I am twelve years old. My friend and I ride our bikes to the grocery store because well, we have run out of other things to do. We aren’t here to shop – just passing the time. For whatever reason I leave the store a couple minutes before she does. I am waiting on my bike when she comes out.

We ride over to the old elementary school. I had attended this school only the year before, but it is vacant now, replaced by a new, and beautiful school that is too far away to just go hang out at. So we make due with the sad remnants of the playground I grew up on. It had never been fancy. Each piece of equipment served a single purpose. There were the monkey bars, the dome jungle gym thing, six swings, a standard flat metal slide, a larger “tornado” slide that disappeared when I was in second grade. Some kid had fallen off it and broken their arm. Or, that was the rumor anyway. It’s disappearance may have also been related to the increasing frequency with which you risked getting your arm sliced open going down, as the metal pulled away from it’s original location.

It’s here that my friend shows me the candy bar she stole from the store.

It’s almost too bad I wasn’t raised catholic. I have a natural affinity for declaring certain acts as forbidden and am highly motivated by avoiding behavior for which I might feel guilty. I can hear my parents say, “If you feel like you can’t tell us what you are doing, you shouldn’t be doing it.” My fifteen year old hears me repeat that regularly.

I on my bike and riding away in horror. Stealing is super duper bad. And, like my parents always say, “Guilt by association.” I flee this friendship in fear for my moral standing in the world.

I report this behavior immediately to my parents. I may have cried, afraid my friend may be irreversibly bad.

My parents head out to go shopping.

When they return they ask me to assist with bringing in the groceries. In the truck I find not groceries but two boxes. A standard, perhaps 2′ x 2′ x 1′ box, and a more peculiar box. The top and the bottom are parallel to one another but none of the lines around the parameter are. The box says, “Kramer” and there is a black outline of an electric guitar.

This is my reward for remaining virtuous. It’s a stratocaster-esque, electric guitar with a rosewood fret board, sunburst finish and a little amp. I am going to play the crap out of this thing. Right after I figure out how to tune it.

The world saw very little of me after that. I was suddenly destined for greatness. I played every.single.day.

Middle school happened. That guitar was my solace.

My freshman year I learn that the high school jazz band has a guitar player. A female guitar player. Her hair is naturally platinum blond, long and straight. I want to be in her cool-kid club but she is unaware of my existence. Every guy I meet seems to have a different level of respect for her than other girls.

I have got to get into jazz band. So, I audition. The band director puts a sheet of music in front of me and I suddenly realize that I don’t know anything about jazz. And these chords? I have never seen anything like them. What’s that “+” for? What is a C-7, is that different from a C7? I play a C7 cause that’s the closest thing I know – but that is definitely not the right chord. I the chords just keep getting harder until I admit that I have never seen anything like this. I promise the director that come fall – I would have this all figured out.

I tell my parents I want this more than anything. My parents enroll me at the John Duss Music Conservatory and commit to an hour long round trip and an hour long lesson every week for all of high school. I spend the summer playing, “All of Me,” “All of You,”…”Autumn Leaves”…”Blue Bossa” I can still list the first 15 tunes I learned in the order I learned them.

I have never heard music like this. The tonal language is so different. I am captivated. I partake in this music without a real understanding of it’s culture. I indulge in it’s beauty and complexity without truly acknowledging or valuing it’s struggle. As a genre it is art born of a stolen ancestry. But in my privilege I am blissfully unaware.

I have the capacity to consume large amounts of information quickly – to analyze it and operationalize it. So by the time my senior year comes I find I am the only guitar player at the state small ensemble competition who isn’t trying to get by on “power chords” – a concept that emphasizes the root and fifth as the weight of any chord but is devoid of the passion of the 3rd, the nuance of the 7th or the fullness of the 9th. It’s “power” lies in that it is hard to get it wrong. Whatever the name of the chord is, play that note, and the one that is a 5th higher. In this way it never sounds wrong. The trade off is it never sounds right either.

Power chords are to art what bread and water are to food. You can get by but eventually… will you even want to? For passion we need to augment and diminish – flatten some things out – sharpen some edges – but rarely at the same time. We need to modulate.

My above average understanding of the structure of this music and even the mathematical relationships that define this sound help me plot the course through many of the standards. And that mathematical frame work enables me to memorize an unusual amount of material. My thoughtful approach to chord progressions and my willingness to improvise catches the attention of the Professor of Guitar at the local university.

His name is Billy. His mustache is bigger than my head and his head barely comes to my shoulder. He is East Coast through and through.

It’s nearing the end of the day and we are in a breakout session Billy is teaching. He calls me to the front of the room and hands me his guitar. Unlike the Fender Strat I have upgraded to, he has a large hallow body guitar. I awkwardly slip under the strap hitting the bridge of my nose on the edge of the body. The neck is unexpectedly heavy and too big for my hands, I have trouble getting comfortable as my breasts interfere with everything. I curse them.

He cues the ensemble to play a jazz standard – which one in particular is forgotten because I am numb with fear. But in a room exclusively of young men, he has selected me. He signals to me to take a solo. My brain is unable to communicate with my hands as anxiety invites itself to this jam session. He notes my struggle and jumps in to trade 2’s with me on piano until I find my footing and make a respectable show of the last time through the head.

He turns to his students.”You boys better study this summer because she is coming here next year and she is going to kick your asses.” I believe him.