As a Black violinist, I have had to work twice as hard as my non-Black counterparts to receive the same benefits. In college, I always had to prove myself and wasn’t always successful. I dealt with very real racism, discrimination, and stereotyping from professors, other musicians, and the audience. In a music history class, my professor told us that Black people played Chopin better than white people because of the embedded jungle rhythms in our blood. I was passed over not because I was incapable but because I was perceived as incapable.
Struggle became a normal part of life. At weddings and receptions, I often couldn’t be the face of my string quartet because “Blacks aren’t as good at this.” I was automatically an oddity, rarely seen, whose talents were almost never recognized: “How are you doing that? I had no idea you would be so good. You really surprised me.”
I have been fortunate enough to be a guest conductor with several orchestras, including school orchestras. Once I walked into a room full of white middle school kids. I expected their stares. Until I stepped onto the podium, they thought I was there to move equipment. When I asked one of the players to lend me her violin so I could demonstrate how I wanted a passage played, silence ensued. Then, when I tucked the violin under my jaw and showed them what to do, the room let out a collective “wow”; no one had ever seen someone like me play something like that.
It’s not fair that people who look a certain way must constantly prove their worth, but at this juncture in history, we’re well beyond what’s fair. Even after almost forty years of playing violin, I am still confronted with conscious and unconscious discrimination. If I’m playing Handel’s Messiah—a piece I’ve performed probably a hundred times on violin and viola—white directors often place a white person on my part, because they don’t think I can handle it and my partner will be able to help me. I smile. Then, when my partner—who is usually much less experienced than I am—plays the piece less proficiently than it might be played, I offer advice. My partner is almost always grateful, and Handel’s Messiah is the better for it.
When I was younger, in high school and in college, I often wanted to give up—until my “Dr. Janice Stevens” came into my life, offering pure and desperately needed encouragement. That kind of mentorship truly changed the direction of my life, and that kind of mentorship is what I try to offer my students today. Being a Black man is great. I love who I am. But it’s also a great responsibility—one that I take very seriously. As a teacher of young kids, I realized early on that, for many of my students, I would be the first Black man they actually meet in person. The impression I leave them with will hopefully stay with them for years to come: my speech, appearance, attitude, and demeanor are always professional because I know, like it or not, that I am representing a huge group of people. This doesn’t mean that I alter myself to make anyone comfortable: I speak with my normal deep voice, I still rock my earrings, and, if it’s a hot day, my tattoos still peek out from my shirtsleeves.
Who you are goes far beyond what you look like. My hope is that Ray’s story will inspire all of you—white or Black, Asian or Native American, straight or gay, transgender or cisgender, blond or dark haired, tall or short, big feet or small—to do what you love. Inspire those around you to do what they love, too. It might just pay off.
Alone, we are a solitary violin, a lonely flute, a trumpet singing in the dark.
Together, we are a symphony.
Acknowledgments
First and foremost: To Jeff Kleinman at Folio Literary Management. He’s been here every step of the way, going well beyond an agent’s usual role—helping shape this book from the first moment I conceived it and always pushing me and demanding my best. Thank you, my friend. This book couldn’t have happened without you.
Unimaginable amounts of thank-yous to my mom, Milo Slocumb. I think you did pretty good, Mom. I love you so much—thank you for always being there to support me through everything. To my sister, Dr. Robin Robertson: We’ve had nothing but fun ever since seventh-grade orchestra—you on cello and me on bass. Whether you’re in New York or Denver, I’m grateful that we’ve always managed to stay close and keep family first. To my older brother, Howard Slocumb, whose ever-present support and love have gotten me through some difficult times: I love you for it. Robin and Howard, now we can play badminton in the backyard again.
Kevin Slocumb: Thank you for everything. If I could be only half as talented as you, I’d be on an entirely different level. I’ve admired your abilities and gifts for as long as I can remember—you’ve always been a source of pride and envy for me. One day, I hope, I’ll achieve your level of excellence. When we were kids, I had no idea that you wanted to be like me. Now I wish I could turn back the clock and take a few lessons from you—and be a better big brother. We’ll always have the memories of making up a dance routine to that Nintendo game Contra, and the marching-band comparisons we had to endure, and the mutual love of comics. I love you, dude.