The School

The Hope on a String school is located on the site of an old nightclub. The space is dominated by what was once the dance floor. Circular, with a concrete floor and metal roofing, this open-air center now houses chalkboards and chairs, as well as a hundred students every day. Around the center are hosted other various classes: electrical wiring, leadership seminars, adult literacy, etc. In order to make room for these other classes, Hope on a String knocked down a crumbling stage, a fetid bathroom (a hole in the ground with decaying walls), and a row of prostitute booths. Finally, there’s the administrative building, which houses all the instruments and a desk with all the important paperwork, as well as the beginnings of a library.

It is here that I found the instruments that I would be working with, piled haphazardly in a large cardboard box. Going in, I expected to be able to take quick stock of the number and condition of the violins and then begin formulating my lesson plans. As soon as I opened the first case, however, I realized I had a longer day ahead of me.

The violins were donated by the New York Public Schools, which apparently ran out of funding for many of their beginner’s string classes. “64 violins of varying quality and condition” was the description they gave. The first one had no strings, no bow, and a broken neck. I proceeded to sort the violins into piles: usable, potentials, and junk. The majority of my time was spent working through the pile of potentials—instruments that needed restringing and other maintenance but would ultimately be playable. The most common issue with these violins was a slipped bridge. I imagine that the extreme heat loosened the strings and that a subsequent bump during transportation knocked the bridges out from under them. This is usually a quick and easy fix, but a few of the violins had me stumped—the bridge was nowhere to be found. Then I realized that they had actually somehow fallen down through the sounding holes and into the body of the instruments. This special state of disrepair calls for a procedure I have termed “violin surgery.” The procedure involves grabbing the violin by the neck, holding it upside down, and shaking it like a rattle until the bridge is positioned directly above one of the sounding holes. Then, being careful not to shift the violin in any direction, you use a paperclip to reach up through the sounding hole and move the bridge, or tumor. You gingerly push the back end of the bridge up into the instrument until the front end falls miraculously back down through the hole, life saved. It requires surgical precision and astounding patience. I have powers.

After hours of work, I had gotten through half of the potentials. I expect that when I’m done, there will be only about 25 usable violins, with maybe 10 more still back in the states. In some ways I’m glad. I can’t imagine trying to teach a class by myself to 60 violin-wielding children in a language I don’t speak. There’s a bigger part of me, though, that is deeply upset by the plight of the violins. If simple maintenance measures had been taken by the public schools before allowing them to sit unused in storage for who knows how long, at least 20 more instruments would still be with us today. Every instrument is a gift, and maybe I shouldn’t look a gift violin in the soundpost, but I can’t help but harbor some anger for those who allowed these instruments to waste away.

Next up: Classes!