The Unexpected Final Exam

The Unexpected Final Exam

With a single click, I have submitted my final assignment of my undergraduate degree. I can’t believe it’s all over; research, studying, and practicing are all things I will now do out of free will instead of obligation. There are no more hoops to jump through. That diploma is mine, I can practically taste it! 

But…something is off. Amidst the happiness and relief, there is a sense of unfulfillment. After that significant click, I felt uncertain and hesitantly wondered, “….is that it?” Yes, I tell myself, that’s it.  The gratification of the moment was achieved by clicking a button. I was sitting by myself, squinting at my laptop. No one smiled at me or congratulated me. There was exactly zero human interaction for this achievement. It felt like Christmas morning, wrapped in sad. I wanted to run around and scream and dance, except it was 10pm on a Sunday and the world around me was quiet. I was alone. There was no one to celebrate with. I knew it’d feel weird (thanks, COVID-19), but no matter how much you think you’ve emotionally prepared yourself for something, the experience can still swallow you up. 

Submitting my final jury via video submission was technically my final exam, but it was the last live concert I gave that will hold the title for me.

The week leading up to the shut down, my university choir was on a trip to sing the Brahms Requiem with the Mobile Symphony Orchestra. This experience was magical and transformative for me, giving me clarity about what I am capable of in my career, but that’s a post for another day.  

This performance was scheduled for the beginning of March 2020. There was so much uncertainty and chaos surrounding the corona virus, we were not sure how things would pan out. It was during this trip that we received the news about classes moving online, my senior recital being canceled, and eventually the whole world shutting down. It is bone-chilling to remember how things unraveled; slowly, and then all at once.

Miraculously, we were permitted to take the stage. It was one of the most electric, memorable performances I have ever had. And unbeknownst to me, it would be the last time I ever sing in a choir representing this university. It was the unexpected final exam. 

We sang our last note and the orchestra sensitively dissolved their final chord into silence. I swear, a piece of my soul lives in the moment between the final sounds of the Requiem and the first clap from the audience. In that brief silence, I felt a peace and comfort that I’d never experienced before. Time was suspended and the world felt united as one by our music-making. I can’t overstate the impact this moment had on me.  

The next few minutes, I came back to earth as we accepted the applause and took our bows. Backstage, I hugged my best friends as we congratulated each other on this momentous performance. Everyone started heading back to the bus, but there was one more thing I had to do. “I’ll be right there,” I told my friends as I headed in the opposite direction. I weaved and fought my way against the crowds, appreciating the lively energy I felt in each person. Eventually, I made it to the entrance of the Saenger Theatre.  

I walked into the concert hall as the last few people trickled out, leaving only the stage crew cleaning up. I took a seat and stared at the stage I had just performed on with gleaming eyes. The magic was still there. I imagined the patron sitting in this seat feeling that. How amazing it is, that all of us ordinary people can come together and experience something so extraordinary.  

I closed my eyes and took a deep breath in, gripping the seat in front of me. I wanted to dwell in this moment before it became a memory. “Thank you,” I breathed. Thank you to the spirit of music for being so healing and powerful. To Brahms for writing this masterwork. To the One who made me a musician and put this experience in my life.  “Thank you,” I whispered once more, and then slowly rose to my feet, wiped the tears from my eyes, and headed back to the bus to return home. 

The week we returned, it was not surprising to hear that classes would remain online for the rest of the semester. Our state closed and the quarantine began. Without much warning, all of our plans were tossed over a bottomless cliff. Suddenly the performance we gave in Mobile had a new significance. My moment sitting alone in the theater and thanking the universe had a whole different meaning. 

It was the only sense of closure I will get from my senior year. There will be no final concerts, parties, or proper goodbyes to anyone who has helped me along this journey. So now, looking back, I wasn’t just expressing my sincere gratitude for that experience. I was expressing my endless thanks wrapped up in genuine humility for what I have been given on this whole journey. It was the last celebration and connection to other people I would experience before completing this monumental achievement.  I was letting go of all of the “last times” that I wouldn’t have. 

Performances are thrilling because they are unpredictable. I’m being reminded that life is the same way, and it’s a double-edged sword that is somewhat perpetual. You can’t predict the present moment, but you also can’t expect the past to be frozen memories. They won’t always stand still in your mind if the future asks them to change. Sometimes, their purpose is to take on new meaning when life becomes unexpected.