They are all dressed in black. They make their instruments sing in perfect harmony, the music coming out like long flowing sentences. I watch them in awe, but most of all, I watch the drummer. He holds the sticks as if they are made of glass, bouncing them off the drums. He stomps his foot on the hi-hat and bops his head coolly to the beat. At that moment I know I want it to be me, sitting on the left-hand side of the stage, slightly hidden from the crowd behind huge cymbals. I began working with a private drum teacher. He introduced me to "Soul Station" by Hank Mobley, the very first bebop album I had ever heard. The smooth notes and rhythms, the high tempo swing - it was addicting. I would come home from school, turn on the TV, and practice my rudiments on a practice pad while I watched. I begged my parents to drive me to clubs to watch the city’s local musicians. My nights were spent playing along with records, attempting to acquire the solid steadiness of the greats I listened to, to learn the language they seemed to know like the back of their hands. I was fascinated with the ideas they came up with and fell even more in love with the music. The musicians spoke to each other in long, flowing, phrases and I was eager to join the conversation. Today, jazz is as much a language for me as it is a style of music. I often sit in the corner of The Parlour, a club in my hometown of Providence known and loved by musicians all around the city. I'm having a "conversation" with the bass player. He shares his thoughts and tosses me ideas that I receive and build off of, though no words are exchanged. We are speaking in notes and rhythms. We are speaking in jazz. During my first semester at college, I remember getting back my midterm from Music Theory I that I did very poorly on. I was really nervous about ithe course as I had never studied music theory in depth since it was never "required" of me as a drummer. My professor handed back the test and said, "Now you have the rest of your life to learn this." Despite the bad grade, I wasn't disheartened. Instead, his words reminded me that the education I was pursuing wouldn't end once I received my final grades or degree, but instead was meant to inspire me to continue to build these skills throughout my career. This really changed my view of what I want to get out of my schooling. It became more apparent that if I wanted to be successsful, I needed to work harder to seek out the resources that my school had available. As I continue my education at McGill in Montreal after transferring from Oberlin, I intend to use the skills I developed to explore all the opportunities the city and university have to offer, forging lifelong connections that will propel me forwards in my career.

They are all dressed in black. They make their instruments sing in perfect harmony, the music coming out like long flowing sentences. I watch them in awe, but most of all, I watch the drummer. He holds the sticks as if they are made of glass, bouncing them off the drums. He stomps his foot on the hi-hat and bops his head coolly to the beat. At that moment I know I want it to be me, sitting on the left-hand side of the stage, slightly hidden from the crowd behind huge cymbals. A year later, I would get my chance… I sat down before the judges, ready to audition the piece I had spent the last month preparing. I could feel their eyes on me, burning through the huge cymbals. "Whenever you're ready," the director said. I nodded and picked up my sticks to play. My eyes moved swiftly across the page, skimming over measures of syncopated rhythms. My grip on the sticks tightened. Suddenly the drums felt unfamiliar to me-the sticks slippery and the music a blur of notes. Then it was over. I looked up to see the neutral faces of the three judges as they clapped. Now only time would tell if I would spend my first year of high school alongside the jazz band members I so greatly admired. A couple of weeks went by and I walked into school to find a group of kids clustered around a piece of paper taped to the wall. As I got closer, I realized it was the roster of the 2019-2020 jazz band. I joined them, scanning the paper with my eyes. I checked. I double-checked. I triple-checked. My name was not there. Although I felt disheartened, my desire to earn a seat behind the drumset was unrelenting. I started working with a private drum teacher. He introduced me to "Soul Station" by Hank Mobley, the very first bebop album I had ever heard. The smooth notes and rhythms, the high tempo swing - it was addicting. I would come home from school, turn on the TV, and practice my rudiments on a practice pad while I watched. I begged my parents to drive me to clubs to watch the city’s local musicians. My nights were spent playing along with records, attempting to acquire the solid steadiness of the greats I listened to, to learn the language they seemed to know like the back of their hands. I was fascinated with the ideas they came up with and fell even more in love with the music. The musicians spoke to each other in long, flowing, phrases and I was eager to join the conversation. Another year had gone by and I felt prepared to take on my next audition. The nerves were still there, but my confidence in my playing was far better than the last time l'd tried out. The process was almost identical to my last audition, but my performance was entirely different. When the results came out, I only had to look once to find my name listed under the title "Drummer." Today, jazz is as much a language for me as it is a style of music. I often sit in the corner of The Parlour, a club in downtown Providence known and loved by musicians all around the city. I'm having a "conversation" with the bass player. He shares his thoughts and tosses me ideas that I receive and build off of, though no words are exchanged. We are speaking in notes and rhythms. We are speaking in jazz.

They are all dressed in black. They make their instruments sing in perfect harmony, the music coming out like long flowing sentences. I watch them in awe, but most of all, I watch the drummer. He holds the sticks as if they are made of glass, bouncing them off the drums. He stomps his foot on the hi-hat and bops his head coolly to the beat. At that moment I know I want it to be me, sitting on the left-hand side of the stage, slightly hidden from the crowd behind huge cymbals. A year later, I would get my chance… I sat down before the judges, ready to audition the piece I had spent the last month preparing. I could feel their eyes on me, burning through the huge cymbals. "Whenever you're ready," the director said. I nodded and picked up my sticks to play. My eyes moved swiftly across the page, skimming over measures of syncopated rhythms. My grip on the sticks tightened. Suddenly the drums felt unfamiliar to me - the sticks slippery and the music a blur of notes. Then it was over. I looked up to see the neutral faces of the three judges as they clapped. Now only time would tell if I would spend my first year of high school alongside the jazz band members I so greatly admired. A couple of weeks went by, and I walked into school to find a group of kids clustered around a piece of paper taped to the wall. As I got closer, I realized it was the roster of the 2019-2020 jazz band. I joined them, scanning the paper with my eyes. I checked. I double-checked. I triple-checked. My name was not there. Although I felt disheartened, my desire to earn a seat behind the drum set was unrelenting. I started working with a private drum teacher. He introduced me to "Soul Station" by Hank Mobley, the very first bebop album I had ever heard. The smooth notes and rhythms, the high tempo swing - it was addicting. I would come home from school, turn on the TV, and practice my rudiments on a practice pad while I watched. I begged my parents to drive me to clubs to watch the city’s local musicians. My nights were spent playing along with records, attempting to acquire the solid steadiness of the greats I listened to, to learn the language they seemed to know like the back of their hands. I was fascinated with the ideas they came up with and fell even more in love with the music. The musicians spoke to each other in long, flowing, phrases and I was eager to join the conversation. Another year had gone by, and I felt prepared to take on my next audition. The nerves were still there, but my confidence in my playing was far better than the last time I'd tried out. The process was almost identical to my last audition, but my performance was entirely different. When the results came out, I only had to look once to find my name listed under the title "Drummer." Today, jazz is as much a language for me as it is a style of music. I often sit in the corner of The Parlour, a club in downtown Providence known and loved by musicians all around the city. I'm having a "conversation" with the bass player. He shares his thoughts and tosses me ideas that I receive and build off, though no words are exchanged. We are speaking in notes and rhythms. We are speaking in jazz.