The Day(s) I Fell In Love With Rabbinical School – Part I – “I’m a Musician Again!”

(Photo Note: I just wanted to help everyone imagine a little bit what it is like to watch a concert at BYU's -Jerusalem campus [thank you Mindy for the head's up].)

Several years after I graduated from the University of Montana with degrees in Clarinet Performance and Composition I returned during a trip to Montana and stopped by at the U for a visit. At the time, about 10 years ago, I wore my new career as a (at that time) systems analyst proudly. After all, a job offer while I was still in Graduate School with a starting salary of $37,000 sounded like paradise. I was a musician, for Petrov’s sake. I was accustomed to earning in a one-night gig $20 plus tips plus free alcohol—and being happy with that. Plus I had already began a cycle of financial woes that lasted far longer than I care to admit, and I really needed the $37,000 a year. So I dropped out of graduate school and started a karmic cycle that would last, well, until now. That particular visit to my alma mater, however, provided the first whisper of doubt that my suburban yuppie-wannabe path might not be so right.

There was a gentleman (a term I use seldom without sarcasm but should be applied quite sincerely in this case) at the University named Bob Williams. The fact that he broke most stereotypes makes his centrality in this story even better. You see, Bob was the head custodial engineer for Residence Life (the dorms) at the University of Montana. Bob also possessed the Proletariat Philosopher archetype that occurs more often in stories than in real life yet manifested continuously and obviously in Bob’s neshama and the long conversations that he would engage in with as many as would take the time to do so. Oh yes-- Bob loved music.

My senior thesis was a Requiem mass—not a traditional one but rather a large format piece where “Requiem” provided more of an energetic focus than a true musical form to follow. I had spent around 11 months composing the 47 minute piece, and at age 21 was determined to get as many folks to hear the piece, of which I was quite proud, as possible. Bob, like everyone else at Residence Life got an invite. He took his entire family. As objectively and humbly as I can say, the piece was a . . . unique . . . experience for all involved. Bob loved it.

I chanced upon Bob on this return trip. I was at the main Residence Life office trying to make everyone proud of me for getting such a primo job in Corporate America. Everyone listened with the polite restraint that I am sure many more have gifted me with in my life than I realize—except Bob. Bob cried.

As I finished my tale of impending success, white picket fences, puppy dogs and Volvos, Bob looked at me, tears flowing, and said, “But what are you doing with your music?”

No one likes to be reminded of failure. Moreover, said “no one” likes it even less when our accustomed position as the hero of our own life story is called to question. I spent a lot of time in those days telling a lot of people how awesome my jobs were so that I wouldn’t have to think about how deeply I had failed my self. After that, I didn’t play piano again really until I moved to Seattle, have played very little clarinet, and have composed almost nothing.

All of which is a very long way to try to make everyone understand why the next statement is so poignant—“I am a musician again.”

Identity is so important, and the ability to say, “My name is Paul Strasko-- I am a Rabbinical Student from Abraham Geiger Kolleg in Berlin-- I am a musician,” may seem like such a small thing. But for years now I have said “I am a systems analyst” or “I am a Project Manager” or “I am a consultant” and each time, regardless of how wonderful the people and experiences in these jobs were—as important as these skills and roles were and will be to me the rest of my life—each “I” identity statement that didn’t include my clarinet or piano or singing or compositions or saxophone or whatever represented a little death and another step towards the numbness that we all come to when we follow a path for expediency rather that because it is our path. In the less-than-three-weeks since I have been here I have played Klezmer clarinet at an Oneg Shabbat, begun singing in the High Holy Days choir, begun composing a setting of the Hashkiveynu, planned a Jazz duo, chanted from the Torah scroll, set up voice lessons, and have been invited to participate in classes with the cantorial students. I am a Rabbinical Student—at last—finally. But as well, I am a musician again. Baruch HaShem.