During my first week as music camp counselor, I was handed a folder with my name tag and practice squad. Through daily races to the lunch line, heart breaking gaga ball, and high stakes Go Fish, I slowly was able to be myself around my campers. I let them in on the secret location of the only air-conditioned room on site. Inside the old white building, we shared stories and music. I rapped the first 30 seconds of Eminem’s Lose Yourself, and their shocked faces made me laugh so hard I forgot our age difference. 

Kadeem was a violinist transitioning to the viola. He wore black on black and rejected any compliments about his performance. For Kadeem, everything was up for debate, from stylistic choices to technical advice given by teachers. He was the son of a music school director, but seemed to have no interest in developing his skills. I assumed he was forced to attend the camp and felt disrespected when he declined my help. Like an older brother, I saw his potential and was frustrated because he did not. Through daily practice sessions I spent most of my day bothering Kadeem.

Because I could not teach many technical aspects of the viola, my lessons included Viola is a Lifestyle, Tone Matters More than Intonation, and They Hate Us ’Cuz They Ain't Us. I shared my experiences as a violist—how I found meaning not in playing a central instrument like the violin or cello, but in creating a sound I found much more powerful and exhilarating. The viola is most impactful when you mentally lean into the sound, creating a stroke of thick vibrations through the strings. Kadeem’s responses usually included, “Whatever” or “What are you even saying?”, but it made me laugh when he repeated my words to his parents at pickup. We debated my silly philosophical ideas, which were really opinionated commentary meant to draw out his thoughts and perspective. 

Though it became easier sharing stories with Kadeem and my campers, I eventually had to perform in a chamber group, which left me feeling far more vulnerable. I looked at them in the balcony, and began to pass notes. I sensed the give and take through the heavy drags of my bow, and the cello and violin followed in unison. Each swish of my bow added to the developing plotline, and each vibrato filled the room with a different color. I began to see the story unfold: the excitement of pressing down on the white and black keys as a child, the anxiety of wanting to play perfectly during my first orchestra audition, and the empowering experience of teaching music. I wanted my campers to see the adventure of growing up with music and every step that led me to that hall. Like the secrets entrusted in the hidden air-conditioned room, I wanted them to see that music is an expression of our life’s journey. 

In our final run, our notes became unison. We accelerated our bow speed, lifting them from our strings and pointing to the ceiling of the performance hall. At that moment, the only sound I heard was the thud of my heart. Soon, even that faded until there was only silence—one that is neither awkward nor sad, but simply shared. I opened my eyes and felt closest to my campers than ever before. I looked for Kadeem. In his eyes I could see the story I created. I felt like his brother again, closer because he saw me through my music and more proud because he could glimpse his own potential. 

Immediately, the spell was broken, and the audience let loose with a standing ovation. I stood to bow, looked at all my campers, and remembered why I love music. Music is like a secret that is meant to be shared with those you are doing life with.