I Ain’t A Chameleon
I’ve never been a good liar. Camouflaging, muting myself to match the volume of the room, is not in my nature. I'm named after a centuries-old song about a man of pure truth, a living avatar of honesty. Maybe that’s why, from a young age, I could never quite mask my emotions. My face always betrays me in a vibrant burst of emotions.
Years ago, in the lush green city of Guruvayur, home to millennia of Indian musical history, my father bought me a bamboo flute for a few cents. Although no one in my family learned music formally, they noticed I was always humming. By fervently watching YouTube tutorials, I soon taught myself to blow my feelings into the instrument and cover its holes with my stubby fingers. Without realizing it, I had already begun improvising by adding twists.
In ninth grade, I joined my school’s marching band as a flutist. During this time, my band teacher nudged me toward jazz. It would be a shame living near the heart of Motown, if I didn’t immerse myself in the culture, he insisted. I didn’t own a jazz instrument, so he lent me an alto saxophone and told me to explore.
I did more than that.
Twice a week, from 7 to 10 p.m., I sat in a community college jazz class. I was the only teenager, the only girl, and definitely the only one who didn’t remember the ‘70s. My older classmates spoke of experiencing racism in the South, performing in Hiroshima for a cultural exchange festival, and celebrating decades of gigs and friendship. I was terrified, shaky, and more than a little out of place.
They showed me scales, celebrated my baby steps, and never laughed at my mistakes. Slowly, their warmth peeled away my fear. I started to feel at home amongst the old souls. When it came time to arrange a piece for the class, I chose Herbie Hancock’s Chameleon: a song I had played in marching band. It was funky, soulful, and alive. It felt young despite being older than my dad. More importantly, it was my first true jazz improvisation. I really struggled at first. Jazz looked like a bunch of letters and foreign symbols. My improvisation attempts never sounded quite right, nor could I quite encapsulate my voice in the solo ideas stolen off the internet. That was until I noticed something: the minor pentatonic scale was just Suddha Dhanyasi raga (an Indian scale) repackaged. Thinking in terms of the music I grew up with, made finding my voice easier. With my professor’s guidance, I began to bend the melody, manipulate the rhythm, and weave in snippets of the indigenous scales I’d grown up with. The result? Something new. Something alive. Something me.
The night of our first concert, I stood up, hands trembling. My professor walked to the mic, his voice booming to a crowd of nearly 400: “The next piece was arranged by our youngest member… ” I froze in fear as he made me out to be a much better musician than I was. Then, he pointed to me with a smile. The audience stirred. I stood there, a scared, scrawny girl, not even five feet tall, meekly attempting to smile.
I closed my eyes and played.
When my solo was over and it was time for me to sit down, I knew I had made so many mistakes, my eyes were ready to create a downpour. But to my surprise…. a thunderous applause…. A STANDING OVATION??!??!?! I was so very shocked. With a grin, the professor
gave me a deft fist bump with his left hand while signalling a return to the head of the piece with the right.
I’m not a chameleon. I don’t blend in. I bring the vibrant colors of my roots. I am indebted to Dr. S, my greatest mentor, for introducing me to new songs, people, and a new part of myself.
When I play, I no longer feel the need to hide. Jazz taught me that there's beauty in standing out.
And every time I hear that unmistakable riff of Chameleon, I remember: I didn’t change to fit the music.
I made the music change to fit me.
