put his head out of the window and laugh at me, the skinny little kid on the corner. “You’re too young. Go home!”
He’d try to shoo me away repeatedly, but I couldn’t be deterred. The same way my father used to sit outside nightclubs asa child, I’d sit on the curb and listen to the band playing whatever covers they were working on at the time. There was something about their drumbeat that really got to me.
Sometimes I sat there for hours, absorbing their incredible sound and tapping away in time on my legs. Listening to them made me so happy for a whole year, until they unexpectedly moved away. I never even saw the whole band. I only ever saw that one guy’s head out the window. They were so good, but to this day I have no idea who they were.
While we found all kinds of ways to enjoy ourselves, music was always at the heart of it. I learned to play a little guitar, but only James Brown barre chords. I could also play a bit of bass and some keyboard, too, and I did both later on. It was percussion that attracted me most, since that’s what surrounded me, but Pops saw my interest and became concerned that my focus would be too narrow.
“If you’re really serious about music, Sheila, then you must learn to play a classical instrument,” he told me. And so, in third grade, my violin lessons began. To my father’s mind, the violin was a more sophisticated instrument that would offer me greater opportunities, like playing in orchestras and symphonies or maybe scoring music for film.
I enjoyed the violin, but it never connected with me in the same way as playing the congas. Nor was it exactly cool, and I’d get teased for it at school or on the street, where bullies were beginning to dominate my life. The mean kids already had me singled out for the color of my skin or the state of my clothes. I wore my white shoes until I couldn’t wear them anymore. I used to polish them every night to try to get them whiter, but they were so worn and cracked that the polish wouldn’t take. I hated wearing those shoes and I was also embarrassed by my old dresses. Having a violin case was just another reason to be singled out.
The bullies would push me around and ask, “Why are you carrying that stupid case around all the time?” Or they’d try to grab it from me and say, “You think you’re special because you play some fancy violin?”
I tried to ignore them, but their words hurt, and I began to lose my enthusiasm for the instrument. Because I had a good ear and could easily mimic what I heard, I stopped learning how to read sheet music and got away with faking reading. I only needed to hear a piece one time and I had it—a trick I’d learned from copying my father.
I played pretty well in spite of that. Within a short space of time, I made it to the top of my class and became first violin in the school orchestra. I even received a scholarship offer from an elite summer music program.
Then one day my teacher asked me to start at bar eighty-three and play a certain line. Instead, I just started playing where I felt like. “No,” she said firmly. “I want you to read the music and play it as it is written.”
I hesitated. “Can you hum it for me?”
“No, Sheila. I want you to read the music and play it as it is written.”
I shook my head, and her mouth dropped open as she called me to the front of the class.
“Don’t you know how to read music, Sheila?”
“No, but my mom does.”
“That’s impossible! You’re my best student. How can you have got this far without reading music?”
“I do what I’ve always done. I listen to it and then I hear it playing back in my head.”
Learning to read music had always felt like a waste of time, but I knew I could never survive in a scholarship program without that skill, so I quit. My parents were very disappointed, but I told themI was giving it up because it was too “square.” They tried to persuade me to stick with it, but by then they had to pick
He’d try to shoo me away repeatedly, but I couldn’t be deterred. The same way my father used to sit outside nightclubs asa child, I’d sit on the curb and listen to the band playing whatever covers they were working on at the time. There was something about their drumbeat that really got to me.
Sometimes I sat there for hours, absorbing their incredible sound and tapping away in time on my legs. Listening to them made me so happy for a whole year, until they unexpectedly moved away. I never even saw the whole band. I only ever saw that one guy’s head out the window. They were so good, but to this day I have no idea who they were.
While we found all kinds of ways to enjoy ourselves, music was always at the heart of it. I learned to play a little guitar, but only James Brown barre chords. I could also play a bit of bass and some keyboard, too, and I did both later on. It was percussion that attracted me most, since that’s what surrounded me, but Pops saw my interest and became concerned that my focus would be too narrow.
“If you’re really serious about music, Sheila, then you must learn to play a classical instrument,” he told me. And so, in third grade, my violin lessons began. To my father’s mind, the violin was a more sophisticated instrument that would offer me greater opportunities, like playing in orchestras and symphonies or maybe scoring music for film.
I enjoyed the violin, but it never connected with me in the same way as playing the congas. Nor was it exactly cool, and I’d get teased for it at school or on the street, where bullies were beginning to dominate my life. The mean kids already had me singled out for the color of my skin or the state of my clothes. I wore my white shoes until I couldn’t wear them anymore. I used to polish them every night to try to get them whiter, but they were so worn and cracked that the polish wouldn’t take. I hated wearing those shoes and I was also embarrassed by my old dresses. Having a violin case was just another reason to be singled out.
The bullies would push me around and ask, “Why are you carrying that stupid case around all the time?” Or they’d try to grab it from me and say, “You think you’re special because you play some fancy violin?”
I tried to ignore them, but their words hurt, and I began to lose my enthusiasm for the instrument. Because I had a good ear and could easily mimic what I heard, I stopped learning how to read sheet music and got away with faking reading. I only needed to hear a piece one time and I had it—a trick I’d learned from copying my father.
I played pretty well in spite of that. Within a short space of time, I made it to the top of my class and became first violin in the school orchestra. I even received a scholarship offer from an elite summer music program.
Then one day my teacher asked me to start at bar eighty-three and play a certain line. Instead, I just started playing where I felt like. “No,” she said firmly. “I want you to read the music and play it as it is written.”
I hesitated. “Can you hum it for me?”
“No, Sheila. I want you to read the music and play it as it is written.”
I shook my head, and her mouth dropped open as she called me to the front of the class.
“Don’t you know how to read music, Sheila?”
“No, but my mom does.”
“That’s impossible! You’re my best student. How can you have got this far without reading music?”
“I do what I’ve always done. I listen to it and then I hear it playing back in my head.”
Learning to read music had always felt like a waste of time, but I knew I could never survive in a scholarship program without that skill, so I quit. My parents were very disappointed, but I told themI was giving it up because it was too “square.” They tried to persuade me to stick with it, but by then they had to pick
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