My hands are shaking wildly. The tremor that started at the very tips of my nails now travels up the cold pads of my fingers to my nervous knuckles. It surges past my wrists and threatens to overcome my entire arm. It is clearly visible from the back row of the auditorium - at least, that’s how it feels. I clutch my violin and my bow in my left hand, and use my right hand to steady my left arm like a sling. I take a deep, trembling breath. I climb onto the stage.

I am the only violinist here who still studies classical music. Here, in the middle of New York City, at a string program for fiddle players, or jazz players, or bluegrass players, I am the only relic of a bygone era. The bohemian satyr who wowed the audience before me used foot pedals and a synthesizer to accompany his own melody. I should not be here, playing a concerto from the dark ages. I walk across the stage, toting a music stand, my arms quivering.

I set the stand down near three towering microphones that occupy the center of the stage. They are ominous, looming towers waiting to amplify my mistakes and cast them spinning across the entire hall for everyone to hear. I tell myself to rein in my nerves, and to get on with the performance. I hold the bottom end of the music stand down with my foot, and pull the top half up with my one free hand. The stand snaps in half. My bow smacks the tallest microphone, emitting a resounding pop.

The audience chuckles nervously. I walk offstage with the two halves of the broken music stand, my head bent, my eyes downcast. I pick up a new stand, not sure whether to laugh along or pretend that nothing has happened. I am so preoccupied with this dilemma that I walk straight into a woman who has brought another stand onto the stage for me. The subdued giggles of the audience erupt into laughter. The choice is made for me: rather than bursting into hysterical tears and sprinting offstage, I find myself laughing with them.

I set my music on the new stand, pick up my violin, and begin to play. My fear of making mistakes fades as I relax and stop tripping over my trembling fingers. My notes and phrases go spinning sweetly out over the audience. I manage to play through my entire piece without breaking anything else, and the audience applauds, perhaps not as enthusiastically as they did for the satyr, but a pointy-bearded one-man band is a hard act to follow. The only listener who shows obvious disappointment is my five year old cousin, who wants to know why I am wearing shorts and a white shirt rather than a sparkly black ball gown like the real violinists she sees on television. I tell her that it’s not that kind of a concert, but inside, I must admit that I feel a little sparkly.