At eight years old, my mom still knew everything and when she signed me up for viola, I trusted that it would be as fun as she said it would. My elementary school had a strings program and I started the viola in 3rd grade. It started off like a new toy, as the only instrument that I played before was a recorder and piano. I attended practices during school and tried learning the instrument. My third-grade year was fun: I had a group of friends that I laughed with and school felt easy, even the viola. Viola became a routine as I learned finger placement, and how to set it up, and even the sheet music started talking to me. Towards the end, I was much better than my clueless beginning, I even got to perform in a concert for the school which was an adventure since I was able to display my skill and “jumpstart” my stage performing career. I thought nothing could disrupt the experience.

As I moved to fourth grade, I wasn’t in the class with my friends the year before. I transitioned well and bonded with my new friends. However, my new friends and I took “having fun” to the next level and I became a pestering jester to my teacher and class as I and my new friends would joke and mess around. Instead of practicing or bonding with my Viola, I wanted to impress my new friends and play tag or crack jokes. The mix of my behavior and viola becoming harder and more annoying boiled into a sloppy stew. My new friend group also did not find this strings thing a cool activity and would also laugh and joke around about it. There was a smaller strings group in fourth grade, none of whom were my friends and I found my teacher to be the Grinch, stealing my time and happiness. Bad things happened like fake forgetting my summons to the practice room, boldly skipping strings class that day. I felt a thousand pounds on my back because I wanted attention from everyone except my strings teacher that year. To get that attention, I clearly didn’t make such great choices.

The tip of the iceberg eventually broke, I was in class, and the dreaded call came. I had to go to strings practice, and with a groan, I went with the snickers following. I sat there and didn’t pay attention. I eventually got bored and took the metal end of the bow and used it as a pencil, drawing on the delicate instrument. I have no idea what went through my mind, but I eventually etched my name onto the body. I didn’t realize the damage caused but when the year finally ended and I had lackluster concerts, my mom told me I needed to talk to her. Once she said she had to buy the viola because of the damage, I had the dumbest shocked look on my face. Although I wasn’t a fan of Viola and will probably never pick it up again I still live with this story. My mom left it in my room as a symbol of my mistake. Once I moved to St. Luke’s and made new friends I applied this story to my life. For example, when I joined Boy Scouts I have always realized the unpopularity of it, and many times I wanted to quit, but like a brick wall I have stayed and am almost an Eagle Scout. I will move forward with this story and maybe my mom will forgive me one day.