After I mastered my first (协奏曲) at age 14, my parents decided to get me a nice violin. I tried out dozens of instruments before I found my match: a German violin. It was beautiful, but what I liked best about it was its voice. Confident and strong, it was everything I longed to be.

    I'm not sure how much that violin cost, but my parents made me promise never to let it out of my sight. They didn't understand that dragging a large violin case ran counter to my daily middle school task of being invisible (看不见的). I was a strange, absent-minded kid. When I spoke up in class, my comments brought confused silence from teachers and wild laughter from students. Like a deer in a wolf pack, I tried to be quiet and still.

    In contrast, my new violin was almost shockingly loud. Together, we could drown out the rest of my middle school orchestra(管弦乐队) — which was encouraged, since the other kids made sounds like cats' crying. For one glorious hour every day, I was showered with attention. Everyone wanted to hear what I had to say.

    Between classes, I bent under the combined weight of my violin case and a backpack filled with books. My posture suffered, but my confidence grew. With my violin by my side, I found my voice. More and more, I contributed to class discussions and even made a couple of friends.

    Today, I'm just an amateur violinist with a regular day job. As I sit in my community orchestra, sometimes I feel jealous(嫉妒的) my fellow musicians' instruments with their elegant voices. I may not be the best violinist around, but at least I'm still the loudest.