Finding My Voice

 Each year, the State Reading Council hosts a writing competition for students and staff. The theme changes from year to year, but the format stays the same: Write fiction, non-fiction, poetry, or prose and keep the writing under a certain word limit.  Winners receive a certificate, a medal, and a page in a published book of all writers’ works.

 

In years past, I’ve written for the competition as if I were writing a note for adults. It never occurred to me that students might actually read my writing. So this year I changed my style. I first wrote for adults; then, after reading my writing to a few classes, I edited it so that students could more easily understand. This year’s theme is “Your Voice Matters: Celebrating Every Reader’s Story.” Here is my story:

 

I was in middle school when I found my voice.

I was supposed to play a piece by Debussy at the piano recital at my church.

I had practiced the piece for months and performed it in competition.

I knew the drill: work hard, memorize a piece, get scared out of my mind to play in front of a room full of people, rely on muscle memory to get me through, then relax and celebrate that it was all over.

 

This night was different, though.

I didn’t want to perform the Debussy piece that my piano teacher had selected for me.

I wanted to play a piece that I had written--

No words--

Just a dramatic, upbeat piano solo with a driving bass and staccato treble line.

 

I don’t know if I jinxed myself with a middle-school bad attitude or what.

I just know that when I sat down to play that night,

My mind went completely blank.

My muscle memory failed me.

I could NOT remember how to play the Debussy!

 

After a few tries, I finally looked at the audience and said,

“Ya’ll. I forgot my piece. I’m going to play another one.”

And so I did.

I played the piece that I had written.

 

For a long time after that night,

I felt like a failure.

I felt as if I had disappointed my piano teacher and my parents,

And I carried that disappointment with me in the form of deep sadness.

 

But after many years and many hours replaying that night,

I finally realized something:

 

That moment wasn’t a moment of weakness to be ashamed of.

Rather, that moment was a moment of great courage to be celebrated.

 

In a moment when I could have shut down and walked off stage completely,

I mustered my strength, came up with a solution, and used my voice to declare:

I may have forgotten my piece, but I’m going to play another one,

One that I wrote,

One that is authentically me,

One that I may forget in the years to come,

But one that will forever be a turning point in my life.

 

I found my voice at my piano recital that night.

 

And for that, I will always be grateful.