Work Text:
Basic music theory bored her. So did counterpoint. She was a novice at the piano, but she knew she had to learn an instrument in order to major in composition. She breezed through part-setting like a pro, fluttered and flew through her fugues until finally, she was able to learn twentieth century music theory. She loved listening to music by John Adams and Schonberg, but her favorite composer of all was John Cage.
When Amemiya-san first learned about John Cage, she was in heaven. She felt a sense of relief to know that someone could make a living and a name for himself doing the thing that she was most ashamed of about herself! Listening to his experimental music gave her so many ideas for things to write, and it seemed like she came up with a new idea every time she went to her composition classes!
At one point during her freshman year, she was caught in the practice room de-tuning a piano and was scolded for it, but because she didn’t know better, she was simply let off with a warning. “Please just ask permission next time, Amemiya-san!” the head of the music department told her.
John Cage had made a name for himself playing with all the beautiful sounds she loved. Now, it was her turn. She slowly and nervously made her way to the podium with her baton and her music. When she finally made her way up there, she surveyed her orchestra, carefully concentrating on everyone to make sure they were ready before lifting her baton as the members of the orchestra made their way from rest position to play position. She slowly counted off…one…two…three…four…
Her piece began with a single cellist wrapping her fingers against the body of her instrument slowly. After about three measures, the rest of the cellists did the same, all at different speeds until the prepared piano began playing the arpeggios, and the tuning forks came in.
Then came the tuba and double bass duet, accompanied by the sound of a grill and high pitched strings. Amemiya-san loved to use instruments that were not traditionally for music: fans, grills, plastic bags.
Near the end of her piece, she had a guest soprano sing a poem she had written back when she was first starting high school:
Who I am
Who I am
Who am I?
Am I
The smell of a new shoe?
The sound
Of a freshly grilled sausage?
Such beautiful sounds
There must be more…
More to me
Than all of this strangeness
Inside
Kept inside
I can hide
If this is not me
Without these things
These things
That I like
Then who am I
Without it?
The orchestra grew to a chaotic fortissimo as the soprano sang “without it” over and over at the top of her lungs, and she had no idea…no idea what that poem meant to Amemiya-san. Fourteen minutes of her soul poured out into sheet music, and these musicians only knew a fraction of it. They weren’t there when she was in high school trying to fit in and unable to be herself. They weren’t there when she finally discovered in the counselor’s office that her experience had a name: autism! Sweet, sweet autism! She could finally explain everything she had been feeling, and none of these musicians knew it, and yet…somehow knew her better than anyone else. She couldn’t contain herself; she began crying so hysterically as she finished conducting the piece that she forgot to cut off the fermata at the end until everyone had run out of breath anyway.
At last, she wiped her eyes as the audience applauded. She turned around and was once again moved to tears. She smiled and waved.