Her parents hadn’t helped either. Her father, a once-in-a-lifetime pianist, found Jiwon’s ambitions for the violin to be unremarkable. He would often compare her to other prodigious violinists her age, scoffing when she failed to meet his impossible standards. When she was placed first, he sometimes would smack the back of her head, not in rage, but in a disappointed way. Her mother, too caught up in her world, was smoking till lights out and drinking till the fridge was empty. Instead, she burdened Jiwon with the role of a caretaker. From a young age, Jiwon had to teach herself how to cook, do laundry, vacuum, pull weeds from the garden, clean the roof gutters, and even budget for the groceries. Neither of them asked if she was okay, and neither noticed Jiwon’s swollen eyes from relentless crying each night. Even at home, she was seen as a nuisance, which should have been her safe haven. But here she was in front of an enormous audience, dissecting her as if they would pack her up into various assorted pieces. She was left with one lingering feeling in her mind: she wanted to quit after all this was over. This competition didn’t matter to her. The prize didn’t matter. Even if she did manage to win, her parents wouldn’t even be in the audience applauding her. Even if she won, her classmates would not notice. But a quiet, small voice in her head whispered, “Do it for yourself.” The conductor lifted his hands. Jiwon raised her bow. The first note struck the air, a haunting, sharp sound, like the creaking of a ship. It felt like Jiwon’s own sorrow permeated through her fingertips. The piece was Carmen Fantasie Brillante, Op. 3, No. 3 by Jenö Hubay, notoriously known for its difficult, fiery composition, one that required technical mastery and unrestrained passion.
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