By Anjali Nayak
As the youngest child of 6, I learned to love apostrophes.
My life has been full of hand me downs and secondhand, earnestly I look for ways to make something my own. To have something be all mine.
Each and every Saturday for the past twelve years, we pile into our mom’s van to begin our road trip through Texas. We make exactly 5 stops—1 for each of my siblings to be dropped off at their specified extracurricular, their “thing.” The passion that differentiates them from the sea of like minded, copy and paste children. At 9 A.M, I watch my brother Brody walk towards the baseball diamond, bat and catching gear slung over his back. 10 A.M is when we approach the south’s best art school and Jane—arguably the south’s best painter—kisses Mom goodbye for the day. Sam reaches Taekwondo forty five minutes later, ready to immerse himself in the wonders of indomitable spirit. One by one, each seat in the van is left empty.
Until there were 2.
It’s just Mom and I in the van on a Saturday, meaning that the time is 12:30. Once we get home, she will take a thirty five minute nap, resting before we set out to pick Harry up from swim. I spend the time doing nothing. I help Brody put away his dirty clothes, then spend a few minutes surfing through channels, looking for something to watch. Like always, I fail to choose, then wake Mom up to start the afternoon’s adventure.
One by one, I watch my siblings take their seats, gleaming from an entire day of curiosity and wonder. I wish I liked sitting shotgun, because then I could appear the same.
But on the third Saturday of January, my life changed.
It was 11:15, and on any other Saturday morning, we would be on the way to Annie’s magic camp. However, my sister caught the flu two days earlier, meaning that instead of polishing her newest tricks, she was going to be at home sick in bed.
“God damn it,” my mom shouted in a twangy Texan accent, “we have to call the place.” With a quick push of ten buttons, and a high-pitched ring, Mom was greeted with a painfully comforting robotic voice.
“Please hold, an associate will be with you shortly.”
And what I heard next astonished me. I would like to first preface this section of the story with my initial knowledge of music. I knew the classics, sometimes Mom would play Joni Mitchell’s Blue or The Beatles Rubber Soul on our Saturday morning expeditions. While I know each and every word of “Case of You” and “Octopus’s Garden,” I would’ve never called myself a fan. Music was meant as backing for the horribly one-sided conversations between my family members and I.
But during that blessed phone call, my Mom was left on hold. And when one is left on hold, they are left to listen to hold music.
For some reason, this tune spoke to me. The blandness of the music perfectly encapsulated my worldview. For the first time, someone held a mirror to my life, forcing me to reflect on my deepest priorities and intentions. The slip and sway of song, the balancing act between the highs and the lows. Music is mine. All mine.
I spent my thirty five minute Saturday afternoon break attempting to make music. Picking out spoons and rubber bands, I tried my best to recreate similar sounds I heard prior. I resorted to blowing into empty glass bottles, only for me to accidentally drop them on the ground, watching them shatter to a million pieces. No pain, no gain.
Right?
Each weekend came and went, spending my mornings in eager anticipation of being between the minutes of 12:30 and 1:05. When I would finally be at my happiest.
Thankfully, my mom noticed my efforts and enrolled me in flute classes for—you guessed it—Saturday mornings at 8:30 A.M. I was the earliest child to be dropped off, and would take the bus back home. I now spend the least amount of time in the car with my mom.
But that wasn’t the only change in my life.
I believe that it’s natural to gain a large ego once you’ve fallen in love.
The humbling part is over—I got the girl. Sure, the girl in question might be 26 inches of copper-nickel and silver, but she makes me feel like I have a place in this world. When I’m speaking, my words don’t have weight, but music? Suddenly I’m worth listening to. She’s mine. All mine. Apostrophe.
At the age of 18, I decided to become a part-time flute teacher. My years of being a flutist resulted in a deep understanding of music theory and rhythm. I set out to deconstruct the world I had built for myself, then rebuild it to my students’ liking.
Running into my arms after her first Fall recital, 5-year-old Claire ran into my arms, moments after performing a solid rendition of “Puff the Magic Dragon.” She had been working on the piece for months, fine tuning each and every aspect of the jovial tune. I knelt down for her to wrap her arms around my neck. Music is ours. And that’s the best part. Apostrophe.