From my earliest memories, I can almost recall my baby fingers struggling with piano chords, serenading the schoolyard with ukulele tunes during recess, and finding an outlet for my teenage angst through the rhythmic escapade of drumming. Looking back, I know that deep-down, my attraction to music went beyond pure joy of playing different instruments. It was the spotlight, the applause, that feeling of being in the limelight.
In light of this, among all instruments, the clarinet naturally stood out to me. Its silvery buttons shimmered against the black body, fancy enough to captivate the attention of a twelve-year-old girl craving the center stage. Once I mastered this beauty, I proudly presented myself with it in a local community orchestra, performing at every charity concert in town. I played for soldiers on their duty, those who retired, and those who died in war. I played for the hospitalized, those who held onto hope, and those who had lost it.
While these experiences exposed me to an audience of diverse stories, I became too absorbed with my own part of the protagonist. Even the word 'volunteer' took on a certain empathic charm, transforming these concerts into stages where I felt like a well-rounded rising star. Meanwhile, I was nothing but a 6th-grader with zero knowledge on human rights, SDGs, or the complexities of the world economy. Surprisingly, I remained on the same page of personal growth until I turned seventeen.
My next chapter unfolded unexpectedly during a volunteer journey to Cambodia. On the plane, I silently rehearsed the notes that would enchant the children at a local school. Upon stepping into a building that couldn't possibly hold more than 20 people, I was surprised to see triple the number of uniform-clad children, their feet bare, and eyes glowing curiously at my foreign presence.
Although I had initially been excited at the prospect of performing overseas, my ego quickly deflated as I sensed my audience’s delight upon hearing new English words. Despite the unspeakable conditions of their institution, their spirits remained high, singing songs in their childishly naive, unbroken voices. When one boy wove a few of his newly learnt words into the melodies of their folk songs, I felt like a shooting star fallen to Earth. It didn’t matter that the song was incomprehensible, a bizarre mix of a language I hadn't a clue about and English that was barely comprehendible. But the song held the stories of the children in their purest form. Three days passed in a blur, filled with spirited renditions of English nursery rhymes. My clarinet remained unopened in its nest.
On my way home, I flipped through my records. While I had spent a total of 211 hours on volunteering, it was only three days, where I had truly helped sixty kids become the happy superstars of their narratives. I now understood the intangible value of volunteering. My role was to add color to the lives of those I touched, not to bask in the spotlight.