’t know what instrument I wanted to play, though I knew for sure that I wasn't going back into piano. There was no way I was going back to that humid room with that grumpy teacher that didn't even want to teach.
But my mom kept pestering, as I had already spent half a year not off the piano. Nervous and unsure of what to say, I looked down at the table’s metallic legs, which ended up flashing my eyes and bringing up the generic jazz combo performance with the silvery trumpet I had seen on the television a couple of times before. I then nonchalantly replied, "I think I'll try the trumpet." I think my mother’s reaction was a mix of curiosity, confusion, and understanding, all at the same time.
The following week, I was brought to the same place where I had played piano a while back. This time instead of going down the hall on the right to the claustrophobic room, my mother instead consulted the deskman about trumpet playing. Somehow, this place felt colder than usual. Maybe it was just the fact that we weren’t in the normal temperature-regulated room. After what felt like an hour, a big, half-bald Russian man came towering over me. He began to introduce himself and ask the generic introductory questions.
Nice to meet you. What’s your name? Have you ever had any previous music experience?
He then took me to his room, the same looking room, slightly bigger than usual. He gave me a mouthpiece—a curved bowl-like part attached to a short straw—and told me to hold it with two fingers and a thumb and put it up to my lips like this. With what could only be explained by magic at that time, he began to produce a buzzing sound, like the kind you hear when a fly flies right next to your ear, but he wasn’t next to—more like five feet away from—my ear.
To buzz, you have to make a tah sound while closing your mouth, leaving a small gap open in the middle. Try saying tah—tah, tah, tah.
I tried to follow his instructions: tah, tah, tah.
Now put your mouthpiece back on your lips and try to buzz. Like this: bzzzz
fuuu fuu BZZZZ.
I had finally made my first sound with the mouthpiece. Granted, it wasn’t a good sound, but it did it.
From then on, every Sunday was driving to the deep velvet-colored studio in downtown Palo Alto, playing the exercise in the Arban book that I had been somewhat forced to practice for the whole week, and hoping that it was enough to satisfy him and move onto the next exercise. And after two years of playing, the fifth grade of elementary school arrived and the fifth-graders were tasked with choosing a new instrument. Of course, after the effort spent on trumpet for two years, there was no way I would choose another instrument besides the trumpet. So, I walked into the classroom, second to the end of the building, and sat down on one of those short dark-blue chairs that filled the elementary school rooms. All of my classmates looked at me with anticipation, as if I were in the Olympics. A pseudo-drop of sweat slid down my arms as I tried to wipe it with my clothes. Only one exercise left to complete the book, I lifted my cornet with my short hands, put it up to my lips. I began to play.