When I was seven, and my younger brother was two, we lived on the ground floor of the apartment complex, where a formidable screen and glass door was our best defense against flying cockroaches, red fire ants, rat snakes, and worst of them all, fluffy yellow ducklings from the pond a few skips away from the edge of our porch that you desperately wanted to keep as pets, but that glass and screen door reminded you that they were wild, therefore not to be touched, and most definitely, not to step foot into the house.
South Carolina was experiencing one of its heaviest torrential downpours of the summer season and my grandmother, who was visiting us from Korea during that year, slid open the glass door to hear the overweight droplets of rain bomb the surface of our community pond, “Sounds just like the monsoon rains of my childhood.” She was unaware of the slightly panic-stricken looks of my parents who knew that my grandmother had just peeled away one of two layers of our barricade from the beasts that lurked, creeped, and crawled in the outside world.
I was on our lemon patterned sofa, indulging in an orange popsicle, and was showing my baby brother my tangerine-colored tongue. He was also trying to wear my Debussy sheet music on his head like a hat while clumsily plucking the strings of my violin. It was my quick break from preparing for the National Youth Strings Competition in Atlanta that was only two months away. My mother, who was too fixated on our vulnerable screen door, was unaware that my dripping popsicle juice was decorating the lemons on the sofa fabric with polka dots and all over my parent’s unfinished mortgage loan application and scribbles of calculations on her spiral notebook. During dinner, they were whispering in hushed tones and furrowed brows over something called “down payment.”
Perhaps these beasts that lurked, creeped, and crawled heard that thunderous crack of the sliding of the glass door that rippled across the pond to signify that there was a chink in the armor and saw opportunity. But all I knew that the moment before my grandmother slid open our glass door to the very instant she did, a dozen frogs had fervently hopped their way into our home and were now gluing and ungluing themselves from our walls and furniture leaving imprints of their slime.
It was chaos as I dropped my half-eaten popsicle in alarm on our carpeted floor. One of these frogs leaped right in front of my abandoned treat and slurped up the remains with the whack of his tongue. Although he was the invader, he was still a Southern frog with hospitable manners, “Why, bless your heart! Thank you, kindly miss.”
I grabbed my brother and violin and ran underneath the bathroom sink cabinet in the other room. I peeked through the cracks to see my dad running around like a madman trying to trap the frogs underneath silver mixing bowls and my grandma, who daily complained of chronic knee and back pain, was also carrying a bowl over her head hopping along with the frogs as if she had a cushion of Jell-O between her joints.
That same Southern frog had somehow squeezed underneath the door of the bathroom and whispered for my attention, “There’s music in the walls.” He then slid away as quickly as he came. When a frog tells you that there’s music in the walls at an age when you’re just learning that there’s still a slight chance that Santa Claus and Bigfoot exist, without hesitation, I put my ear against the brick wall.
I leaned in and a brick loosened against my weight. It was my baby brother who found this to be amusing and pounded his hand against the brick even more until it fell back into an empty space. After the dust cleared, not wanting to get in trouble for the damage, I desperately reached into the dark to pull out the brick, but what I took out instead was a worn, dusty black notebook with pages that had yellowed due to time and the Carolina humidity. Still hearing the sounds of the adults desperately trying to capture all the intruders, I turned on the bathroom light and traced my finger over the elegantly hand-carved initials on the black leather cover—R.S.J.
Not knowing what to expect, I turned to the first page and found a concerto composition in C Minor—a key known for its remarkable idiosyncrasies and daring nature to stray away from the conventional. The entire music composition filled what seemed like all two hundred pages that still felt like melted butter after all these years behind the wall. The musician had even hand-drawn all the staff lines. Although I had just begun third grade, I started music early and at that time was familiar with playing Vivaldi’s Four Seasons and Igor Stravinsky’s The Rite of Spring. I gently placed the notebook under my arm and carried out my little brother once I heard the coast was clear. Back in my room, I skimmed through the concerto and started plucking and toying with the bold and beautifully intermittent notes on my violin. My teacher mentioned once that Mozart and Beethoven only used C Minor to add drama and heroism to their music.
I started biting my nails in anxiety of the idea that came to mind. My mother wouldn’t like it. My teacher would be against it. I would probably regret it. I looked at my sheet music for the competition, Clair de lune by Debussy, and ran my fingers over the nearly faded notes on the pages of the book one more time to be sure.
---
My stockings felt itchy and my red velvet dress felt heavy as I nervously tuned my violin one more time before walking on stage. It was October 12th, 2003, the day of the National Youth Strings Competition in Atlanta, the little black book—my secret—was hidden in the pocket inside my violin case. Only two weeks before, my parents were offered a low mortgage loan by the banks. They were both pursuing their graduate degrees at that time and to the banks, their student loans and lack of regular income signaled a yellow flag. My dad tried to assure my mother, “We’ll keep saving. We’ll buy a house soon.” My mother glanced warily at the walls of the apartment, “The roof leaks every time it rains.”
I stepped out into the stage where a few hundred people in the audience welcomed me. My teacher, my family, they all still thought I was playing Debussy. I could hear the little black book inside my violin case backstage ready to burst with confidence through its silky pages. I lifted my bow, closed my eyes, and started to play Untitled in C Minor.
All I could remember was images of high mountain tops, raging rivers through the forest, and sounds of the beating wings of night moths for the entire twenty minutes and the crescendo of applause as I played the last note.
---
Two months later, our school was having a half-day so my parents picked my brother and I up early to run an errand. We all walked in together into the bank and the loan officer smiled as he let my brother and I pick a lollipop from the jar, “So, I’m happy to say that your application as first time home owners has just been approved. Congratulations.” My parents shook hands with the man and we went out for ice cream to celebrate.
Back at home, I knew the little black book was beaming with pride. Untitled in C Minor allowed me to win the grand prize of $20,000, a sum that I gave to my parents for the down payment they had been so worried about for all these years. I told the judges that the musician for the piece was a mystery, that I took no credit for the composition. I was merely an instrument to present to the world another act of courage in music. To write in C Minor is to truly understand the strength of human character and imagination. Even the little black book understood that.
About the Creator
Jiyoon Kim
I love post-it notes, reading biographies, and shark documentaries.
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