I was the string orchestra's concertmaster for the first time in 10th grade. Aside from the conductor, musicians look to me for guidance and instructions. When I found out that my school was performing at Disney World, I was determined, better yet adamant, to make my performance unforgettable. 

On the day of the concert, the orchestra ran late to Disney Springs, so there was no time to rehearse before going on stage. The conductor told us to rehearse on the bus, which no one did because it was moving. While she played Paganini on a student’s violin, I read my music. I despised most of our pieces because they were too cliche and incongruous. But that did not mean I did not care. Music is my life. Once we reached our destination, some Disney tourists cheered as we walked to the outdoor stage, bringing confidence to the orchestra. 

Our first piece, the easiest one, was obnoxious! It sounded like two different songs were playing simultaneously. The percussionists were speeding. The string musicians were off-beat. I wanted to make this huge mistake sound intentional, which is key to make anything look easy and professional. I gave visual and instrumental clues to the other section leaders. Equally confused by the audible chaos, they didn’t receive any of my signals. I looked towards the conductor for assistance, but her intense glaring blamed me for the problem. Her fiery eyes obliterated my confidence. She increased the tempo and verbally counted the beats. “One, two, three, four.” Because the entire stage was miked, the audience heard every word she said to me. “Keep up. Follow me. You’re slowing down.” Struggling to control the orchestra, she turned and smiled to the bewildered audience. It was obvious the facade failed. “You’re too fast. You’re out of tune. One, two, three, four.”

At the end of the piece, the applause was spotty. The conductor grasped my hand to shake it. I squeezed tight while giving her a fake smile. I saw the drum major from my school shaking his head, his hand covering his face, shielding his disappointment. I desperately wanted to walk off stage. 

The rest of the performance was a pathetic, disgusting, half-decent mess. Many people left halfway through the concert, some of whom were my bandmates. As we trudged back to the bus, no one congratulated us. I laughed about the awful performance to hide my mental distress. Once on the bus, I bawled my eyes out. For once, the conductor sat silently. It was obvious I wasn’t the only one who knew the performance was terrible. Mortified, I called my mom and friends back home for emotional support. I was angry with the conductor. Her unclear instructions caused more chaos than help and she blamed me for the horrible performance. Had I spent months of preparation to have a humiliating performance?

Despite that mental trauma, I don’t know if I would’ve improved in my musicality if that horrible performance never happened. Since then, I practice more efficiently for future concerts to prevent another degrading performance. In my teen worship band, I’m forced to improvise quickly, making failures sound intentional. After my Disney performance, I’ve learned how to adapt to mistakes and change effortlessly. Improvising became second nature.

As a junior, I was a better leader since I'm concertmaster again. There’s also a new director who is calmer and more relaxed than the last one. We worked together to improve our performance communication to prevent another disaster. I know I'm not perfect, which is fine. Perfection doesn't always result in accomplishment. My Disney concert was nowhere close to excellence. If it was, I doubt I would have improved myself. It was the concert's imperfections that forced me to acknowledge my failures and progress.