Lean Into Your Strengths (You Suck)
Scooter hits the pause button halfway through my video, sparing both of us further embarrassment. He leans back in his rolling office chair and looks up at me. “I can tell you’ve been practicing,” he says, his tone gentle and considerate in a way that immediately puts me on edge. “But you’re not quite there yet.”
His words suck all the hope right out of me until my insides are a void. “Just tell me I suck at music.” I turn away, my vision blurring. Great. Like I needed to be any more embarrassed. Now I’m going to cry? I’m so pathetic.
The wheels of his chair squeak as he rolls back and forth. “You don’t ‘suck at music.’ Your rhythm is great.”
Every muscle in my body tenses. Please stop there. Naturally, he doesn’t respond to my internal pleading.
“You should lean into your strengths. What if you switched to drums?”
It’s all I can do to keep my voice from shaking. “That’s not music.”
“Rhythm is an integral part of music,” he persists, rolling his chair closer. “There are some musical styles that focus primarily on rhythm over melody. You should look some of them up and try for–”
“Yeah,” I say. “Sure. Thanks.”
Tears splash down my face as I rush from the room. Aching disappointment consumes me, made all the worse by the fact I knew this would be his reaction. Sharing my practice video had been an optimistic gamble on my part, and now I’m paying for my foolishness.
As obsessed as I am with music, I’m never winning any awards for world’s best musician. Orchestra was a struggle. Guitar lessons killed my fingers. And singing? My absolute number one passion?
Let’s just say everyone criticizes my pitch with varying degrees of gentleness. The less gentle criticisms are the easiest to take. ‘You suck’ is straightforward. When people like Scooter try to be encouraging it hurts. It hurts so freaking much. And they never seem to understand the message that they’re sending is anything but encouragement.
Lean into your strengths.
It sounds deceptively positive. People think by using that phrase, they’re focusing on the fact you have skills. They don’t realize the message is ‘Why don’t you switch to a genre or instrument that doesn’t require the thing that draws you to music? Because the coolest and most interesting part of your passion is beyond you. Make peace with your inadequacy, already.’
Of course, friends and family would never put it so bluntly. They need plausible deniability that they’re telling you to accept your mediocrity. They’ll obfuscate as much as possible, telling you things like ‘We just don’t want to see you be miserable.’
As if they know what would make you happy.
I sink onto a bench outside the apartment complex. A bicyclist zips across the path in front of me. Maybe he has a point, and I should give up. It’s not like voice lessons and hours of practice are getting me anywhere.
I can sing in the shower. In the car, as long as I don’t have passengers. It will have to be something I do alone, never sharing it with anyone else, because their reaction will never be anything more positive than mild embarrassment on my behalf.
Super.
But if I do give up singing, would I want to continue striving for musical success?
The lack of success in singing frustrates me, so maybe I would be happier drumming. But seriously, it’s messed up. Supposedly the harder you work at a skill, the more you improve. So why is it that people keep telling me to switch over to a skill I don’t even spend time actively practicing over the one I’m bruised and battered from the effort I’ve poured into it.
But as much as the whole thing sucks, it hurts almost as much when I contemplate completely cutting music out of my life. There’s my answer. Guess I’m going to be a drummer.
You’d think after a few months of drum lessons and a private teacher who gushes about how quickly I pick up on rhythms I’d be more excited about my new hobby, but I’m still waiting for the promised good feelings. That’s what everyone told me would happen, that I’d fall in love with it because the feeling of being good at something and making progress is addictive.
If anything, I’m more miserable than I was when I was taking singing lessons. For one thing, I made the mistake of telling people I was picking up drumming, which has resulted in a lot of obnoxious enthusiasm from people who could barely feign interest when I brought up singing.
How’s drumming going? Can you play for me?
How about fuck off?
But when Scooter informs me he knows a band looking for a drummer, I let him talk me into auditioning. It seems safe enough. It’s not like I’ve taken that many lessons, and there’s got to be tons of competition. If auditioning will get him off my back about the whole drumming thing, I’ll do it.
The band is nice enough. They do the whole ‘Oh, you’re Scooter’s friend’ thing, he says you’re a natural on the drums’ which is annoying, but mostly it makes me annoyed at Scooter, not at them.
As I play for them, I imagine their internal monologues going something like ‘wow. Scooter is a huge freaking liar.’ I’m fine for a beginner, I guess. But ‘a natural’? That’s definitely pushing it.
When I get home, I consider calling Scooter up and telling him exactly how much I appreciate his support, but I decide against it. It’s not like he’ll apologize for it, and I’m not in the mood to be made out to be unreasonable.
It’s the early hours of the morning when my phone buzzes, rousing me from my fitful sleep. I blink blearily at the caller ID. It’s not a number I recognize, but when I pick up the person on the other end says, “Hey! Is this Scooter’s drummer friend?”
“Jordan,” I correct.
“Yeah,” he says. “This is Brian. I’m Lunarcy’s guitarist.”
“I remember.”
“Anyway, we have practice tonight at Dave’s. I’ll sync you with the band’s google calendar there.”
A pit forms in my stomach, but I force myself to respond with a strained, “Sounds great!”
Brian hangs up. I fling my phone onto the mattress beside me and bury my face in a pillow.
My new bandmates insist on nightly practices so I can learn Lunarcy’s songs by heart. This isn’t difficult; they’re not exactly using complicated rhythms.
My entire life is now split between my day job and the band, but that’s just about the only thing I have in common with the other members of the band. Well, that and knowing Scooter, who makes a point of swinging by practices in the evening with Subway sandwiches or pizza so we don’t have to break for lunch.
It’s a thoughtful gesture that I yet again hate him for. Can’t he make a thoughtful gesture that doesn’t screw me over? I’d actually like a break from the non-stop drumming, but he’s ensured I don’t even have mealtimes as an excuse to escape.
By the time my debut performance as Lunarcy’s drummer arrives, I don’t even want to look at my drum set anymore. But since I can’t exactly play the drums without occasionally looking at the drumset, I endure what feels like hours of agony that culminate in the world’s worst afterparty.
Some girl I don’t know stumbles up to me, clutching a red solo cup. “You really rocked it out there!” She giggles, leaning against me with way too much familiarity.
“Thanks,” I say, stepping away from her. “But I think the alcohol addled your wits because I wasn’t rocking anything.”
Scooter frowns reproachfully. “Don’t say that. You were amazing. Way better than their last drummer. You should be proud.”
“Thanks.” I repeat. My gaze drifts longingly toward the exit. Is it too early to leave? Probably, which is unfortunate because I don’t want to be here.
“And those groupies!” Scooter continues, slinging an arm over my shoulder to prevent me from leaving. “I overheard those kids asking for your autograph. Nobody’s ever wanted my autograph.”
He laughs, even though it’s not even slightly amusing.
“Can you just shut up?” I snap. “I don’t want to give people my autograph. I wouldn’t have agreed to audition for your stupid friends if I’d known everyone was going to mock me over it.”
Scooter blinks at me. “They weren’t mocking you! They thought you were great! Everyone thought you were great!”
“Fine. They weren’t mocking me. The universe was. With your help! I should never have listened to you. You lead me off a damn cliff!” I stalk past him, ignoring the friendly drunks trying to catch my attention, refusing to acknowledge the compliments shouted after me lest I really lose my shit.
The car rattles as I slam the door. I slump over the steering wheel. This sucks. It sucks, it sucks, it sucks.
I’ve never had so many people compliment me on something musical in my entire life, and it’s the one time it didn’t matter. I didn’t enjoy myself. I have no burning desire to do this again. If nobody had complimented me tonight, my feelings would have been neither positive nor negative.
Instead, tonight is the worst night of my life, and it’s all because I’ve finally gotten the reaction I’ve always dreamed about, but it’s not for the right reasons.
Why can’t I be good enough at the things I actually care about?
The passenger door opens. I don’t have to look up to know it’s Scooter.
“Go away,” I mumble.
“Dude. Jordan. What’s gotten into you? I thought being in a band was your dream.”
“Being a singer was my dream.”
“Well, yeah, but this is still the same experience. Performing, merch tables, hours with your bandmates shooting the shit and talking shop, getting to rub elbows with other musicians.”
“It’s not the same at all. I don’t want to be good at drumming. I never want to see another drumstick in my life. Just…tell your friends they need to find someone else, okay?”
“You know how excited they were when you auditioned?” He places a hand on my shoulder. The gentleness in touch weighs upon me. “They’re gonna be so disappointed. You’re the real deal. Are you sure about this?”
I wipe the tears from my eyes as I look up at him. “I’ve thought about it. This isn’t what I want anymore.”
He drops his hand from my shoulder, disappointment evident in every line of his expression. “You know, most people would kill for a chance like this.”
“I know.” A note of bitterness creeps into my voice. “But most people don’t know what it’s like to be reminded every day of what they couldn’t achieve.”
He regards me in silence for a long moment, searching for any sign of wavering resolve. “I’ll talk to the band,” he says at last. “But Jordan, promise me you won’t give up on music altogether. Promise me you’ll find your way back to it someday.”
“I can’t promise that,” I admit, my voice barely above a whisper. Giving up on music feels like giving up on a part of myself, but it’s the only choice I have left.
The only choice that isn’t burdened with constant reminders of failure and inadequacy.
Scooter’s gaze is filled with a mix of sympathy and regret as he slides out of the passenger seat. “I hope you find what you’re looking for, Jordan,” he says quietly before turning away, leaving me alone with my shattered dreams.