Gender: Male Ethnicity: Hispanic
Public High school
Class of 2008
GPA: 4.0

“Como hablas el corazon?” How does the heart speak? My grandfather lay still in bed, the light in his eyes fading with each passing second, his life drifting away with the setting sun. I wanted to answer him. I wanted to respond before darkness fell over Santiago, the Dominican city he called home. But what was I to say? A child of only ten years, I had trouble understanding death, let alone his question. My lips did not move, my voice did not stir, but as his fingers loosened their grip on mine, my search for a response began. Middle school provided me with time to find an answer. I asked my sixth grade English teacher for help, yet as I expected, she did not know how to reply. Instead, she suggested that I try poetry. For months I would write, but I could never find the perfect rhyme. To be honest, I did not know exactly what my heart wanted to say, but I knew that words would not suffice. The following year, I was enrolled in an art class. One of our assignments was to draw “emotion,” the true language of the heart. In memory of my grandfather, I dedicated my work to him. I tried to paint love, but my roses were wilted. I tried to illustrate reverence, but my cross was crooked. I tried to sketch his memory, but my tombstone was shattered. A picture of his grave, though forged by my hands, simply was not enough. I depicted what I felt, but the image came from my mind, not my heart. During one restless night, I lay in my bed with the radio on. I shut my eyes and listened as a song whispered its silver reply. I was drowning in rhythm, my body tossed into a sea of melody. Tender music and sweet sound, all of it enveloping my heart and healing its wounds. The acoustic guitar, with its ethereal strings, beckoned me. This was it. This was what I had been looking for. My mother knew my yearning, yet she could not afford to quell it. As such, I saved a few dollars each week until I had enough to buy it on my own. Sunburst blue and nylon strings; my guitar was beautiful. My hands, each finger burning with the memory of my grandfather, made noise, but that sound soon would change. My mother would often tell me to stop playing because I would “invite the mice with my horrible playing”. To hear discouragement shoot through her pursed lips shocked me, but it also fed my ambition. I refused to be hurt by her inconsiderate words. Instead of lashing out, I used my anger to feed my ambition, spending two hours a day with my guitar. With tablature at hand, I learned how to play “Adrian,” a simple and beautiful song by Jewel. As I sang the mournful lyrics, I secretly hoped that my voice would recall my grandfather to life. He wasn’t there when the song was over, but I felt him in every strum. After five years of self-taught guitar, music had changed me. Music became my language, the notes rolling off my tongue. My emotions, no longer bottled up inside, were expressed through chords. My once unappreciative mother finally recognized my talent. With her apology came a new guitar, the answer to my grandfather’s question. In every song I play, in every word I sing resides the essence of my being. My happiness, my sorrow, my love, my pain. His memory. All of it brought forth by six metallic strings. In music lies my heart’s voice, and forever it will sing.