Late spring. Minneapolis, Minnesota. A dusting of pollen is starting to give everything a slight golden tinge. Even Peavey Plaza, sitting in its little corner off of Nicollet Mall, with its tiered concrete fountains and abnormally still sheets of running water, has a forest-like look about it.
Traffic in the Twin Cities is not usually too boisterous, but for some reason, there is a constant rushing of noise in my head, like every car on earth is passing by on 11th Street. Luckily, this is not the nauseating stage fright I usually have before a big performance. Just a light, almost pleasant humming between my ears and behind my eyes: more excited than anxious, but anxious all the same.
I am eighteen years old. I graduate from high school in a week, but I debut as a soloist at Minneapolis’s Orchestra Hall today.
On May 22nd, 2022 – the day in question and one of the best days of my life thus far – I performed a choral piece called
The Sun Never Says, one of Dan Forrest’s best in my opinion. My youth choir sang their hearts out on risers behind me while I sat center-stage with my cello. I had been playing the cello for almost seven years at that point, and I knew only one thing: that I wanted to make music for the rest of my life.
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