What Would a World Without Music Be Like to You?

In 3rd grade, my music teacher asked me a question that has haunted me for years: What would a world without music be like to you? 

As I pondered on this question, I was taken back to every past Wednesday after dropping my sister off at my mom’s house. Ever since my mom and dad divorced and he moved away, my sister has refused to go to my dad’s house to spare herself the feelings of emptiness there. No matter how much I begged her to go, she wouldn’t budge. This led to my dad and me being alone in his midnight-blue BMW once a week since I was 9. Together we would perform our sacred ritual in his midnight-blue BMW. He’d slowly turned the volume button to the right until the song he’d chosen to play was loud enough to fill the entire car. Then he’d start chanting, following along with the rhymes and lyrics of whatever Metallica, Nirvana, or Skid Row song he just started playing. As he continued to chant—following the range of the singer’s voice—he added drums to his chanting. He used his steering wheel as a drum and his fingers were transformed into drumsticks. Then he would usher me to join him. Together, we chanted and filled the car with our voices, sometimes harmonizing and sometimes ahead of each other.

Is it all just wasted time? 

Can you look at yourself when you think of what you left behind? 

Is it all just wasted time? 

Can you live with yourself when you think of what you’ve left behind? 

We’ve repeated this ritual for as long as I can remember. As a child, I never really understood the appeal of the songs he would play. A part of it was how loud the music was, and I wasn’t much of a fan of loud noises back then. The other part was that I couldn’t understand what those songs were about. When I voiced this to my dad, he told me I would get it as I got older. He was right. The older I got, the more I realized how these songs capture the raw emotion of the experiences that different people go through. Whether the songs were about something completely foreign to me like being thrown into a senseless war or something more familiar like seeing your parents fight, these songs had important messages; they made me appreciate music a lot more. We talked about the meanings behind lyrics, how he related to them at times, which ones he’d played in a Battle of the Bands competition he took part in, and so many other stories of his childhood. To him, these songs were nostalgic, and for me, they allowed me to peek behind the curtain of childhood and get a glimpse of the future. The future I envisioned had my father and me, talking about anything and everything. Talking about how school was going or how I felt about situations happening in life. In the future, I wouldn’t need to limit myself to those 20-minute car rides to talk and connect with my dad, I could do it anywhere. In the future, I wouldn’t feel guilty talking to my dad and monopolizing his time. 

The present wasn’t as full of conversation as the future I imagined was. Outside of those car rides, my father and I didn’t speak much to each other. When we got to his house I felt like a stranger intruding on his family. That silence, in that big white house, pierced my soul deeply. It plunged deeper into me as I quietly went into my room and sat there in silence, hoping not to get 

noticed by the family my father had created without me. I wanted to become as invisible there as I possibly could. If I kept quiet in that house, if I made no mistakes, I would at least still have those 20-minute car rides. 

I wanted to talk even more to my dad during those car rides. My goal was to make sure they were always filled with the sound of our voices singing or chatting, never in silence. To do this, I dove head-first into music. At my mom’s house, I would sit on a black bench, playing with white and black keys while reading a paper filled with black notes. For hours, I would repeat the same melody, letting my voice join in occasionally. I hoped to create a symphony of stories I could share with my dad on our next car ride. It worked. I would tell my dad how after hours of practicing playing those black and white keys and arranging them perfectly, I had mastered a new song. Eventually, I got so good at playing those white and black keys that my dad and I extended our 20-minute car rides into a light blue room. It was filled with a purple and white metallic guitar, a black electric drum, and a dusty piano. There, we played songs together. He would be on the drums, exchanging his fingers for real drumsticks and his steering wheel for a real set of drums. While he counted us into a new song, I would position my hands carefully in preparation for what we would perform together. I felt like I could finally connect to my dad outside of those car rides. 

Eventually, music consumed me. It became integrated and carved into my soul. Ultimately it became something more to me than just my connection to my dad. It became how I coped with stress by writing out lyrics to make a song out of later. It became something that made me feel seen when I found songs that I could relate to. Music became something that made me look forward to life. Knowing that I’ll eventually see concerts of my favorite artists and talk about new albums with my friends gives me something to look forward to. In some way, shape, or form, everything in my life relates to music. 

So, to answer my 3rd-grade music teacher,  to me, a world without music isn’t much of a world at all.

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