What triggers these moments? Maybe it’s a former professor bragging about how great you are at speaking a foreign language that makes you cringe, knowing you haven’t practiced like you meant to. Or, maybe, the thought of others going around telling others that you’re a great writer. I get it. It used to make me anxious or uncomfortable, at best.
When I was in middle school, I loved orchestra. This was the class where I could just kick back, relax, and laugh obnoxiously with my friends from the very last seats of the 2nd violin section. Middle school was a hoot. So much gossip, too much drama in the halls. This was where I could get the scoop, all while earning top grades, because Mr. N wasn’t heartless. Much to his chagrin, we paid him back with distracted behavior. Even in the furthest seats from the front, our chatter reached the first of the class, disturbing 10 of the 30 kids who were actually there to learn. And, that’s being generous.
However, something began to change throughout the months. More than classical pieces from centuries past, Mr. N began to introduce some of his own compositions with fun titles and soundtrack pieces from Pirates of the Caribbean. By the end of 7th grade, I started finding myself in the front of the 2nd violin section. I was up in front of the class. I would turn around to hear my friends carrying on with their fun conversations, but I was far too close to the teacher to participate.
There was nowhere to hide, so if my bow was going the wrong way or played the wrong note, Mr. N was right there to see it. Now, I want to pause for a moment. I know what you’re thinking. It is completely unrealistic to expect one man in a classroom full of 30 individual, instrument-wielding students to be focused enough on one to catch such a minor mistake… Absolutely! That is absolutely the case. But 12 year old Tamia braved on, tripping up often and kicking herself in the foot for it. Thankfully, during performances, my seat was blocked by the stands and conductor so my mistakes were only visible (and sometimes, audible) to the orchestra members themselves.
Fortunately, I could finally relax when the orchestra teacher put me in the first violin section. There were a ton of students loads better than I was at violin, so I could definitely let my guard down and have fun. I did miss my friends back in the second violin section, but it was an hour. I could deal.
Then, 8th grade came and I was in the private practice room, playing an excerpt of our audition piece to decide the seating arrangement for this upcoming season.
There was my name: Tamia Harvey, 1st chair, 1st violin.
My heart started racing. I was terrified. How did this happen? I just tried my best. How bad did the other kids screw up to put me in this position? I mean… I can’t even sight read for heaven’s sake. I had to learn by ear because I certainly couldn’t do it by eye. (And, if I was being honest, I didn’t even practice at home.)
I stumbled through the notes of each new piece we sight read with about 20% accuracy. I couldn’t keep up. I wasn’t supposed to be here. I wasn’t 1st chair material. Yet, I was.
I had to perform.
I will never forget the moment Mr. D saw me standing up there during our Christmas performance at the mall. I remember feeling great about this performance. I hadn’t seen him yet. This was one of the first times I could play without worrying about who was watching out in the audience.
Mr. D saw I made 1st chair 1st violin and walked up to me after our performance. My teacher from 3rd to 5th grade tearfully said something along the lines of “Tamia? I can’t believe it! Look at you. I remember when you were just first learning and now you’re first chair?!” Mr. D was the man who taught me how to play the violin. From cello to viola to violin, he was the man who taught all of us 3rd grade students. Super awesome with a super awesome beard and a shiny bald head. We all loved him.
At the time, I thought that, now, I had somehow managed to fool Mr. D, too. Despite being so touched that he remembered me, I felt like I was lying and that he would be able to call me out on my bluff, sooner or later.
But, you know what? That pressure of living up to that seat assignment made me a better player than I ever could have been in the back of the second violin section. Thank you, Mr. D. Thank you, Mr. N.
Next time you are in a creative space, don’t hide behind insecurities of not earning the label you desire. Give yourself the seat assignment of 1st chair of Your Orchestra.
