Familiar Black Chairs by Morgan

Familiar Black Chairs by Morgan - November 2015 Scholarship Essay

The familiar black chair held every ounce of me and my emotions. The room, stuffed with the junior and senior students became sweltering due to the fresh summer sun and humidity. The seniors all swelled with love and nostalgia, as they sat in those familiar black chairs for one last time. As I watched their last and most important forty minutes of high school, unfold right before my eyes; I realized how important each forty minute day in that room truly was to me.
Suddenly, I am no longer a junior band student, but a sophomore again. I look down and see my worn out Converse on my feet and a warm hooded sweatshirt that covers my arms, and over my fingertips. My first instinct is to push a few strands of my thick, dirty blonde hair in front of my eyes. I am pacing the same familiar room breathing heavily. I sink down into my black chair and breath, feeling my hands convulse in a nervous fit of anxiety. My slouched posture and weak limbs are supported by the chair, as I try to warm up my instrument, which I quickly realize my lungs are not capable of. My short and skinny stature is made a mockery of when I hold my beast of an instrument that towers over me. Rustling through my stack of papers, I come across the one I need, reading “Mr. Hansen Playing Test: Duets.” My partner, thankfully, recognizes my inability to function, and snatches the rubric from my hands and inscribes both of our names on the top.
The two of us continue to wait for what seemed like years. I stare out the window and it is like staring at a portrait. The sky is solid gray, like a thick coat of paint and the trees are stubbornly planted into the ground. I feel my anxiety slipping away as I am studying the portrait before me, but I am interrupted by a poke on my shoulder from my partner, who smiles to ease my levels of anxiety that hit me like a bag of bricks. She linked her arm in mine and we enter the empty practice room, and both take a seat in the chairs, with the backs facing the door. I hear our room door open, and close with an unusually sophisticated force. My heart sinks when I hear the clicking of sharp and biting footsteps that resembled high heels, and not Mr. Hansen’s boat shoes. I held my breath, hoping I must have been hearing things when suddenly I am looking up at the most intimidating and sophisticated 5 foot 2 I have ever seen. My heart stops. I am about to be graded by Mrs. Franzke, who’s reputation is for her outrageous musical ability. Her dark eyes are staring right at me as I breathe and play the first note of what feels like my death dirge. I close my eyes and play the entire piece from memory. My playing starts off shaky, but as the piece progresses, so do I. We finally reach the end of our etude, and I open my eyes. The portrait from before is no longer a picture. The trees are swaying blissfully and the gray clouds open and release buckets upon buckets of rain that pours down gracefully.
“What’s your name again?” Startled, I answer, shyly. She pauses. “Well Morgan, I have a few things to say. First, you missed an accidental in measure four.” I immediately hang my head as I try to apologize before she cuts me off, “But secondly, I like you. Your sound is so feminine and graceful; I really enjoyed that. Keep working hard, and try and be a little more confident. Morgan, you can do this.” I sit stuttering to try and come up with an acceptable thank you, but before I can, she smiles, and leaves the room, followed by the warm click of her high heels.
The click of her shoes suddenly is now the second hand on the clock. My eyes opened and I realized that today is the day. June 15th, the last day of junior year, and the appointing of the Drum Major for the coming season in the fall. The seniors all swelled with love and nostalgia, as they sat in those familiar black chairs for one last time, which ended swiftly as a monotone, droning school bell dismissed everyone. People were rushing around frantically, as I saw it appear. The blur of letters slowly became clear, as I saw my name listed under the word drum major. I turn around and make eye contact with Mrs. Franzke, who smiles brightly as my eyes well with tears. I throw myself at her in excitement and stare at her and say, “Thank you, Mrs. Franzke,” and she knew exactly what I meant. The aspect of my education I am most thankful for is the music department. I started off as an insecure and awkward young girl, but over the past four years, not only have I learned a tremendous amount, I have developed a lifelong passion. The teachers and students that I have interacted with have helped me grow and learn. Because of the music education I received, I will leave high school more knowledgeable and as a confident woman as opposed to the awkward child I began as.