Bass Cleft

Written four years ago.

D major. F minor. G major. There were so many keys when playing the cello, but those were my wheelhouse, the ones I gravitated towards. Was I a good player? I still cannot answer that question, though I have not touched a cello in seven years. Funny, considering it was my life for seven years as well. Soon, it will be a longer time since I touched a cello than when I played.

I am sure I was relieved when I stopped playing, when I graduated and had my whole life ahead of me. Unfortunately, the passing of time has created a hazy fog around the experience, making me miss the feeling of the strings beneath my finger tips and the pressing of the bow. I miss the smell of the rosin and the stickiness it left behind. I missed the funny little smile that always came to my lips when I realized I was playing with tree sap and horse hair, which is what rosin and the bow strings are made of.

Was I a good player? I am not sure. I suppose I was competent. It is hard to decipher between my own insecurities and solid fact. I never made it to the top groups, spent all my time in the bottom, but we received perfect scores at every orchestra competition despite our lackluster motivation. I tried, but I was never naturally as talented as the others, even in the lowest group. Of course, most of them were lazy.

I suppose, the easiest answer is that I was the worst among the best. Had I gone to any other school, maybe I would have felt different. My public school had a surprisingly stellar reputation when it came to orchestra competitions. It was the same thing in middle school and high school. It never changed. Unfortunately, neither did I.

I backed out of a solo competition in middle school, my body shaking at the very prospect of having to play a song by myself. I was nervous, young, and developing that little voice inside my head that told me I was never going to be good enough. Back then, that voice was still a baby and had not beaten me into submission, making me collapse into a fit of tears, unable to catch my breath. I was supposed to play Rondino, but I could not switch strings fast enough. I still remember my stumbling fingers. It was too fast. My conductor watched, eyes cold and stern as I told her I had decided not to go to the competition.

I did not go to another competition until high school. It was my senior year. I had lucked my way into the second highest group. I had not auditioned as I was tired of practicing for rejection every year; the rest of the cello section either. I was still passed because they did not have enough cellos and I was the least troublemaker, if not the most talented. I spent all my time in last chair. That did not change with the shift. I was never going to be good. I was a fraud. I knew this and I still wanted to prove I was worthy.

I went to the competition because I had to. I played Three Easy Pieces. I remember nothing, except for my perfect score. It came as a surprise to me, though to no one else.

Apparently, even the worst among the best is better than the average high school student. Maybe that should have been the moment I knew there was more to me, that I was worthy of a bit of confidence. I deserved to feel worthy.