As soon as I laid my hands on the rented violin I began to practice, determined to improve. I would practice daily, scanning through the black footprint of notes that arranged themselves into simple melodies. Despite my efforts to preform with grace, my mechanics were completely unorthodox, the bow scraped across the strings creating a god-awful screeching noise that could pierce through even the thickest glass. Nevertheless, I ignored the awful cries that rang throughout the house and continued to push through the practice. The time had come for our final concert, the ultimate test that would legitimize my violin playing ability. It would have felt so empowering to be able to rub in my mom’s face that I had taken on her challenge with ease, but I was still awful at playing the violin by the end of the year. During the concert I resorted to air playing, attempting to dodge the, “I told you so” from my mom afterward but she could tell I had been faking it. I was so frustrated at the fact that I couldn’t recite even the slightest decent sound, yet I could get past a whole team of girls on the basketball court to score the winning