sortment of (mostly‐plas c) toy instruments at home
– tambourines and whistles, drums and kazoos, ma‐
racas, plas c xylophones, horns, recorders, even an
electric keyboard – none of them possessed the al‐
lure that a real instrument held. They just weren’t as
cool. My parents had let me hold my brother’s ny
violin before, and I was intrigued by its ….. well ….. its
real‐ness. It looked so fragile, so intricate – so un‐toy
‐ish. It belonged to adults and their curious reality – a
reality which fascinated me (as it probably does eve‐
ryone, at some point in their childhood) with its very
strangeness.
About a week and a half later, the violin
arrived in the mail. We took it out of its shipping box,
opened the case, and li ed the velvety cloth hiding
the violin inside. There it was.
I suddenly remembered something.
“Mama,” I said. “I need a chair. I go a get a chair.”
There was a li le play table in the living
room, where we were unpacking. I grabbed one of
the ny chairs from that, took my violin and bow, sat
down, put it between my knees, and began to play it.
Like a cello.
“Wow, that’s great, Sarah,” my mom said.
“But you know, a violin goes on your shoulder. Wan‐
na play your violin on your shoulder?”
I ignored her and con nued to play my
violin on my lap, sawing away at the strings resolute‐
ly, fascinated with my new possession and the sound
I could get out of it. A er about five minutes, I an‐
nounced that I was done and gave my violin back to
my mommy. She put it away in its case, and I moved
on to various other three‐year‐old endeavors.
Some me during the next day my mom
took my violin out of its case again and asked me if I
wanted to play it. “Yeaaaaaah!!” I replied enthusias‐
cally. Then: “I’ll get a chair.”
I got my chair (the li le one from the play
table), took my violin and bow, sat down, and began
to play it like a cello. Again.
I can imagine my mother groaning in‐
wardly, but if she was irked by my adamancy in play‐
ing my violin the wrong way, she didn’t show it
much. Instead, a er watching me for a minute or
two, she said, “Wow, Sarah, that’s really cool! But
you know, you can also play your violin on your
shoulder. Wanna try playing it on your shoulder?”
25
Evidently I did not, for I stopped only to
look up at her blankly and shake my head, as if to
say, “No. Why would I want to do