I cannot remember a time in my childhood when music was not present in our house. My father, a self-taught musician, made sure of that. Whether it was the gentle sound of a record on our phonograph, the harsher quality of a CD in our stereo, or the frequent band rehearsals, our house was rarely quiet. Our bookshelves have been forever damaged from the intense weight of hundreds of CDs and records constantly bearing down on them. It’s been a long time since there’s been any room on these bent shelves, and the piles of CDs tottering dangerously on the top of the bookcases and stereos continue to grow.

My father’s occupation as a software engineer took the backseat to what I saw as his true profession. As far as I was concerned, my dad had the coolest job in the world. “My dad’s a musician,” I would tell anyone who showed the slightest interest in either music or my parents. I loved going with him to band practices, meeting the band members, and watching them play. Even though I didn’t understand the value of jazz or the various other styles of music he played, I loved the music because it was his. As I matured, I began to appreciate the songs he played because they were beautiful songs, not only because he was playing them.

My father’s word on music was law to me, and from him I’ve learned to respect music and all musical equipment. I’ve never touched the underside of a CD for fear of damaging the sound quality. While my friends download hundreds of songs for free off of the internet, I continue to pay for overpriced CDs, because even if the record label receives most of my money, I insist on showing my support for the artists. When I was young, I learned to like songs my father liked, and even now that I’ve begun to cultivate my own musical tastes, I value no one’s opinion as greatly as his.

When I was in sixth grade, my father was diagnosed with thyroid cancer, and for years he did not feel well enough to play music. For the first time, our house was quiet. Our piano collected dust and lost its tune, his many amplifiers and other instruments eventually were shielded by cloth, and our stereo fell silent, for any loud noises caused him pain. Although he is doing much better now, his vocal cords were damaged from the two surgeries he’s had on his neck, and in the second surgery, a nerve in his shoulder was accidentally cut, making it impossible for him to play his bass again.

I don’t know exactly when it was that I fell in love with music for myself; when it changed from a child’s admiration of her father to her own passion. Perhaps my love of music was always there, but I only realized it after it was taken out of my everyday life. After he fell ill, I focused on the obvious difficulties. I felt sympathy for the band mates and friends he never felt well enough to see, and to whom I never knew what to say when they came to visit. I worried about our financial situation. I worried about understanding my schoolwork without my father’s help. Yet there was something else wrong. Eventually, I saw that I needed music to be a part of my life, and at the end of last year, I auditioned for my school’s vocal jazz ensemble.

I miss his music most now that I am older, now that I’ve come to appreciate but am only beginning to understand music in the same way he does. I think back to his practice sessions with his band mate Sheila, him sitting on our brown leather ottoman, her swaying in front of the microphone. They told me that I was welcome to sing with her, but I was too shy. Now I wouldn’t dream of letting the opportunity to sing with him and Sheila pass by. Since then I have fallen in love with voices and harmonies, and singing has become a part of my daily life through my participation in vocal jazz. Whether conscious of it or not, I always have a tune flowing through my head, the melody rolling around in my brain, precariously ready to tumble out of my mouth. I can’t imagine what it must be like for him to be unable to play the music he loves so much. It’s hard enough for me to keep my mouth shut for a few hours, and I don’t know how I would handle it if I were no longer able to sing.

I sincerely regret that our musical paths never got to cross, that he is deprived of the opportunity to teach me and share his passion with me at the time I am most open to receiving his help; that we were deprived of making music together when I am most ready to. I content myself with believing that he has passed on his role as the source of ever-present music in our house to me. I know that my love and excitement for music makes him happy, and that he enjoys seeing me working hard at the piano to engrain a song in my mind. Music has become such a fundamental part of who I am that I can’t imagine it ever being absent from my life again. Creation of music is now a passion that we will always share.

 This essay was written by Elizabeth Arakaki, Hale Class of 2007, Carleton College Class of 2011.