"I am a musician" - The Foreground

“let our possessions be undone / in one single alarming destruction, / allowing things to sound / like a river / and let the sea / with its arduous labor of tides / reconstruct the many useless things / that no hand ever breaks / but just keep breaking”. - Ode to Broken Things by Pablo Neruda

As my story of frustration brewed because of the struggles I faced in my aural theory class, which was entirely based on hearing, I set out to find a solution.

I wagered some options in my head.

First, I could do nothing. This would mean that I would continue for the next three semesters every week spending 4 hours hooked to a piano trying to match pitch. Additionally, this would be on top of the ambitious course load of a dual degree student, majoring in STEM. This first option felt the most reasonable. The superhero in me said, “my hearing hasn’t got into my way ever, why should it now”?! Then, shame seeped into the cracks of insecurity around my disability. If I could not overcome my hard of hearing to accomplish music, then I have failed and I should feel ashamed. At this point, I settled with myself that this couldn’t be the healthiest path.

Second, I could see what could be done. In the back of my mind, I hoped that because of my extenuating circumstances, something could be done to make the experience of taking the class better. I consulted my bassoon professor at the time, and he told me that I had to petition to make any significant changes. There I was, typing up a one-page document, detailing why I believed it was necessary to make accommodations. I was specifically asking for the aural theory course to be graded pass/fail. Normally, any required classes within your major at the music school must have a letter grade associated with them, including all four semesters of aural theory. I believed that by altering the grades to pass/fail for me, I could take the unnecessary stress of earning high marks with the necessity of retaining the skills I learned from the class.

The petition I created would go through multiple stages. It would be reviewed by the woodwind and brass faculty board. Then, the petition with suggestions would be carefully reviewed by the Council of Departmental Representatives (CDR) of the music school. Finally, it would land on the desk of the deans and final review committee for a vote to approve or deny my request. Recognizing the lengthy review process, I decided I would meet with the associate dean for undergraduate affairs to gain a clear understanding of the likelihood the petition would pass.

I met in their office on a Friday. I dropped out of music school that next week.

I gave a brief overview of the struggles and setbacks I faced as a student living with a disability, especially the emotional and mental toll this class had on me. The next words I would say to them would be, “Thank you for your time, have a lovely day” as I left his office.

They reassured me that everything would be fine. They shared a story of their daughter. Their daughter was a dual degree student majoring in neuroscience and French horn performance. The dean mentioned that their daughter “completed their work in only four years” compared to the typical five years, adding “she excelled in her work”. I heard one question echoing in my mind as they told the story: why couldn’t I do that? Nevertheless, the fatal blow to the story was the absence of how it related to me. I did not come to the office for the sympathy of choosing a difficult career path or wanted the stress taken off of me so I could goof off. I came to own my identity as a person living with a disability in an ableist culture and ask for justice to my situation.

At the end of their elegant story, they said “at the end of the day, I cannot tell out if your petition will pass or not, we will have to wait and see”. It had been almost a month since this whole process started, and without the proper support I needed during that time, I couldn’t face that kind of uncertainty. My terms of accessibility sounded more like a coin toss than a major concern for my well-being by the board.

The next week, before the board met, I retracted my petition and sent paperwork to leave the music school at the end of the semester.

I am unsure whether or not my petition would have been approved. I do not know if I would have made it through such an environment for the next five years. What I did know was this: I am a musician.

Whether I am disabled or not, my passion for music is at the forefront of my life. Dropping out of the music school taught me valuable lessons about myself. I learned that I could cultivate joy in playing music as a “hobby”, not having to earn an entire degree to prove I was worthy of playing the bassoon. I found a more nuanced love with my instrument that harkened back to my high school years of curiosity and endless ambitious. I was no longer constrained by the formal terms of academia, I felt free.

Even more so is that I set up boundaries surrounding my disability. I no longer accepted half-ass wishes by those in power to do “something about it next time”, rather I demanded accessibility from the start. I feel into the notion that I had to “fit” into an ableist culture, making me deny or hide my disability from others. My choice to retain my identity was a liberating experience.

To chalk up this story even more, at the end of the semester, those with the highest grades in the aural and written theory classes would be offered a coveted spot in the advanced theory course. I was one of them. My hard work paid off, but I saw where my needs were not met, deciding to venture on a new path.

I still play the bassoon, take lessons, and participate in ensembles. I share some bassoon pieces I record every semester with people in my life to show what “doing something you love” is in action.

A final post after this one will discuss the weight of sharing this story has on me, and how the story is still unfinished.