How Special is it?

I've been asked to write about my special interests outside of books. If they asked me, I could write a book about my love affair with books, but we already used up all our time talking about that and I'm sure I didn't say so many of the things I wanted to just about that topic before I was so abruptly redirected to a completely unrelated subject. I was not happy about this as I'm so rarely given free reign to discuss my special interests. Learning to close the tap before the deluge of ideas and thoughts about my subjects of interest spills out was one of the first lessons in masking I received those many years ago in the Philippines A lesson that's been reinforced many hundreds of times over in the intervening years: no one really wants to hear all you have to say on this subject, so just don't even get started.

Loving books isn't particularly unusual at any age. "Bookworm" is rather an endearing term and "bibliophile" hardly speaks of anything outlandish. Many people find comfort, solace, inspiration and adventure through books. Libraries and bookstores exist to foster this love of reading. So where does this morph into something "unusually intense"? I don't know. I think lots of people love the smell of books and the feeling of being surrounded by them. Do others experience unbridled joy when they walk into a library or bookstore? Am I unusual in my desire to read constantly? Is it "normal" to feel such affinity for the characters in books that their loss and triumphs are my own?

But I digress, I'm supposed to be talking about something other than books…

What I know was unusual was my intense passion for jazz that began when I was 12. Apart from my dad's Antonio Carlos Jobim record that I grew up with, I don't really know where I first heard jazz, but it was love from the first syncopated beat. I was resolute in my desire to play the tenor sax and poured myself into it from the first time it came out of the case. I’ll never forget the taste of the reed on my tongue and the incredible sound that resonated through my whole being the first time I blew through it.

It wasn't easy being a self-proclaimed jazz aficionado at the age of 13 (especially as most 13 year old girls wouldn't have the foggiest idea what 'aficionado' meant), particularly before the dawn of digital radio and social media. The majority of my peers, even those in the middle school jazz band, didn't share my intense passion for this art form and certainly weren't spending every free moment of the day practicing or listening to this incredible music. Our public radio station, which I could just manage to tune into from my bedroom, played jazz all day Saturday and segued into Blues Stage late that night. I would be glued to those speakers from dawn until I passed out late in the night, sucking up every note and riff.

My parents were tolerant and generally benignly neglectful on this front. As with the rest of my childhood, I was pretty well allowed to do whatever I wanted because I never caused any trouble. Who could argue with their kid for reading or practicing music all day? But it came to a bristling head when they insisted I must go to Honour's Camp at the end of 8th grade. For most of my classmates, this was an incredibly exciting experience that they worked hard to earn the right to attend for three years; for me it was a forced march out of my comfort zone that filled me with dread and anxiety. It also happened to fall on the weekend that the Army Corps Jazz Band was offering a workshop at the local high school. I pleaded with my parents not to make me go, giving this once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to study under the tutelage of some of the best jazz musicians in the country as my strongest argument. But they felt it best if I did things with kids my own age for once, thinking I would regret it if I missed out. Instead of bonding with my peers as I was supposed to, I was publicly humiliated the first evening then spent the rest of the weekend on my bunk (isolated from all the others in the cabin) listening to my walkman, which I had to hold up to the window to tune into my weekend jazz program. I still feel sick, 25 years after the fact, that I had to endure this torture and my parents were sorry too.

Fortunately, throughout most of my middle school and high school years, I was given access to groups of talented high school and college students who took me under their wings. I played with anyone anywhere any time I could. I would sit up all night listening to classic jazz recordings with well versed mentors, absorbing their worldly wisdom and internalising the brilliance of the masters they introduced me to. I had incredible talent, "chops" in the jazz vernacular, and was invited to play with professional bands.

I learned to sing jazz too and found I could easily emulate the styles of all the Great Ladies. Memorising lyrics and hearing all the parts of music is a life-long innate talent, so I took to vocals effortlessly. Singing was infinitely more portable than the tenor, so as life got more complicated, it came to the fore.

Not content just to listen to, sing and play jazz, I also needed to know all I could about the musicians behind the sounds. I read liner notes, biographies, magazine and newspaper articles. The Internet was only still in its infancy at this time, so there was no Dr. Google to feed my need to know, however I was thrilled that I could take a History of Jazz class at university and studied as hard for that, if not harder, than for calculus or chemistry (much to my detriment in those other classes, unfortunately).

In those years, I gravitated towards groups that shared this passion and chose my initial university on its reputation for excellence in science and music. I had ready access to my people and still maintain a few friendships forged from those two shared passions.

Sadly, I eventually had to accept that I was spreading myself too thin and focus my time and energy on science instead of jazz. This was a very difficult choice, one I foresaw coming from the very early years, but put off making until my hand was forced. My circumstances at my second university made it impossible to continue playing and listening to jazz regularly. Fortunately, there was a second revival for a few years whilst I was in grad school and dating a fellow Earth scientist who was also a talented pianist. Our shared passions for jazz, science, and the great outdoors allowed our relationship to flourish and was the cornerstone for our friendships with others. Sadly, again, the end of that relationship also marked the end of playing music for me. I still have my sax, and I would still love to play, but there is a great heaviness and despair that accompanies it. I know I can't put the time and energy into it that it would require to be great again, and so I ignore it completely. I hope that some day I can return to it, but for now it fills me with an intense sense of loss even to contemplate it.