“The Meaning of Music” by Anonymous Teen
Most people will never understand the feeling of a musician following a heartfelt performance. It is not about the cheers from the crowd or the bouquet of flowers in your arms. It's about learning that music isn’t separate performances but a lifelong experience.
The euphoric feeling of performing was stripped from me as I dealt with intense stage fright. While many people experience various forms of stage fright in their life, not everyone has the experience of being able to sing in front of others effortlessly, until one day only tears unleash instead of song.
From the ages seven to thirteen I was never seen as shy, but I couldn’t sing on stage no matter how many times the choir director put a microphone in my hands. This experience was especially difficult for me as I came from a musically inclined family and when we were not on stage, my cousins and I would often make up our own songs and put a production on in the living room, complete with dance numbers, a dress rehearsal and homemade programs for our parents to read so they knew when intermission would occur.
The overwhelming amount of tears that flowed upon performing persisted. Overtime, I felt like people expected me to cry, and that I was letting them down. One day while rehearsing for our Annual Christmas program, our children’s choir director gave me a solo for the line “A trill of hope..” in “Oh Holy Night”. A kid asked me “You aren’t going to cry again right?”. I shook my head and was determined to get through my verse. On the day of the show, when my part came, I cried through the entire verse. At this point, I even started to lose hope in myself.
Years later I finally had my breakthrough moment. I sang a solo selection for my church accompanied by my guitar. At first I started in the wrong key for the first few lyrics, but I was determined for success, so I restarted. I closed my eyes and sang the whole song through. I received a standing ovation and turned around to see my father in the pulpit give me a smile and a thumbs up. I cried happy tears, because that day I learned that music is about building confidence.
My fathers’s brother, whose face I could not recall, had an unforgettable southern accent through the muffled phone. During my childhood my uncle was in and out of jail and called the family's phone to ask for money. Sometimes he wouldn’t ask for money, he would call to hear me sing and play my guitar.
I didn’t know at the time but his mental health was deteriorating and his incarceration was a direct result of the lack of access to the support he needed for his condition. Sadly, my uncle passed away after being struck by a car, but his consistent messages from every phone call, “Stay in school”, “I'm proud of you”, “keep singing” and “I love you, ok?” are always in my heart. My uncle taught me that music holds families together.
During the pandemic, I kept singing. But this time it wasn’t on a stage with a microphone, it was on empty sidewalks and wooden porches with my audience standing at the thresholds of their doors. I couldn’t give my loved ones a hug or heal any Coronavirus symptoms, but I brought a stool, a guitar and my voice. While there was so much unrest globally, watching a smile appear on someone's face from the sound of music taught me that music spreads hope.
I spend a lot of time with my family, especially my younger, twin brothers. Our 6 year age gap never stopped us from building a strong relationship. I often cheer them on at basketball games and make music with them. One morning, my brother felt sharp pains in his legs. As the pain increased, my parents decided to bring him to the hospital. One night went by, then a weekend, then a full week. I would see one of my parents come home but I wouldn't see my brother. My brother was diagnosed with Transverse
Militias. A virus has attacked his spinal cord and my brother who once was an impressive drummer and athlete, was unable to walk, eat, or breathe on his own. I spent many evenings doing homework while at hospitals and rehab centers with my brother during his recovery. My mom came home with the news that my brother finally was able to use the muscles in his right hand. My mom brought one of his drumsticks and placed it near his hand in the hospital bed and when they woke up the next morning he was gripping it. Although this was an incredibly difficult experience, I learned about the profession of music therapy as my mom gave reports about the music therapist working with my brother to improve his recovery process. This experience taught me that music is healing.
In society, there is a toxic stereotype that black men should be strong, not only physically but emotionally as well. There is no room for struggle and if present, the struggle should remain private. This idea became clear to me unexpectedly at a sweet sixteen. I noticed that while everyone else was on the dancefloor, my friend looked as if he was sorting his thoughts from his seat in the corner of the hall. I thought back to the conversation we all had over dinner, and realized my friend had been making subtle comments about death and afterlife. I wanted him to enjoy the moment with us, to enjoy the music but he ignored all my attempts. No one else thought his behaviour was surprising and assumed he had an attitude. I asked him why he was making the hurtful comments about himself and if everything was alright but I didn’t receive a clear answer. The next day I told a guidance counselor at my school and she informed me that they will connect with him. When I had seen my friend later that day he embraced my hand a little longer than usual, looked me in my eyes and simply said, “Thank you”.
In my junior year of high school, I became close with a tall, dark skin boy with a contagious smile. At first we were just friends but over time, I started to develop my first real crush. As we grew closer it became clear to everyone around us that our relationship wasn’t a classic high school romance. We rarely argued and rather than basing our relationship off of intimacy like most kids our age, we often engaged in deep conversations, laughed together until our stomachs hurt and educated each other on our passions. Knowing I love music, this boy would always ask me to sing for him, but I never truly sang to him, he only knew I would sing through word of mouth of our friends.
One day on a long bus ride home, our peers were playing the song “Opportunity” from the movie Annie, on their speakers since I had been singing it with children form the various elementary schools in our District in honor of Black History Month. I started to sing along. Soon everyone on the bus passionately sang the song together. After the song finished everyone settled back in their seats and when I turned back around to my friend, I noticed how soft his gaze was and how calm his body was. He pulled me into a tight hug and said “Laila, I’m finally happy now.” At the moment I didn’t understand what this meant so I let it be.
Slowly I began to realize this boy who I cared about deeply, struggled with depression and he even started to open up about his mental health struggles as we grew closer. I would tell him all the time that he should get professional support. “What if it gets worse or even out of his control?” I mentioned this to trusted adults, but with his charismatic personality, people didn’t view him as someone who struggled with depression. Since he would only occasionally get caught up in a depressive mood, and he didn’t feel like he needed support, I thought it wasn’t a big deal.
Our relationship was far from perfect and after being on and off during the school year, we decided that things were not going to work out and gave each other space as summer approached. I was worried about his mental health, however I understood that it was toxic for us to rely on each other emotionally, given our romantic history.
When school started again for senior year, I had assumed he switched schools since he wasn't in attendance but it became clear that his mental health had been what was keeping him out. He would return to school for some time and then be out again for weeks at a time. His mental health disorder has brought him to a point where his personality is not the same, and it is hard to read when he is at an
emotional high or low, and he has unpredictable control over his actions. For some time, I felt guilty for not being able to help him and for not saying more earlier. I looked back at many of our past conversations from this new perspective and thought I should have handled the small comments with more urgency.
At school, he tried to convince me that we should get back together. Hearing him say things like “I miss having you in my life” and “You brought me out of depression before” was a challenge. Hearing him say things like “You will always be the love of my life” and “I am never going to leave you alone”, frightened me. Realizing that I wouldn’t budge, he went as far to try and embrace my hands and say “I know you're in there, Laila please…”. I didn’t say it but I knew the version of him we used to know was still there somewhere, buried under what his disorder had become. He clearly started to spiral so I ended the conversation.
Recently, it has even gotten to the point where he and I should avoid being in the same room due to his hyperfixation and rumination of our past relationship. It was heartbreaking for me to experience one of my safest people turn to the opposite in my life. In this complicated turn of events, I truly feel like I have lost one of my best friends but to cope with this new factor in my life I listened to music. Music in my headphones, music from my speaker, music in the car, and music through my own voice.
The music therapy profession interests me because of how I have seen music have a positive impact throughout my life. With psychology and music as my two greatest passions, I believe these areas can be combined to transform lives. In the future, I want to open a music centered program for youth with music therapy, career development and performing arts as a way to counter the generational influences on mental health, especially in communities with high populations of people of color.
What is the meaning of music?
Music means reaching people in all environments and capacities. Music for the mom who hugs you and says that song was exactly what they needed to hear. Music means watching the girl who is portrayed as angry, cry the first time she hears you sing. Music means growing in your gift, growing in your passion. Music means healing the mind. Music is about mending families. Music is about restoring communities. Music is therapy.