When I look back on my girlhood, I can pinpoint the exact moment when I saw the woman I would one day become.

I was in St. James's Hall, seated on a rather uncomfortable green upholstered bench, and I was vying to get a better view of the orchestra. I had never seen anything like this before, never seen a real live orchestra, and even though they were only tuning, all I wanted was to watch the violinists' bows flying across the strings, the trombonists moving their slides in and out, the timpanist pounding on the drums, as if he were announcing the arrival of an army rather than the arrival of a Philharmonic Society concert. I could feel my heart beating faster and faster, anticipating the moment when the first chord would echo through the hall, when the musicians would come to life at last.

I looked to my parents, to my older sisters, Winnie and Gertie, but none of them were as enthralled with the orchestra as I was. Surely, that's to be expected, I thought to myself. My parents had been to perhaps a thousand shows, before my mother began to lose her hearing, before going to concerts became a needless luxury. As for my sisters, they were too preoccupied with entertaining their guests to pay any attention to the orchestra. Winnie had brought along her latest suitor, a wealthy young man named Daniel Cavendish that Gertie and I both found to be a terrific bore, and Gertie had brought her best friend, a dark-haired girl named Alice Barkley that she knew from school.

"Mattie!" Gertie exclaimed. It was clear that she was trying to whisper, but it came out as a shout. "Can you tell Winnie that if she and her boyfriend don't stop prattling on over there, I'll tell him about the whipped cream incident?"

"I heard that!" Winnie exclaimed.

"I just want to listen to the orchestra," I muttered, but as usual, Winnie and Gertie didn't listen to me. To be fair, I was only twelve years old: in many ways, I was still a child. Gertie, at fourteen, and Winnie, at seventeen, knew far more of the world than I did. They had no reason to listen to a word I said.

"Don't be daft," Gertie said. "The concert hasn't even started yet." I gave her a nasty look, and Gertie asked, "Do you want to see the program? I think I'm done looking at it." I nodded, and Gertie handed me the program.

I immediately flipped through it, curious to see what the Philharmonic Society would play today. It looked like there were two pieces programmed: Mozart's Violin Concerto No. 3 in G major and Bergmann's Symphony No. 2. I was familiar with Mozart - I had played many of his pieces in my piano lessons - but I had never heard of Johann Bergmann, so I immediately turned to the program notes for his symphony.

Symphony No. 2

Johann Bergmann

(1857-)

Perhaps one of the most enigmatic composers of our generation, Bergmann's musical language is as challenging as it is rewarding. In his second symphony, the 29-year-old composer continues the experimentation of his previous output, combining influences as diverse as Berlioz and Wagner into a sound like no other. Bergmann's innovations include presenting the symphony in seven movements, scoring the work for an expanded orchestra (including piano, harp, eight horns, four of which double on Wagnerian tuba, six trumpets, six trombones, and two tubas), and further incorporating his signature "broken harmonies," which often sound dissonant to the untrained ear.

Born to a prominent Jewish family in Austria-Hungary, Bergmann began composing at the age of fifteen, soon earning a place at the Vienna Conservatory. However, he often felt as if his teachers, which included some of the most prominent composers on the Continent, did not understand him or his music...

That was when the orchestra burst into song.

I had been so absorbed in the program notes that I hadn't even seen the conductor and the soloist step onstage. As soon as I realized what was happening, I set the program aside, and I listened to the rich, buoyant sound of the violin conversing back and forth with the orchestra - it felt as if I was listening to yet another one of my sisters' playful debates. The piece was typical Mozart - pleasant yet predictable - but the violin soloist's performance was truly excellent. I leaned in closer, hoping to get a better look, but there was only so much I could do from the back of the hall.

Eventually, I gave up on trying to watch the orchestra. I leaned back on the green upholstered bench, and I listened to the sound echoing across the room, dissecting it in my mind into its component parts: the violin, the oboes, the horns, the strings, the themes, the modulations, and finally, the pulsing beat, holding it all together.

At the end of the third movement, the audience broke into thunderous applause, and the soloist took a bow just before stepping offstage. As the orchestra prepared for the next piece, my dad turned to Gertie, Winnie, and I and asked, "What do you think of the concert so far?"

"It's lovely so far," Winnie said.

"Gertie? Mattie? What do you think?"

I was about to respond, but all of a sudden, the orchestra started up again.

It was the pounding rhythms of the timpani, the loud calls of the brass section, the dissonant yet grandiose chords, as if every key on an organ was being played at once, that drew me in. As the violins soared into the stratosphere, playing a flurry of high notes over the wild thrashing of the rest of the orchestra, I peeked over the bench in front me, eager to see what was happening onstage. Then again, perhaps the music was enough. Perhaps this endless exhilaration, like running outside in the midst of a thunderstorm, was all I ever truly needed.

I let the sublime music fill my ears as something stirred within me. I felt a whirl of emotions: there was gloom and grief, surely, but also freedom, passion, and the greatest joy I had ever felt.

When the movement came to its thrilling conclusion, I was so moved by the piece that I immediately stood up and applauded.

"Mattie, the piece isn't over yet," my mum chided.

"We still have six more movements of this rubbish," Gertie mumbled.

Nevertheless, I continued to applaud, and soon, Alice joined me, if only to spare me from embarrassment.

It was at that moment that I saw what my future would hold.

I saw myself writing music like this, music that would make people laugh, music that would move them to tears, music that would lead to standing ovations across the globe, music that would make people think about the world in whole new ways. I saw my name printed in the program notes, just like Johann Bergmann's was.

Of course, I didn't think of how my piano teachers would dismiss my compositions, seeing them as childish trifles at best and abject failures at worst. I didn't think of how none of the major conservatories admitted women. I didn't think I would become a schoolteacher after secondary school instead of a composer. I didn't think my dreams would be deferred.

But someday, I knew they would come true. I knew deep in my heart that someday, I would meet Johann Bergmann.