(no subject)
Jan. 25th, 2005 11:38 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
xaaraI quit Youth Orchestra today.
That program has been a part of my life since I first walked through the front doors over ten years ago. My conductor lives down the street; my teacher goes to UMD a few minutes away from here; my first truly joyful memory is set within the grungy walls of Coolidge Senior High School, the Orchestra's weekend haunts.
However, following a formal complaint I lodged against my percussion section for their seeming inability to assist with the proper storage of our instruments and an incident between Mom and one of the percussionists as he was trying to sneak out without helping, the Executive Director, Ms. Shulte, called a meeting. "This is a friendly meeting," she began, which always means that it's going to get ugly fast. And it did.
She had brought the whole percussion section (me and two guys) and our teacher into her office. At ten-o'clock at night. After a rehearsal that was supposed to last from 6:30 to 8:30 and ended up dragging on until 9:30. "I want you to know that this is an open forum," she said. "This is a safe place--feel free to air your grievances." She looked at me.
I have never hated anyone as I hated her in that moment.
I shrugged, feigned ignorance--I am a teenager, after all--and declined her blatant invitation to make myself into the total bitch of the situation by groveling to the adult in the situation and ratting on my fellow percussionists. The guys and I might not always see eye-to-eye, but we sure as hell don't sacrifice each other to outsiders who throw us into a ring with the intention of letting us brawl it out.
"Are there any particular incidents that caused you to call this meeting?" I asked when it became evident that everyone was waiting for me to speak. It's not so unusual for this to happen--I am generally the voice of the percussion section.
"Well, certain parties have said that your partners have not been pulling their weight," Ms. Shulte said, skirting my question. "And others have said that you haven't been allowing them to. Pull their weight."
I--quite nobly, I think--resisted my immediate urge to say, cordially, "Fuck you," and leave the meeting.
At this point, my teacher jumped between me and Ms. Shulte--literally--and began telling long pointless tales of his time in the Youth Orchestra and how he liked it and how his percussion buddies were like family to him. While this was not precisely the defense I would've liked, it did prevent me from saying something hurtful.
When the meeting broke up ten or fifteen minutes later, I nodded to each of the other people in the room, pointedly making eye contact with Ms. Shulte, and walked to the building's exit without stalking. It was an accomplishment. I told Mom the story as we drove home.
"I wouldn't blame you if you didn't play in the concert this Sunday," she said. I agree that in the way of symbolic gestures, quitting before this Sunday would take the absolute top prize. But I'm playing the premiere of a piece by a new composer and would feel horrible letting her down--she had nothing to do with any of this. So I'm playing this Sunday, but that will be my last concert.
And despite the fact that I've made a rational decision, and one that I'm not going to regret...
It hurts.
That program has been a part of my life since I first walked through the front doors over ten years ago. My conductor lives down the street; my teacher goes to UMD a few minutes away from here; my first truly joyful memory is set within the grungy walls of Coolidge Senior High School, the Orchestra's weekend haunts.
However, following a formal complaint I lodged against my percussion section for their seeming inability to assist with the proper storage of our instruments and an incident between Mom and one of the percussionists as he was trying to sneak out without helping, the Executive Director, Ms. Shulte, called a meeting. "This is a friendly meeting," she began, which always means that it's going to get ugly fast. And it did.
She had brought the whole percussion section (me and two guys) and our teacher into her office. At ten-o'clock at night. After a rehearsal that was supposed to last from 6:30 to 8:30 and ended up dragging on until 9:30. "I want you to know that this is an open forum," she said. "This is a safe place--feel free to air your grievances." She looked at me.
I have never hated anyone as I hated her in that moment.
I shrugged, feigned ignorance--I am a teenager, after all--and declined her blatant invitation to make myself into the total bitch of the situation by groveling to the adult in the situation and ratting on my fellow percussionists. The guys and I might not always see eye-to-eye, but we sure as hell don't sacrifice each other to outsiders who throw us into a ring with the intention of letting us brawl it out.
"Are there any particular incidents that caused you to call this meeting?" I asked when it became evident that everyone was waiting for me to speak. It's not so unusual for this to happen--I am generally the voice of the percussion section.
"Well, certain parties have said that your partners have not been pulling their weight," Ms. Shulte said, skirting my question. "And others have said that you haven't been allowing them to. Pull their weight."
I--quite nobly, I think--resisted my immediate urge to say, cordially, "Fuck you," and leave the meeting.
At this point, my teacher jumped between me and Ms. Shulte--literally--and began telling long pointless tales of his time in the Youth Orchestra and how he liked it and how his percussion buddies were like family to him. While this was not precisely the defense I would've liked, it did prevent me from saying something hurtful.
When the meeting broke up ten or fifteen minutes later, I nodded to each of the other people in the room, pointedly making eye contact with Ms. Shulte, and walked to the building's exit without stalking. It was an accomplishment. I told Mom the story as we drove home.
"I wouldn't blame you if you didn't play in the concert this Sunday," she said. I agree that in the way of symbolic gestures, quitting before this Sunday would take the absolute top prize. But I'm playing the premiere of a piece by a new composer and would feel horrible letting her down--she had nothing to do with any of this. So I'm playing this Sunday, but that will be my last concert.
And despite the fact that I've made a rational decision, and one that I'm not going to regret...
It hurts.
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
(no subject)
Date: 2005-01-28 10:09 am (UTC)Um, actually, yes. Hello, Anya. Long time no see. :P
(no subject)
Date: 2005-01-30 01:26 pm (UTC)*friends*
And I wasn't wrong! *happy dance*