September 2005, South Bend, Indiana.

I’m 17 years old, sitting in a class called Musicianship. Having declared myself a music major, I am now expected to do things like sight-sing melodies and sight-clap rhythms.

(What is that, you ask? It’s when you have to read sheet music without an instrument. Alone, in front of the whole class. Yes, it’s great fun.)

“This is impossible,” I think, staring at the notes.

David, the professor, is a hip 30-something who sometimes misses class to perform with the Barenaked Ladies. He likes to play bizarre chords on the piano and ask us to transcribe them. He might as well ask me the chemical composition of my desk.

After I clap or sing, David always has constructive feedback.

“Close enough for jazz!” is one favorite.

Or: “Public humiliation is an effective way to learn.”

Thanks, David.

I wind up “practice partners” with Nick, a child prodigy who grew up in a conservatory. When Nick and I practice together, he pretends he’s guessing. “Minor tenth?” he says, screwing up his face as the notes I played fade into silence. Yes, Nick. Right again.

Somehow I eke out a passing grade. This grants me a seat next semester in Musicianship II, or Advanced Public Humiliation. By then, I’ve declared a literature major, because I’ve realized how much more natural and alive I feel while reading and writing than by clapping poorly.

I’ve also noticed that my music teachers’ questions (“How to interpret this ‘pF’ in Chopin’s nocturne?”) are far less interesting to me than my English professors’ (“What does it mean that ‘nature’ is part of the phrase ‘human nature’?”).

I still take Musicianship.

I’m still terrible at it. But now it feels less threatening because it doesn’t have to be my entire identity. Now I can relax just enough to sort of enjoy it, and maybe even improve.

And then I can scurry over to the library, where my lit seminar is wrestling with how we write about mental illness. I have a lot of ideas about that.

Can I name musical intervals I hear? Sometimes. Not usually.

But that’s okay. I’ve always liked jazz.

Have you ever felt your interests rearrange themselves?

Did you have trouble accepting it? Or was it liberating?

I’m Kimberly, writer, ghostwriter, & book coach. If you’re interested in reflecting on your life in ways that bring about new perspectives and new understandings, talk to me. Click here to schedule a call.