Martina Gambordella
Many years have passed since I met her- Melissa Gambordella, the young vixen in my 5th-grade class who sat in the seat next to me, the daughter of impoverished Italian immigrants. I can remember her- her Coke-bottle thick lenses in her glasses, and her plain-Jane appearance, and hand-me-down clothes. It was obvious to me and to everyone at the school that she looked so terribly out-of-place and perpetually lost at a school that simply had no appreciation for her talents or ways to help them grow. And she had so much to contend with- she had no control over her nervous laughs and awkward smile. Her only solace growing up in our small Colorado town was that she played the violin- her parents spending their meager incomes on this most cherished mahogany gift. But unfortunately, amongst the students, immature as we were classical music was just not in style. We could never grow to appreciate the beautiful music she was making as our ears were more tuned to the top-40 hits on the radio and life was not easy for this unsung artist by any stretch of the imagination. It was clear that this vixen would never be one of us- with her dowdy hand-me-down clothes, and her thick glasses, and her violin, and a name like Martina Gambordella.
I can remember how as a cub me and my friends would pass by the Gambordella house, usually returning home from playing baseball. We would be greeted by her music, lilting peacefully as she learned how to play more and more from her parents. Her mother was a concert violinist in Milan who had sold everything she owned to move to America but found New York too violent to live in. She saw no reason as to why her daughter, Martina should not follow in her footsteps. Indeed, her daughter's violin, heard from the Gambordella's window spoke of things that her broken English could never say and said them with more clarity and intensity than the spoken word. In some of our more enlightened moments, we wanted to go inside and listen to her practice on the violin but Martina's parents were fiercely protective of her. They built a hedge around her house to keep her protected symbolically from the cruel outside world.
It is well-documented how cruel and mean little cubs (and even grown-ups) can be to those who are different and this was very much the case with Martina, the vixen. Everyone in my class (and I guess I'm guilty of this as well) took great pleasure in poking fun at her for her difficulty in understanding the English language, her oversized, dorky clothes, and her affinity to the violin. Martina was eating her lunch innocently when one of the bullies called her ugly.
"You're ugly, your clothes barely fit, you're family is poor and should just go back to Italy."
And the vixen started crying, a sad wail which sounded much like the haunting downbeat dirges of her violin and she would not stop crying until her golden eyes turned bloodshot. As my friends and I saw her miserable scene near the school bench while the rest of the elementary school played happily, something became very clear to me. It was clear that this vixen would never be one of us- with her dowdy hand-me-down clothes, and her thick glasses, and her violin, and a name like Martina Gambordella.
Every single year, the hedge grew larger and longer as her family built that wall around their daughter. It was although the hedge was a secret wall to keep the harsh words out and her heartbreak and anxiety in. For whatever reason, the Gambordellas moved to Denver, selling their home and using the money to buy a home there, though I doubt it had anything to do with the cruel treatment we gave their daughter. Twenty years have passed since then and I kept track of what she was doing. Of this one thing is certain- the vixen still plays the violin just as she did in the days of her childhood. And she has matured both physically and emotionally. I saw her the other day performing and I apologized on behalf of the entire city of Cornette, for the rough treatment of her when she was young.
I was absolutely blown away by the virtuosity of her performance- her talent of playing the violin has only increased in the two decades since I last saw her. And so much has changed. Gone are her the clown shoes and dorky two-sizes-too-large dresses for a sophisticated black silk taffeta dress. Gone are the bullies who once called her ugly, the boys who would avoid her, replaced by a crowd of supportive and appreciative ticket holders at the Denver Conservatory and she is married to the conductor, an attractive fox classically trained in music. Martina is one of the violin player for the Denver Philharmonic Society and she looks wonderfully performing on stage. But she confided in me that she still remembers Cornette on dark nights; her mind still turns back to the cruel little cubs of a one-stoplight town, and their nasty words. It was clear that this vixen would never be one of us- with her dowdy hand-me-down clothes, and her thick glasses, and her violin, and a name like Martina Gambordella.