This I believe: music is the universal language.
The sun beat down on the concrete and glass of the city. As we surpassed each block, we caught a glance of the yellow bridges and the sparkle of the two rivers. Ahead, the fountain at the point danced in the heat. Today, the summer music workshop was taking a small field trip to the meeting of the three rivers.
The conversation in the small group was consistent: the importance of music, our favorite songs, our universal common ground. We moved as a unit, all of the same mind, all sharing the same passion; me, Michael, Levi, Alyssa, Melanie, and everyone else, all walking as side-by-side as we could manage, except for Adam. A passerby wouldn't have thought he was with us; he followed paces behind, eyes tucked under a baseball cap.
He had been the final arrival at the workshop after a storm in Hong Kong had delayed his flight. We were finishing up introductions as he walked in; he stepped through the doorway intent on being invisible, sliding in front of the beige cinder block wall beside the door swiftly, thinking it might camouflage him.
"Oh, welcome," said the head counselor as he checked his attendance sheet. "Adam Wu?"
Adam nodded his head and timidly approached the final empty seat in the circle of chairs. The fluorescent lights glinted off of his glasses, temporarily disguising his careful scan of the seated circle of young musicians.
"Why don't you tell us a little bit about yourself?"
He swallowed and said, quietly, in a heavy accent, "My name is Adam Wu; I am from China; I play the cello and I do not know much English."
That night at dinner we talked about our bands back home, our experiences with playing our instruments, and our directors. Adam sat centrally at the table, doing his best to understand the conversation. We didn't hear much from him, but he kept up, nodding when he agreed and making the occasional, brief comment. Despite his best efforts, the language and cultural barrier was tangible and oppressive.
By the next morning, the morning of the trip to the point, we all knew each other well, with the exception of Adam, who was literally and figuratively a few paces behind. As we returned to the rehearsal space a wave of anticipation carried us into the room, where the circle of chairs had broken open into a crescent facing a single chair and music stand.
Our first exercise was to play alone, in alphabetical order, in front of the group to extinguish our nerves. Christie Anderson's fingers shook as she ran a scale and nervously pushed a shock of blond hair out of her eyes before playing her excerpt; we knew she had some serious stage fright and we applauded her enthusiastically after her performance.
As everyone played, we saw who they were, what we had heard about them through words translated through their fingers, ringing through the notes escaping the bells and bodies of their instruments. Finally, it was Adam's turn. Last night, under the reddish restaurant light, we had asked him how he felt about music; his reply was a taciturn "I like it very much."
As he sat in the chair, placing no music on the stand, running his hand over the fingerboard of his cello, the air in the room was still, the anticipation tangible. As he raised the bow above the strings, we all breathed in with him.
In the next instant, the rich sound of his cello filled the room, the lilting arpeggios of Bach's first cello suite ebbing and flowing like breath, like the river outside. It was profound; each note was not played, but carved out, a piece of him, of his soul, drifting into the air and into our ears. His bow called notes into being, giving them life, spectacular life, short lived but astoundingly fervent.
In those moments, surrounded by his music, we understood the full depth of Adam's statement on his like for music. This couldn't be put into words, in English, in Mandarin, or in any language. This was a feeling only understood when played.
I never did find out why Adam decided to come to a music workshop in Pittsburgh, but I will be forever grateful that he was there. His transcendent passion is the reason why I believe instrumental music is the universal language; it is the language of emotion, of the soul, of who we truly are, transcending the muddle of language. Where Adam could not speak to us in English, he could speak to us through his cello, telling us exactly who he was without words.
The conversation in the small group was consistent: the importance of music, our favorite songs, our universal common ground. We moved as a unit, all of the same mind, all sharing the same passion; me, Michael, Levi, Alyssa, Melanie, and everyone else, all walking as side-by-side as we could manage, except for Adam. A passerby wouldn't have thought he was with us; he followed paces behind, eyes tucked under a baseball cap.
He had been the final arrival at the workshop after a storm in Hong Kong had delayed his flight. We were finishing up introductions as he walked in; he stepped through the doorway intent on being invisible, sliding in front of the beige cinder block wall beside the door swiftly, thinking it might camouflage him.
"Oh, welcome," said the head counselor as he checked his attendance sheet. "Adam Wu?"
Adam nodded his head and timidly approached the final empty seat in the circle of chairs. The fluorescent lights glinted off of his glasses, temporarily disguising his careful scan of the seated circle of young musicians.
"Why don't you tell us a little bit about yourself?"
He swallowed and said, quietly, in a heavy accent, "My name is Adam Wu; I am from China; I play the cello and I do not know much English."
That night at dinner we talked about our bands back home, our experiences with playing our instruments, and our directors. Adam sat centrally at the table, doing his best to understand the conversation. We didn't hear much from him, but he kept up, nodding when he agreed and making the occasional, brief comment. Despite his best efforts, the language and cultural barrier was tangible and oppressive.
By the next morning, the morning of the trip to the point, we all knew each other well, with the exception of Adam, who was literally and figuratively a few paces behind. As we returned to the rehearsal space a wave of anticipation carried us into the room, where the circle of chairs had broken open into a crescent facing a single chair and music stand.
Our first exercise was to play alone, in alphabetical order, in front of the group to extinguish our nerves. Christie Anderson's fingers shook as she ran a scale and nervously pushed a shock of blond hair out of her eyes before playing her excerpt; we knew she had some serious stage fright and we applauded her enthusiastically after her performance.
As everyone played, we saw who they were, what we had heard about them through words translated through their fingers, ringing through the notes escaping the bells and bodies of their instruments. Finally, it was Adam's turn. Last night, under the reddish restaurant light, we had asked him how he felt about music; his reply was a taciturn "I like it very much."
As he sat in the chair, placing no music on the stand, running his hand over the fingerboard of his cello, the air in the room was still, the anticipation tangible. As he raised the bow above the strings, we all breathed in with him.
In the next instant, the rich sound of his cello filled the room, the lilting arpeggios of Bach's first cello suite ebbing and flowing like breath, like the river outside. It was profound; each note was not played, but carved out, a piece of him, of his soul, drifting into the air and into our ears. His bow called notes into being, giving them life, spectacular life, short lived but astoundingly fervent.
In those moments, surrounded by his music, we understood the full depth of Adam's statement on his like for music. This couldn't be put into words, in English, in Mandarin, or in any language. This was a feeling only understood when played.
I never did find out why Adam decided to come to a music workshop in Pittsburgh, but I will be forever grateful that he was there. His transcendent passion is the reason why I believe instrumental music is the universal language; it is the language of emotion, of the soul, of who we truly are, transcending the muddle of language. Where Adam could not speak to us in English, he could speak to us through his cello, telling us exactly who he was without words.
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