People like me aren’t supposed to play the violin.
I’m not rich. My family isn’t rich. I didn’t go to private school. I’m not European. I didn’t start learning when I was seven. Well, I did, but then I had to give it up because my parents didn’t have enough money for me to keep taking lessons. My mother still remembers how my childhood violin teacher had me make a violin out of a cereal box and paper towel tube, to practice holding it and placing it on the shoulder.
I never forgot, though. I’ve always liked music. I played electric and acoustic guitar, and drums. A little piano. Never thought I could afford lessons, to take it “seriously”. But I never forgot the violin. I regretted that I never had a chance on it for the rest of my life.
Until I married a wonderful, supportive man who said, “Get a violin.” And I did.
I studied on my own, and then he said, “Why don’t you take lessons?” And I did.
And now I am someone who plays the violin.
I love him. My violin. My husband and my violin. I got to name my violin myself, though. His name is Gilbert.
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