The Most Beautiful Smile

I'd been homeschooled my entire life when I walked into my first Middle Level Honors Orchestra.

While I did participate in band at the local high school, my dad was the band director, so even there I was surrounded by family. This would be my first experience truly on my own, surrounded by complete strangers.

My audition had earned me the position of Principal Second Violinist—the leader of the second violin section. Objectively, it was something to celebrate. Emotionally, it terrified me.

I smiled as confidently as I could at my stand partner, Elizabeth, a poised, beautiful violinist who seemed completely at ease.

"God, she's gorgeous," I thought as I opened my music folder.

Then the familiar mantra began playing in my mind, a loop that would accompany me through the entire week.

You've got this, Mary.

You're beautiful.

Don't be afraid.

Be brave.

One note at a time.

If I'm being honest, that was the same mantra I repeated every time I left the house.

My teeth were terribly crooked, and I desperately needed braces. My family simply couldn't afford them. I never blamed my parents, but I was painfully aware of my smile. I wanted friends. (For the record, although my family was poor, we all loved one another to death and I would gladly choose poverty any day over a home without affection.) Still, I had a heart full of creativity, excitement, and joy that I longed to share, yet I often felt my teeth stood between me and the confidence to truly be myself.

"Just focus on the music," I reminded myself. "Not your smile. Just play. Just have fun."

Thankfully, Elizabeth and I clicked almost immediately. Even now, I would still rank her among my favorite stand partners outside of my sister, Anne.

As we tore through Irish folk dances and exhilarating, fast-paced repertoire, I forgot about myself. I forgot to be self-conscious. I simply played.

Our conductor was Claudette Laureno.

She wasn't even five feet tall, dressed impeccably in a black skirt and crisp white blouse. She carried herself with such intensity that I was absolutely terrified of her. She rarely smiled, and her slight but feisty Latino frame shook as every gesture of her baton seemed frighteningly deliberate & almost violent.

Then came the infamous pencil incident.

Johnny, the unfortunate kid in the viola section who forgot his pencils all of rehearsal, is not listening to Claudette. She eventually got so sick of him needing to ask others for a pencil so she picked up a freshly sharpened pencil from her stand and HURLED it at him across the entire orchestra. The entire viola section ducked while the rest of us stared, taking in the sight of a 4 ft 5 woman effectively hurling a live missal at a child. Where was security?????

Then we all noticed she was chuckling.

The intimidating persona was exactly that—a persona. Underneath it was someone with a wonderful sense of humor who simply expected excellence.

I adored her from that moment on.

I wanted to play my very best—not because I was afraid of disappointing her, but because I respected her.

After our final concert, I walked over to thank her for such an incredible week.

She smiled, hugged me, and said something I'll never forget.

"You're an amazing leader, Mary."

Then she added, "And you have the most beautiful smile."

I don't know if she had any idea what those words meant to me.

• 
  

Five years later, I found myself in All-State Orchestra. This time, my conductor was Claudette's husband, Manny Laureno.

I couldn't believe it. If Claudette was all intensity and precision, Manny was her perfect opposite.

Warm, funny, endlessly charismatic, he had a gift for making every musician in the room feel like they mattered. During our nine-hour rehearsal days, he would occasionally set down his baton, lean back in his chair, and tell stories.

As we prepared Wagner's Ride of the Valkyries, he spent hours bringing Norse mythology to life. He wanted us to see Valhalla, to understand the characters, to feel the drama behind every phrase we played. By the time we picked our instruments back up, the music had become a story instead of just notes on a page.

He made us want to play with imagination.

I was still shy around him. To teenage me, he seemed impossibly accomplished and effortlessly charming.

Toward the end of camp, as I packed up my violin, he walked over.

"Mary! Congratulations on making All-State. It's so wonderful to have you here. I see you back there playing your heart out."

Then he smiled.

"I just had to tell you something."

"You have the most beautiful smile."

I honestly couldn't believe my ears.

First his wife.

Now him.

The two people whose opinions I respected so deeply had unknowingly spoken directly into one of my greatest insecurities.

Claudette and Manny Laureno will always hold a special place in my heart because of the way they shaped my earliest experiences as an orchestral musician.

To me, they represent everything music education should be: a place where young musicians are challenged, inspired, encouraged, accepted, and valued for the unique gifts they bring.

More than anything, they made me feel seen.

At a time when I felt painfully awkward and desperately self-conscious, they somehow looked past every insecurity I carried and saw a young musician who belonged.

I still think about that.

Sometimes I wonder whether I would have continued pursuing orchestra if not for the way they welcomed me into that world.

A few simple words, spoken years apart by two extraordinary conductors, changed the way I saw myself.

I'll always be grateful for that.