Friday Night Concerts
Author was accepted to NYU
Prompt: Some students have a background, identity, interest, or talent that is so meaningful they believe their application would be incomplete without it. If this sounds like you, then please share your story.
During my sophomore year, my dad and I established a Friday after-school ritual. My 90-minute commutes home from school are normally devoted to studying, but Fridays are reserved for listening to music with him. We alternate picking songs: a shared favorite or something new. These long car rides sparked my curiosity in music.
I began reading books about our favorite artists and roaming Spotify for hours, listening to a variety of new songs. My playlist ranged from The Beatles and Queen to Ella Fitzgerald, Debussy, and even Montserrat Caball. Most nights I lie in bed with headphones. Music is not background noise, but an immersive experience. I love to let the melody overtake me, to have the volume so high that I can hear every lyric, every crack and nuance in the singer’s voice.
One night I was listening to Bohemian Rhapsody, completely captivated. I loved how the melody made me feel–thrilled yet distressed. I craved more. I wanted to participate, to obtain what felt like magic. So I hurried downstairs to our home piano — an ancient Costco keyboard missing half the keys. I’d never played before, but was determined to learn the song. I first relied on Youtube videos, and soon progressed to other songs using just my ear. My parents, with enough convincing, agreed to buy me a used piano.
So my dad and I were back in the car. One bleak winter night, we pulled into a gravel driveway, the parking lot of an aging, shack-like store. My dad glanced over at me, raising his eyebrows. “I’ll go in first.”
The door creaked open, revealing a glossy black piano. It stood directly in the center of the room, twinkling, bathing in the blinding ceiling lights. I rushed to the piano, running my hands along the ivories, feeling their weight push against mine–oh the magic of a full set of keys!
It wasn’t long before I released the full potential of my weight, striking the first chord to Bohemian Rhapsody. Rich, smooth notes poured out from the piano, swirling through the air in bursts of color. They rushed through me, lit up my eyes, tugged at my heart, until I was completely consumed in their bright, pulsing waves.
I used to think grades were an estimation of my self-worth; I thought fixating on them would fulfill me, when, really, I was unhappy. Music brings me balance and joy. I love escaping through songs and fully absorbing theartists’ pain or excitement. Playing the piano makes these emotions tangible, and it’s empowering and liberating. It gives me something else to challenge and identify myself with. It gives me another source of fulfillment, one that’s even more rewarding, because I pursue it independently.
I practice for hours every day, perhaps to the annoyance of my family. But I know they’re proud, especially my dad. He’s never one to shower me with compliments, nor belt along behind me at the piano. But I feel his pride when he blurts, “You should learn this song” in the car, or when he prompts me to play at holiday parties, his beaming reflection in the piano’s lacquer.
I’m proud of myself, too. I don’t know exactly what I want to do with my love for music or piano. I don’t fancy myself as a concert pianist, nor do I strive to become one. I play for the feeling. I’ll never tire of completing a song,when my heart sings and my eyes start to swim, because every note, every beautiful wash of color, I earned myself.
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