The Audition

I was raised in a totalitarian regime.  My father was fond of declaring “if I want your opinion I’ll give it to you.”  There was no improvising from the prepared script.  Even the most civil form of disobedience was not tolerated.  One of my father’s proudest tricks was to play “I know what you did.”  This was a way to get a terrified child to admit to all sorts of crimes and misdemeanors that may not have made it to his radar.  In the end, my good grades and accolades were his validation that these methods worked.

My father was fond of saying that proof of his good parenting was that each of his three kids believed that he loved one of the others more.  I always thought it should be the other way around; that is why I continually try to convince each of my children that I love them the most.

My teenage years were the beginning of my private rebellion.   My father liked to assert that my accomplishments were his doing; I devised a strategy to take command of my own life.  I looked at academic achievement, coupled with my musicianship, as my ticket to liberation.  Many rebellious teens drop out or become slackers; I did the opposite.  I signed up for the most rigorous courses, trying to get as much exposure to literature, history, and the arts as humanly possible.  I sought to be a Renaissance woman; it was a devious plan.  As the only girl in the family, no one paid too much attention to what I was doing in school.  I was not the one being touted as having intellectual prowess.  My parents had written me off years earlier as being destined to become the neighborhood piano teacher.  There had been no planning for my education, no talk of my future.    That suited me just fine.

Senior year came.  I wrote away for college applications and worked diligently to complete each one, writing out each essay by hand.  My parents did not comment on where I was applying, never asked what I was writing about, nor did they offer any help.   In the end I applied to a total of six colleges, getting wait-listed at Yale but admitted to all the others.  The large envelope from Harvard was the one that shook up the family.  Nothing would be the same.

Once the shock abated, and my father, who was traveling for business that week, had the chance to claim credit—sending me the message “Tell her it’s because she listened to me”—Harvard took on a strange dissonance in the family vibe.  Everything I did began to be interpreted through a different lens.  If I dressed a certain way, or cut my chicken off the bone instead of picking it up in my hands, I was called out for being a “Harvard snob.”  Eventually, whether or not I would be permitted to attend Harvard became a persistent threat held over my head.  More precisely, it was used as the ultimate enforcer:  I would have to earn "the privilege" from my father; it was his decision alone to make.

Among the schools on the table was my "safety school," the University of Miami.  There I was, in the tradition used by Ivy League schools, a “legacy”.  My parents met going to school there, my uncles were also graduates, and my one-year-older brother was currently a student there.  Although attending Harvard would be expensive, the University of Miami is a private institution and was comparably priced.  Furthermore, Harvard had granted me a fabulous scholarship package, covering half of the cost of tuition.  Still, my father continually decried Harvard and its costs, maintaining that I would attend the University of Miami, where I would live in the Honors building with my brother so that he could report daily to my parents on everything I was doing.

Late in the Spring I was invited to the University of Miami to audition for a music scholarship.  I practiced long and hard to prepare a set of pieces representing several musical styles.  The faculty was very familiar with who I was from years of local performances and from competing against their own students.  They were anxious to have me join their program.   My mother dropped me off for the closed door audition and arranged to pick me up in an hour.  At the appointed time, I was invited into a room where the entire piano faculty was waiting.  We exchanged pleasantries, and then they asked me what I was prepared to play.  I sat at the piano for a moment, and then I turned to the jury.  “I have been admitted to Harvard,” I heard myself say.  “I really want to go there, but if you give me a scholarship I will be forced to come here.  This is a wonderful program, but my heart is set on going there.  Please give the scholarship money to someone who really needs it.”

I spent the hour walking around the music building, listening to students in practice rooms and reading posters on the bulletin boards.  My mother returned on schedule to pick me up.  Two weeks later, I received a lovely letter from the University of Miami Music School regretting that they could not offer me a scholarship—the only school on my list not to sweeten the pot.

After that letter arrived, my parents never again discussed any school other than Harvard. 

In retrospect, I was a pretty obedient child by any standard.  I did not skip school, swear, do drugs, or hang out with the wrong kind of people.    I do not know where I got the gumption to do what I did that day.  It was as if an angel touched me on the shoulder and said, “It is time to determine your own destiny.”

It has been thirty-six years since that fateful day.   My family never suspected the role I played in engineering those events.   Since then, when I have doubted whether I possess the strength to overcome a challenge, I have summoned the memories of that day and the feeling of empowerment I gained from taking charge of my life.  It is a reminder that opportunities are taken not given.  It is evidence that power derives from the will to succeed.  And it is fair warning to those who would take me down that I have a tight grip on the reigns.

Tomorrow's blog:  Feathering the Empty Nest