Saxophone was not always one of my strong points. A couple years ago, my mother enrolled me in a summer music program at my public high school without my consent. On the car ride there, I was crying uncontrollably and screeching so loudly that I thought that I would never be able to speak again. With my shiny golden saxophone in my right hand and my grey Velcro lunch box in my left, I braced myself for the most pivotal event of my life.

            Nervous was an understatement. I went into the cool air-conditioned band room and sat down with the other saxophone players. Then our conductor, Mr. Thomas, started assigning solos for our jazz pieces to be played at the concert. Mr. Thomas then pointed directly at me and assigned me the most difficult solo I had ever seen. Immediately my face turned bright red and my ears were radiating heat. Out of all the saxophone players, why did it have to be me?

            After many hours of tedious practice, I eventually mastered my solo. The concert had finally arrived. With trembling hands, I staggered up to the microphone. My heart was racing. My hands were sweaty. I was going to mess up. I then thought to myself that the next two minutes of my life will be over in an instant. I believe that I should not concern myself with anyone’s opinion of me. I took a deep breath and played my heart out. This crucial philosophy has stuck with me from the fifth grade and will probably never disintegrate.