On the day of my first performance at Carnegie Hall, my mind was filled with nervousness and fear of not performing my best. As I waited backstage, I tuned my violin over and over again by plucking the strings and repeatedly finger-motioning the same chromatic scale. As the last performer’s piece came to an end, I watched her take a grand pause and gesture. As the sound of the crowd’s applause filled the hall, I knew it was my turn.
Staring into the backstage monitor, my mind drifted back to an hour earlier, when I had gulped down my teacher’s “exclusive” recipe to avoid shaking–bananas. Apparently, the potassium and other electrolytes the banana contains help regulate muscle contractions and nerve impulses, thereby preventing shaking. It didn’t work.
Images flashed through my mind: the reckless moment I decided to play the piece that my teacher advised against. The countless hours of practice crammed in front of the basement washing machine. And the months and years of pressing against the calluses, seeking comfort in their familiar ache, just like I’m doing now. The world around me dissolved–I could barely hear anything. The audience’s thunderous applause, the backstage chaos, and even the stagehand’s approaching footsteps…all seemed to fade away. My breathing became shallow and rapid as the scale of the moment loomed before me.
I watched for an eternity while the stagehand adjusted the Steinway piano’s angle, and then removed the music stand. A hall of hundreds of people stood completely silent before him. I gripped the neck of my violin like a club.
Just as the stagehand finished and stepped away, one of Carnegie Hall’s faculty members approached me. I was a little shocked, but I assumed I just needed to wait a bit longer. Instead, he looked at me and asked, kindly, “Are you ready for this?”
He sounded as if he were speaking to a professional violinist. He was speaking to me. He wasn’t smiling outright, but I could feel the affirmation and belief in his words. My fear and anxiety melted away. With calm confidence, I met his gaze and responded, “Yes.”
He stepped aside, gesturing for me to walk onto the stage. “The stage is yours,” he said with a gentle smile, “Enjoy.”
I walked onto the stage with confidence and excitement. A simple moment like that–a stranger’s simple yet powerful encouragement–reminded me of my true passion and love for music. I took my time, stood in the center and took a bow. The warm stage lights enveloped me as I scanned the crowd and smiled elegantly, like Hilary Hahn in one of her concerts. The stagehand’s smile remained in my mind.
It was one of the first times someone had treated me like a professional violinist, like a true musician, and that empowerment carried me through my performance. The concert went well, but what I remember most was that kindness. His small yet meaningful gesture affirmed my identity in a way I will never forget.
Weiyi Jing, is a 16-year-old writer and musician. This piece explores the tension between fear and passion. It is a story about performance, but more importantly, it is a story about belief—how someone else’s confidence can awaken your own. Weiyi studies violin at the Manhattan School of Music Precollege and attends The Brearley School.
