Heather Seanor

SAXOPHONE

Parents, teachers, and friends of the music students at Glenmora's biggest high school almost filled the large auditorium. The November recital was the first in a series of three recitals for the students during the school year; inevitably, for all involved, it was the most exhausting to prepare for and listen to. The second show of skill and talent took place during the week-long Mardi Gras parades in February. The first week of June was when the final concert was held. It was during the November recital when Ebony decided she wanted to play the saxophone.

Ebony Monroe came to school for the second time that humid November evening to hear her friend Tara play the piano. Although she began to yawn two numbers before her friend's, Ebony paid close attention to the music Tara was making, pounding the keys of the school's brand new piano. When Tara was finished, Ebony clapped as loudly as she could. She even tried to let loose a piercing whistle which resulted in her spraying spittle on her legs.

As Tara disappeared behind the crimson curtain, a short, pudgy, bushy-black-haired boy stepped to the microphone, a shiny saxophone hanging from his neck by a thick leather strap. Ebony sat up straight. Until her grandfather died six years before, he would play his jazz and big band albums whenever Ebony visited him. And he would tap his feet, snap his fingers, and whistle along with the guys making all the noise that sounded so good. That is where Ebony got her first taste of the saxophone. But in the auditorium, sitting in the dark, watching the stage, was her first taste in person.

This boy, who introduced himself as a sophomore, had been playing the saxophone for three years. Immediately after he started blowing into the mouthpiece, Ebony could feel the energy of the notes course through her body and stimulate her eyes, ears, brain, lungs, lips, and fingers. She found herself holding her hands like the bushy-haired boy, as if there were a shiny instrument in her hands. The music that came from the boy's lungs and fingers piqued Ebony's interest so much that she decided right then, sitting in the auditorium of her high school, that she, Ebony Monroe, was going to be a black, female, professional saxophonist–and she was going to be so good that her grandfather, wherever he may have been, would be able to snap his fingers and tap his feet to the rhythm of her music.

"I wunna play the saxophone," Ebony excitedly told her mother when she got home from the recital. She stepped out of her sandals onto the cold, tiled floor.

"You want to what?" her mother asked.

"Play the saxophone. I heard this kid playin' at the recital–he was up right after Tara, and that's what I wunna do." Her dark eyes sparkled.

Mrs. Monroe was standing at the kitchen sink drying the suds from her hands with a ragged, dish towel. She sighed, tossing the towel on the counter. Ebony's mother was a tall woman, who attracted attention when she walked into a room. Her walnut-colored skin shone at all times during the day, and when she walked, she looked as if she were floating, always dignified, always looking straight ahead. Ebony looked very much like her mother, although she would never be as tall. Mrs. Monroe spoke slowly and articulately, so she cringed at her daughter's slang and misuse of the language Ebony practiced well until she got to ninth grade and started hanging around girls whose misuse of the language was no big deal, or even a thought.

"Please, Ebony, slow down when you speak so that people can understand you," she told her daughter, who, by this time, had her head buried in the refrigerator. "While you're at it, clean up your way of speaking so employers will know that you are an intelligent young woman. You don't get that from me."

"Do you really think that some guy won't hire me cuz a the way I talk?" she asked, fixing the small beige bow barrette in her hair that was askew.

Mrs. Monroe nodded her head definitively, touched the string of pearls around her neck.

"Well, that's stupid."

"Yes, well, one cannot judge a book by its cover, Ebony. You look lovely on the outside, but once you open your mouth, that is a different story."

Ebony sat looking, as if in a trance, at her mother's mocha-painted lips moving. She certainly did not want her mother telling her how stupid she sounded. But the little lecture began to sink in, just a bit.

"That makes some sense, Mom," Ebony said, pulling a pickle from the jar. "I'll give ya that much. But if I'm gonna be a famous saxophone player, no one'll care what my speech is like."

"Please tell me more about this saxophone interest."

"Like I said before, I saw this kid at the recital. And you know how Poppy had all those old jazz records and had me listenin' to 'em since I could crawl? Well, that got to me. Cuz when that kid started playin', I tell ya, I felt chills all over–like this surge was surging through me."

"What kind of surge?"

"Energy, Mom," Ebony said, matter-of-factly, unbuttoning the wrist buttons of the red silk blouse she was wearing. "It was like God was tellin' me that's what I'm supposed to be doing. Playing the sax."

Ebony's face looked very pure and innocent. Her feelings were genuine, not like when she would try convincing her mother to let her stay out past her curfew, or trying to cover herself with lies when she was late. There were no lies to be told as she sat with her mother at the kitchen table. Mrs. Monroe listened attentively to what Ebony was saying. She sat tall and straight in the chair, resting her long hands and fingers on the table.

"And ya know what's really weird? Tara had to drag me to that thing. Good thing I was there, huh?"

"Are you sure that's what you want to do, dear? Play a musical instrument?"

Ebony slapped the table with a strong, slender hand. "You can't do that."

"Excuse me?"

"What you jist said," Ebony told her mother, somewhat angrily. "You followed your dream to be a dancer. You did that till your knee got too hurt. That's what you wunted to do with your life. And didn't you and Dad meet at some protest thing somewhere in Washington?"

Mrs. Monroe looked narrow-eyed at her daughter.

"Now you're an accountant," Ebony continued. "You did what you felt was right. That's the same with me."

"Where will you get a saxophone, Ebony?" her mother asked. "Money is not exactly growing on a tree in the backyard. After we pay for the new roof next month, money will be extremely tight around here. We're living paycheck to paycheck."

"What about that deal that Charlie was workin' on that was supposed to be worth so much money?" Ebony pulled another pickle from the jar, crunched into it loudly, awaiting an answer from her mother. An answer she knew her mother could not give her. "He's another one, Mom. One scam after another with him. Mr. Wanna Make It Rich."

"Aren't you the mature one now." Mrs. Monroe stood up. She towered over her only child. "What Charlie does is his business and mine. I take care of you and your necessities. I've told you many times that he cared for us when–"

"–Dad died four years ago," Ebony said. She turned a thick silver band round and round on her thumb. "Cared for you is more like it. He didn't even know me then. You're the one who fell in love, not me."

Mrs. Monroe's tone became more harsh as she continued. "He took us into this house when we had nothing, young lady. You're too hard on him. Believe me, it's no secret that you don't love him the way I do. He's a good man, Ebony, even though he's not a very business savvy man. We live well enough."

After a few seconds of silence Ebony said, "I'll earn the money. I can have a yard sale with all the crap in the garage that we moved here and don't need no more. There's lots of that kind a junk."

Mrs. Monroe showed her daughter a slight smile. Her way of telling Ebony that that was fine with her. A good idea.

"Do you have a plan, Ebony? Or do you think that once you have the saxophone in your hands that you'll automatically know how to play it?"

Ebony shook her head. "Yawp. That's right, Mom." She sat back in the chair, hard. Crossed her arms. "Forget it. I'll make you change your mind 'bout all this once I get goin' and get good. You'll see." She walked away, leaving the half-empty pickle jar to sweat on the table.	"Wait a second!" Mrs. Monroe walked over to Ebony. "I'm not trying to make you feel bad, Ebony. I just want you to really know what you're doing. And I would never try to stop you from pursuing a dream." She reached out and put her hands on her daughter's shoulders. "Make sure you talk to someone at school about this so you know what you have in store for yourself and what, exactly, you need to do."

Ebony smiled and hugged her mother, kissed her on the cheek.

"One more thing, Ebony," Mrs. Monroe said, stroking her daughter's shiny black hair. "If you don't have every grade eighty or above on your report card in three weeks, then you won't be pursuing this dream just yet. Is that understood?"

"Yeah," Ebony said, "I guess. Three weeks'll fly by in no time. In the meantime, I'll find out all that stuff you told me to find out."

"That's very sensible of you."

Ebony left her mother standing in the living room as she walked toward her bedroom, knowing that the test she had the next day just got more important.

/	/	/

Because she had no prior experience, Ebony could not get into the music class at school. So, just before Christmas, Ebony Monroe enrolled in an after-school music class given by the music teacher at her school. The lessons and use of instrument were free. This was fortunate because Ebony hadn't had that yard sale yet.

At first, she couldn't practice as much as she wanted to because she had to keep her grades above eighty. And that was difficult for Ebony. As a young girl, she had fallen off of a swing and suffered some minor head trauma. The trauma, however, was major enough to give her a learning disability. Grades five through eight were spent in special education, but when she got to high school, Ebony was mainstreamed into regular, standard level classes–all except for math. Even in eleventh grade, Ebony was still attending special math classes. But that didn't bother her at all because she knew that she could learn better, instead of failing in regular math classes.

The struggle was not only because of a learning disability, it was also partly Ebony's lack of interest in school; she was not the most conscientious student in Glenmora, nor did she want to push herself harder, harder, harder. Her mother had given up the fight with her, but enforced the eighty-percent rule. Basically, Ebony did enough work in school to keep her grades hovering around the middle C range, getting the occasional B or B-.

Ebony fell in love with the music she could make. When she first began the lessons, she was frustrated with reading the music. Once she knew the notes, her instrument, and could play scales, she had her firm foundation. Every free minute she got at home, Ebony was in the basement practicing. She would even go over to Tara's house and play with her. Three months later, her instructor was so impressed with Ebony's progress and performance, that he informed her of a one-time, underprivileged-area scholarship that would be her ticket to music camp that summer. The scholarship would be hers if she wanted it. Her instructor knew that by the time the camp began in July, Ebony would be good enough to attend on the intermediate level. That news made Ebony very excited.

"That sounds wonderful, dear," Mrs. Monroe told her daughter. "I've heard you downstairs and I have to admit that you sound really good. I'm proud of you for sticking with this and really going all out. If only you did that for your gr–"

"Not a lecture, please, Mom," Ebony groaned. "Can't you tell anything else that's happened with me?" Ebony smiled, exposing the yellowed canine tooth that contrasted with the whiteness of her other teeth.

Her mother shrugged, giving her daughter a furtive glance.

"My language has improved," Ebony said proudly. "Can't you tell?"

"Yes, I can...a little bit," her mother said, turning her string of pearls so the clasp rested on the back of her long neck. "Still a long way to go, but good work."

Ebony, her mother, and Charlie went through the garage, basement, and shed, to find anything that they could possibly sell at the yard sale. There was so much extra furniture cluttering up rooms, the garage, the shed, that Ebony had more than the $250 she needed to purchase the Elkhart Student Model Alto that she had her eye on. The other money earned went toward getting a new, used washing machine. Because Ebony's final report card for the year showed that her grades, although not fantastic, had stayed the same or increased slightly, her mother allowed her to attend Jurgen Engelhardt's music camp in Nashville that July.

The four-week camp was divided into two groups–intermediate and advanced. The intermediate group included students who had been playing their respective instruments for less than one year and had excelled in their lessons. The instructors were there to teach and guide the intermediate students, not to cause anxiety over becoming an advanced student by the end of the four-week period. There was, however, no room for inadequacy or sloth. Students were there for the instruction they received six days of the week. On top of actual music-making, students were expected to learn from the textbook and notes given by each instructor. Ebony felt very comfortable in her classes and with her instructor, John Bol, who had five students to work with. And she was, in fact, the only black female taking saxophone instruction.

After ten days at camp, John Bol noticed Ebony's fast progress and gave her a harder piece to work on. She exhibited a musical gift and had an insatiable desire to improve. The saxophone became Ebony's heart beat; she needed it to survive. It was part of her spirit–part of her being. There was a sense of great accomplishment inside of her when she learned a new piece or improved upon an older one. And although Ebony lay on her bed some nights, crying into her pillow with exhaustion or frustration, her dedication and hard work proved successful, for she was soon ranked as one of the top musicians of the thirty intermediates.

At the close of the four-week instruction session, Ebony's tremendous talent and drive surely paid off, as she was invited back to the camp for the following summer. The cost of the camp was $2,200, not including travel. Knowing how, as her mother had said, that money was not growing in the backyard, Ebony was worried that she would not be able to afford the cost of attending the camp again. This first trip to Nashville was free; she had gotten the only underprivileged-area scholarship and that scholarship would not be offered for the next year.

As she was leaving the dorm to board the bus, Ebony saw a flyer on a bulletin board advertising the availability of ten scholarships, each covering the cost of the instruction; she would only have to pay the remaining $1,200, plus travel expenses. Not surprisingly, the competition for the scholarships was intense. Both outstanding academic and musical achievements were criteria for being considered for the award. And the competition spanned the whole state of Louisiana–affluent and underprivileged applicants alike.

/	/	/

"I've got a shot," Ebony said, "at going back again next year, Mom. On a scholarship. But that's gonna be real tough because of all the competition."

Charlie, Ebony, and her mother were sitting at the kitchen table eating pork chops, rice, and peas, talking about her experience just after she returned from Nashville.

"What was it like?" Mrs. Monroe asked.

"When I first got there–like I told you on the phone–I was like a scared little kid. But that went away after the first day and I knew what was gonna happen and all." Ebony poked at the peas on her plate. "I don't really know how to explain the feeling I had, but it was like this energy flowing through me. It was like I belonged there. I fit in and I was one of the best of the intermediates. That doesn't mean that I didn't struggle at all, because I did. Even cried about it."

"That's wonderful, dear," her mother said. "I know that you did your best and learned a lot. From what you've already said, you improved a tremendous amount." Mrs. Monroe was smiling at her daughter; she reached out for Ebony's hand. "I'm very, very proud of you. I need for you to know that. I can tell that you are dedicated to something, for the first time in many years. If you keep up the work and the passion, that dream of yours," she said, squeezing Ebony's hand, "will be a reality in no time at all."

"I agree with that," Charlie said. "Go all out and you get in return."

Ebony started to cry, talking about being invited back again, the cost of the everything, the ten scholarships, and her concern about the competition.

"That was so good for me for lots of reasons. I've never been around kids like those–well, not so many at once. I picked up some good habits as far as speaking, studying, and playing go."

Mrs. Monroe closed her briefly as she grinned and nodded. "Even still, Ebony," she began, "twelve hundred dollars is a lot of money for four weeks. It's ridiculous if you think about it."

The look Ebony gave her mother was one that said, "I can't help that, Mom."

"But you know that my grades will never beat out those other kids'," she sobbed. "I'd bet that ninety percent of them kids that were there get all A's."

"What about another, less expensive camp?" Charlie offered. "I'm sure there's lots of camps you can go to in the summer. Your mom's right, Eb–that's way too much money. I can check online for ya if ya want."

Ebony did not look at him, but merely shrugged. Mrs. Monroe smiled appreciatively at Charlie, her skin and eyes aglow.

"Then we'll just have to get you on that level!"

"Yeah, right, Mom," Ebony said. "Never."

"With that attitude," her mother began, "you'll be making C's again in the fall and for the rest of your high school career."

Ebony hung her head, still stabbing at her peas.

"But if you somehow dig down deep inside and pull out the same determination you have to be a black, female saxophonist..." Mrs. Monroe did not have to finish her sentence. Ebony looked up at her, big tears falling from her big eyes, knowing exactly what her mother meant.

/	/	/

Throughout her senior year of high school, Ebony worked extremely hard at her talent; she was a whole different person, always wanting to learn more and more–almost to the point of exhaustion. Her mother took her instrument away from her for one weekend a month so Ebony would go do something with her friends.

Ebony performed in recitals, just as her friend Tara had done the previous year. There was the first recital in November where Ebony impressed the audience, her classmates, and her teacher with her music and stage presence. With her coal-black hair pulled up behind her head in a bun, and her black heels, Ebony looked very professional. Even though the performance was not without slight flaws, the ways in which Ebony Monroe moved her body and blew her heart and soul into that saxophone were energizing. Mrs. Monroe and Charlie were there and stood up with the rest of the audience when Ebony was finished her performance. The scattered sequins on her loose, black sun dress sparkled as much as her dark eyes. Pride beamed from Ebony's face as she made one small bow after another. And she shivered with excitement because she knew that, despite a learning disability, she would make her dream come true. At this point, however, her dream had evolved into an obtainable goal.

In February, Ebony shocked parade-goers during Mardi Gras. Those few performances got her some media attention and a two write-ups in the local papers. She was even approached by a man who organized cash-prize competitions for the Upper-Louisiana Amateur Musical Talent Board. The first and only performance that Ebony gave for the Board won her third-place and fifty dollars that she immediately put into the savings account she opened, trying to save the money for Jurgen Englehardts's camp, in case the scholarship fell through. Charlie had found some much cheaper camps for Ebony to attend, but her heart was set on working with John Bol again. She had already gotten her letter of recommendation from her music instructor at school.

Although her grades had improved by the time applications for the twenty scholarships were due, Ebony learned, just before graduation, that she was not one of the students chosen for the award. And, unfortunately, her invitation was revoked because of her low academic grades, a new stipulation that she was unaware of. That disappointment did not last long, though. Two weeks after graduation, Ebony performed in a competition in Baton Rouge. She gave one of her few meticulous performances and was quite impressive. Brand Freeman, a local jazz legend, joined Ebony on stage, later telling her that he couldn't help but play beside her. The older man and Ebony took turns playing different snippets of songs. When Ebony had run through her whole repertoire, which consisted of seven shorter pieces, she started from the beginning again. Her lungs giving out, Ebony had to surrender to the saxophone legend. Brand Freeman gave her a sweaty hug that a reporter captured through the lens of his camera. The crowd yelled and cheered for them.

After the excitement died down at the event, Ebony was given the first-place award of $200. While she talked with some of her fellow competitors, including the short, pudgy, bushy- haired boy, Ebony was approached by one of the people who had arranged the event.

"Excuse me, Miss Monroe," the woman said to Ebony. "May I have a few moments of your time?" This woman was just a bit taller than Ebony and wore a black and white spandex dress with a pair of black flip-flops. Her toes were dusty.

Ebony walked with her to the side of the concessions bar.

"First of all," the woman began, "congratulations on your performance. That was some very impressive playing. I've never seen Brand Freeman act like that toward an amateur." The woman looked down at her over her small, black-framed glasses. Ebony thanked her very much.	"And secondly, Miss Monroe," she continued, with a smile that kept growing, "my colleagues and I were wondering if you would be at all interested in attending the new music school in New Orleans."

Ebony was speechless. After having cooled off from her performance, she began to sweat again. The humid night air aided in her perspiring. Ebony shifted her weight from foot to foot, held her mouth open as if she wanted to speak. Only nothing came out.

"I can see from the expression on your face that you would be interested."

Ebony nodded her head slowly, still taking in the shock of the woman's proposal.

"It's not been advertised for this event," the promoter said, "but there is a free semester at the school waiting for the first-place winner. And, well, that'd be you."

"Yes," Ebony finally said. "Of course I'm interested." This was just the thing Ebony was hoping would happen for her. "Do you look at my high school grades?"

"Not at all," the woman said, shaking her head. "We are interested in your talent. But, if after the first semester your grades are not what they should be, then you will not be asked to continue your studies in that program." The woman looked Ebony right in her eye. "We take the complete education very seriously. You just won't be learning any history, geography, math...that sort of thing. All music-based. Right now we're trying to do some recruiting. "

Again, Ebony could not find the words to express her thoughts. So she just stood and stared at the woman.

"What do you think, then? You up for the challenge?" the woman asked.

"Definitely."

Ebony filled out a form with her address and phone number so the woman could send her the necessary information and tuition waver for her first semester. When she got home that night, she was bursting with excitement.

"Things are falling in place for me, Mom. I was looking forward to goin' to that camp again, but then that fell through and now this drops in my lap."

"I don't know what to say, Ebony," her mother said. "That's the best news I've heard in a long time." She stood to refill her coffee mug. "What about after the first semester? What will you do then?"

"Be invited back," Ebony said without hesitation. "I want to study music and that's what I'm gonna do. I'll make it happen. This is what's inside me."

"Well, if you think you're being realistic..."

"Don't you see?" Ebony pleaded. "It's what I'm supposed to do. This is my gift, Mom. You had a gift for dancing, and now for numbers. Someone in New Orleans thinks enough of my gift...my talent...to give me this chance. I've gotta take it and see what happens."

"That's the answer I was looking for, my musician daughter," her mother said, walking back to the table from the coffee maker. "I hope that you excel at your studies and your skills and become famous!"

During that summer, Ebony enforced upon herself a very regimented practice routine in preparation for music school. To stay in her competitor's mode, Ebony entered a few contests, did not win any prizes, but took away from each event more experience, and confidence that she was a definite contender. Before leaving for school, she learned two new songs, and just about perfected the other seven she had already been practicing. Ebony was working so hard that her mother was worried.

"Ebony, dear," Mrs. Monroe said one day in July, "take a break and go to a movie with Tara and your other friends. I know they've called you. Why haven't you called back?"

"This is what's important now, Mom." Ebony pointed at the saxophone dangling from her neck. "Plus, I have called Tara a few times and she's come over half a dozen times while you and Charlie were at work." She put her lips over her mouthpiece then turned back toward her mother. "Don't worry, Mom. We're going to the fair tonight for a few hours. I won't become one of the those people that never go outside...a, uh...whatchamacallit?"

"Recluse?"

"Yeah! A recluse. Thanks for the concern, though."

"You're welcome," Mrs. Monroe said, walking toward the basement's staircase. "I'm very proud of you, Ebony. For working so hard."

Ebony smiled at the back of her mother's body, tall and thin, climbing the stairs with ease, her long hands and fingers at her sides. When the basement door was closed, Ebony started to play again.