FINGERS

I

My guitar lessons began when I was 10 years-old. It was not the love-at-first-sight fascination with the sounds of an Eric Clapton or a John Williams guitar that compelled me to learn it; instead, it was the urge of my devoted mother—who never had the opportunity, much less the means to learn music—that brought me to literally embrace this curvaceous wooden body, slender-necked and hollow on the inside, yet full of rich resonating tones.

I hated it. I detested lugging this oversized instrument around. My fingertips would numb, swell and peel after a prolonged pressing of strings on the fretboard. I had to keep my fingernails at an ideal length and shape them round with sandpaper to produce that distinctive sound quality. They would chip at times. Although I pleaded with my mum—sometimes in tears—to let me forgo guitar lessons, it was to no avail.

She persevered. She brought me to symphonic orchestral performances in an attempt to inculcate the appreciation of music in me. However, I only became more disenchanted as the guitar was not an orchestral instrument. I would hear Maksim Mrvica and Richard Clayderman’s piano instrumentals, or Vanessa Mae’s violin, and ponder, “Why not the immobile piano, or the smaller violin?”

Her response: “You will never be alone with the guitar. It can accompany you everywhere. You can perform solo and sing with the guitar, but with the violin you can never do that. The guitar is complete by itself.”

Perhaps there was truth in this. Unless I learned to love the vibes of this stringed instrument, how could I discover its hidden beauty?

I examined my fingers. Ten of them grinned back at me. They were indeed an exceptional handiwork of the Creator. They looked animated and eager to dance on the fretboard, ready to craft crisp, vivid sounds that breathe energy into my dull soul. They implored me to let them boogie, ballet and tap on the strings of the guitar.

I eventually relented. So the fingers danced on the vibrating strings. They gripped chords with a bold, steadfast stance while I strummed. They ran across the fretboard nimbly as I played scales and arpeggios, hopping from one fret to another in a bouncy, haphazard yet precise manner as I plucked. They exhibited flawless timing and hammered on the frets in orderly succession, one after another or together in one accord.

I struggled to keep up with their liveliness. My fingers convinced me to convey more feeling—and effort. They ushered me into a world where black and white musical notes resounded the poetry of melody.

Suddenly, I understood. Everyone has fingers. But not all decide to do great things with them.

Now, no longer do my fingers exert all by themselves; my body also responds and entrenches itself in the music. Be it the cheerful or the melancholic, the sluggish or the accelerated, the entire body toils in unison to support the fingers in their endeavor of evoking a matching musical mood for each composition.

It all began with the fingers. Power and might lies hidden in small things which we already possess.

II

Guitar requires discipline, painful fingers and hours of practice. But once the right chord strikes, the euphoria emanating from the soulful music overwhelms my senses. The music seems to sing, each vibrating string painting a different color and humming a different voice.

My guitar consoled and comforted me when my fingers froze during guitar performances. When I was angry with myself, it tolerated my furious downward strokes of rage and expressed anger in unison. It hugged me after a bad day at school. It caressed me after I failed a test. It lifted my spirits and sang to me when I felt overcome by defeat. I wonder how many could find such a friend as this—so undemanding, forgiving and quick to love.

The time has come for me to leave home. My mum was right; my guitar would keep me in good company. Together, we would entertain and mesmerize Stanford with our camaraderie.

Disclaimer: This is by no means a model Stanford essay. I was deferred in EA for admission in fall 2008.