A Trombone in a world of Trumpets.

I got to pick a musical instrument at that age in school when you're offered experiences designed to shape, mould you into something more exotic, to help you become cultured, mature. To grow up.

I remember it like it was yesterday, leaving an indelible blueprint on my psyche the shade of shame, humiliation and regret, like a recently branded animal owned by a neighbouring farm.

There were about 10 of us lined up. With the tallest at the front, I would be the last to choose, given the luxury or in my case burden, of witnessing everyone else's choices before my own.

The first peer walked to the front, announced loudly what instrument they wanted to play to the teacher taking notes and exited left. As each peer completed this transaction, we walked two steps forward. Each step taken, took me one spiral deeper into a mind and body so conflicted I was scared I would pass out or explode. The incessant internal chatter was two simple words agonisingly pleaded over and over:

Say trombone. Say trombone. Say trombone.

To this day I have no idea why I wanted to play the trombone. It would have been taller than I was, possibly heavier and totally impractical. But still, I desperately wanted to learn to play one.

Every one of the nine classmates in front of me asked for a trumpet. Every single one. Yet, every time I heard the word spoken, I shrank a little more, I swallowed sickly, struggling to stay calm. I knew the inevitability of the sell-out-treachery I was about to commit to my 10-year-old self before I even said the seven letters that sealed my betrayal and heartbreaking fate…

Say trombone. Say trombone. Say trombone.

Lisa, what instrument would you like to play?

Trumpet, please.

And there it was. The moment that would haunt me for the next two decades and cost me more than my 10-year-old-self could ever comprehend. For the record, I still have a dislike for trumpets today and I had never seen, touched or held a trombone.

Two months ago, my sister was in Aldi and called me whilst wandering the aisles. She asked if I wanted a brass instrument. I laughed.

They have trumpets.

Trumpets? In a supermarket?

One trombone left, want it?

What?

One trombone left; want it?

Trombone? Yes, please.

My sister bought me the trombone, which is bigger than me, almost as heavy and I still can't play it. But it's mine - a shining, brassy reminder of a moment when I chose to trade being who I was (a trombone dreamer), for who I was never meant to be (a trumpet player), all to fit in, be a part of and please you so you'll like me.

My sister never knew this story or that she gave me the gift 40 years later of a new ending. An epilogue that reminds that we are never too old, never too small, that it is never too late to rewrite your own story, with the grace of a second chance and a spare room with a trombone in it that you'll maybe never play, but finally, you got to own.

H2BH 002/365