There is nothing like standing on stage, violin in hand, bow raised. The adrenaline rush you get right before that first note, which is always the hardest note in the whole piece, makes you want to fly. To break out. To breathe.
I got my first violin when I was in third grade. A rental from a local music shop, quarter-size. My school offered free lessons and had a small orchestra. Nothing fancy. I wasn't one of those Suzuki kids who start playing violin before they can read. I wasn't that taken, at first, with it; I could already read music, as I had taken piano lessons for a few years already.
I only chose it because my older brother did, and I followed whatever he did religiously. He was in sixth grade at the time and very clever for an eleven-year-old. I thought he was a genius and it was no secret that I wanted to be like him. Most younger siblings, I suspect, are guilty of the same worship of their older siblings when they are little. My parents signed me up anyway, so it wasn't as if I had much choice in the matter. You usually don't, as a little kid.
Nevertheless, I began playing because of my brother. But I didn't keep playing because of him. I kept playing for Mrs. Woz.
Mrs. Woz was the orchestra teacher in my elementary school. She had this large, fluffy, dark hair that poofed outwards. She wore red glasses that matched her lips. Her voice was resonant and lovely. I believe she was originally a singer as well as a violinist. She probably wasn't a very tall woman, but since I can only remember her from my days as an elementary school student, she seemed impossibly big. It is difficult for me to explain her personality; she was exultant in the music and was endlessly patient; she was passionate and vibrant; she loved every single one of her students fiercely. I think we knew that, even as little kids.
Every Friday morning we would have orchestra rehearsal, as well as small group lessons every Wednesday. It was easy for me, and Mrs. Woz was a good teacher, so I learned fast. We started on the basic stuff, first, reading music and learning how to hold the instrument. I remember her teaching us to rosin the bow, clear as if she'd taught me yesterday. "Ten times up and down the bow, every time you take it out of the case," she'd told us, demonstrating with her own wood block. I didn't know for a while exactly why we had to rosin the bow, only that we had to because Mrs. Woz said so. I learned how to tighten and loosen the bow, how to put it in its case, how to hold it. Holding a violin bow is a strange unnatural shape for the hand at first, and especially difficult in small hands. It is something that even professionals have to practice.
We learned how to play the open strings, G, D, A, and E. I'm sure the tone was awful but Mrs. Woz made us all feel like pros, the praise she gave. The most basic violin scale, the D major scale, came next. Arpeggios and other exercises followed. Slowly we worked our way up to harder scales. The instrument I had was a cheap rental, with stickers for tapes beneath the strings. The stickers were penguins and stars. Tapes make sure you know where you place your fingers, sort of like the frets on a guitar, only your finger lands straight on the mark and not in between. On violins, a centimeter is a huge difference.
I did not fall in love with the violin that school year. Our romance would be slow and sly. But I certainly learned to like it, because I liked my teacher and because I liked being complimented. I remember much of that year in bits and pieces, but I remember this much; that year ended up being most important for teaching me music. Without it, I certainly would have fallen back on piano, which I hated. Without it, I would have left music behind, and become a person deaf to the world around me.
