Adventures in the Land of Singing Garbage Trucks

by Adam Tervort

  The next thing that struck us was the accent of some Missourians. Missouri wasn't pronounced with an 'E' at the end (mis-sour-E) but with an 'uh' (mis-sour-uh). Weird. The highways weren't called "highway 7," they were "7 highway." There weren't too many people with really deep southern accents, but there were a few. It didn't take long before we were saying 7 Highway, and after a year people stopped asking me why I spoke funny.

  The school district in Liberty was quite different than my old one. In Utah each county is a school district, so there are many schools in each district. In Missouri each city is a school district. There was only one middle school, one junior high, and one high school when I attended school there. I enjoyed the Liberty schools, the teachers were very good, and it was an easy place to learn and grow.

  Now, back to the strings program. Liberty schools had a long tradition of excellence in the band program, but the strings program was in its infancy. My 7th grade class was only the second year to have a strings offering, and there were only ten kids in our class. When I got lost on my way to the strings class my first day in middle school I had to ask three teachers before I found one that knew where the class even met.

  The strings teacher (for the whole district) was a fiery redheaded cellist named Dan. He was happy to get another violin lumberjack into the program. The first day of 8th grade he pulled me aside at the beginning of strings class and asked me if I was interested in switching to the bass. There were seven or eight violinists in the class, two violists, one cellist, but no bass players. Since I was not exactly ripping the strings off the violin world (and because I was the only boy in the class) I was offered the bass position. Great, I said, but I don’t know how to play. Dan put me in a closet-sized practice room with a bass that could only be tuned on three of its four strings, gave me a beginner's strings book, and told me to come out in a few days when I thought I understood what to do. Eager to please, I did just that.

  In later years when I realized what a shaft this had been and as I took years to repair my crummy self-taught bass technique, I was really angry at Dan. He was a good teacher, and nearly 50% of our class went on to get music scholarships in university, including me. Why didn't he teach me? I don’t know. We had two violinists who were very good, and Dan spent most of his time grooming them into the wonderful players they would become. Lori is now an economist while Dawn is an amazing professional violinist. Dan saw in them great potential and worked hard to help them. Maybe I didn't show great potential, I don't know, but getting over the way he started me out took years. Thanks for nothing Dan! (Just kidding! I'm not bitter now, honest!)

  Being the only bass player in a whole school district means that you are really different from anyone else. If you play the trumpet you aren't very special, there are 300 kids carrying around instrument cases the same size as yours. If you are struggling under the weight of your behemoth double bass it is hard to blend in. Classmates would call out inane questions as I passed. "Do you have a dead body in there?" "Don't you wish you would have chosen to play the piccolo?" "How do you get that monster into your car?" The same questions over and over, every day. But it was also flattering to the adolescent ego to be noticed, to be different, even if it wasn't because of my playing.

  As 9th grade began, my life changed. Being in the school orchestra is not really 'cool,' it is just different. My life in music really began with a casual conversation with the band teacher, Danny. Danny taught band at the junior high, and he knew me because the strings class practiced in the band room. One day after strings ended he asked me if I would be interested in joining the jazz band as they needed a bass player. I was really excited by this. It meant going to the high school a couple of times per week to practice with the high school jazz ensemble, something that only one other student in the junior high school did, and a chance to play something new and interesting. Jazz was completely unknown territory, but it had to be better than being part of Dan and the Classical Hacksaws.

  ~~~

  Up to this point, music had never been very important to me. I listened to the same types of music that most of the kids my age did, usually just to make my parents mad. If there was one thing sure to get my mother's goat it was Smashing Pumpkins blasting out of my stereo. I don't think I particularly loved listening to alternative music; it was just what everyone listened to.

  When I got into the jazz band my listening habits changed. I went from blasting alternative to blasting Charlie Parker, John Coltrane, and Joshua Redman. The change in my parents was nearly as fast. Instead of "Turn that crap off!" I was usually greeted by "What's this?" My parents didn't really know anything about jazz, and had no real reason to dislike it. (Although to this day my mom will sometimes comment that the drums are a bit heavy in some jazz. This is the sad result of a life lived on classical and soft rock. She has no aural resistance to drums.)

  Did I take to jazz because I was a virtuoso bassist? No, I just liked playing music where I didn't necessarily need to play the notes written down on the page. What freedom! Playing within a framework where rhythm is equally important with notes, and where almost any note is negotiable (within the chord) was like nothing I had ever experienced in a music class. Instead of complaining about how boring the music was, we went out and tried to find albums of real musicians playing the same pieces. I was still alone, the only string player in a room full of brass and saxophones, but now I was part of the rhythm section, a unit that worked closely together. I finally had a group, even if we were misfits. (A drummer, a guitarist, a pianist, and a bassist. Not your normal set of bedfellows.)

  What followed during high school was a new life. Being in jazz band didn't make you popular, but it meant I had a group of friends with something in common with me. We all improved because we practiced together whenever we had time. As we improved, we got more opportunities to play together, and so we improved more and gained experience. Mark, the drummer, eventually went into the army band system and played his way through college and law school. Michael, the most gifted of our group, is a tenor sax monster who studied with jazz legend David Baker at Indiana and now lives the life of a real jazzer in New York City. I got a full ride scholarship to a local university to play bass, and many others of our group were able to pay for at least part of their education through jazz.

  By our junior year we had even attracted the attention of the school administration, and started to get invitations to play during lunch. I don't know the real reason, maybe the vice principal wanted to force some culture on the student body, but I think it was because we were pretty good and he was a big jazz fan and liked to listen to us. We played at least once a month, and always got to go out afterwards for lunch at a Chinese restaurant and bask in our good fortune. Life was good.

  During my senior year I started to play professionally with some of the jazz groups in Kansas City. The bandleader I played with most was a crusty old geezer called "Skip Hawkins." We never knew if this was a real name or not, although most of us doubted that it was. Skip would call me up and give me a gig, and then want to teach me about jazz for an hour. It would have been great if he had just had better timing. He called up during dinner, when I was studying, and in the middle of the night, which did little to endear him to my mother. My senior year I was also in the all-state jazz band, which sealed my scholarship chances at any of the universities in Missouri. I really wanted to be a jazz musician. It was the only thing I could see myself doing, and I wanted to go to school in New York or Texas to attend one of the top jazz schools there. The scholarships just didn't pan out, but I was able to stay close to Kansas City and gig while I went to my first year of university at Missouri Western State College. Undistinguished, I know, but I had fun and was once again the bass player that everyone needed. I played with every ensemble in the music department and had the biggest scholarship of any student as a freshman. My path to musical immortality seemed set, until my mission call came.

  Chapter 3 - The Call

  Even in the
most benign of lives, such as mine, there are unusual facets that aren't easily seen from the outside. Religion was still a major part of my life while I was pursuing my dream of jazz. During high school I would get up at 5 am every day to get to the 6 am seminary class at the church building. This isn't the seminary that grants advanced theological degrees to prospective pastors, just religion classes for teenagers in the LDS church. By the time I graduated from high school I had four years of seminary classes that had mixed in with the music and other normal high school classes I had taken, and going into university I was looking forward to the "institute" classes, religion classes aimed at university-age students.

  During my first year of college I knew I was heading up to a big decision. In the Mormon Church all 19 year old young men are expected to serve a two year mission, and rather than dread this it was something I looked forward to. I grew up hearing missionary stories. My father served a mission in France, and his stories of missionary life were some of my favorite bedtime stories as a kid. Many of my friends in the jazz band in high school were Mormon as well, and as they went off on their missions one by one I watched them and saw the changes when they returned two years later. David went to Taiwan, Riley spoke Spanish in the US, Robert went to Scotland, and Danny went to Norway. It was amazing to hear their stories of adventure and exotic places. There was never any doubt that being a missionary was hard, but to an eager kid the difficulty was abstract

  My birthday is in January, so I turned 19 in the middle of my freshman year and I had already promised my university I would stay through the whole school year before leaving. As the time came to get ready to go it was not so easy, however. The band director pulled me aside one day and asked me if I would really come back, he had had some Mormon students that had returned from missions and gone straight to BYU rather than return to the music program. Since there were no other Mormons in my circle of friends at that time, it wasn't an easy thing to discuss. One of the girls I had always had a big crush on came to my dorm one night and told me I shouldn't throw my life away for two years, I should stay and keep studying and making music. Even crusty old Skip Hawkins told me I was insane when I told him of my plan to be a missionary.

  Skip: What do you mean, you're going on a mission? To where?

  Me: I don't know yet Skip, I haven't turned my papers in.

  Skip: Don't do it kid, you'll never make it to New York if you play around like this. What if they send you to Ethiopia? What will you do then?

  Me: I guess I'll go to Ethiopia, Skip.

  Skip: There ain't no jazz in Ethiopia, kid, just starvation and really nasty diseases.

  ~~~

  My 19th birthday came and went, and I hadn't done anything to apply for my mission. I started having doubts, although I didn't really share them with anyone. What if I did end up in Ethiopia? Mormon missionaries don't get to choose where they go, you just say you're willing to go and then are assigned to a spot somewhere in the world. As a kid I had visions of following Dad to France, but only a small number of missionaries go to France. There was a much better chance that I'd end up somewhere in the US. Was it really worth it to give up all the good things that I had going for me-- my scholarships, my jazz gigs, to go out into the unknown (probably in Podunk county, Middle-of-nowhere, USA) to try and convert people to Mormonism? At that point it wasn't looking so attractive.

  One day my mother called and said I needed to come home to have an interview with the Bishop and Stake President. If you're Catholic, a talk with the Bishop sounds pretty serious, but in the LDS church the Bishop is the equivalent of a local pastor. I knew our Bishop well. The Stake President was another matter; he is in charge of a whole area of the church, thousands of members, and I had never had an interview with him before. My mom said that the Stake President had set everything up and wanted me in the Bishop's office at 7 pm with my missionary application papers. I was scared to death, but not scared enough to say no.

  The interviews were nothing out of the ordinary, just going through the applications and making sure I knew what I was getting into and really wanted to do it. The president was not even the one who did the Stake President's interview as he was busy but felt that the interview needed to happen that night. I didn't understand it at the time, but was happy that everything was finally done and the decision made.

  About six weeks later I received a call from my mother saying that a big envelope had arrived from the church headquarters in Salt Lake City, and wanted to know if she should open it. I waited on the phone as she read the call to me: Taiwan Taipei Mission, Mandarin speaking. I wasn't even sure where Taiwan was, had no experience with Chinese at all (aside from saying hello to the folks at the Chinese restaurants around town), and had no idea what to do next. At least Skip's predictions about Ethiopia weren't going to come true. After we hung up I headed to the library to do some research, scared and excited that I was now on my way.

  The rest of the school year flew by, and after working as a parking attendant in the local amusement park to make some extra money before leaving, I was off to the Missionary Training Center in Provo, Utah, just off the campus of Brigham Young University. Mormon missionaries need to pay their own way for their two year mission; at the time I went it cost $435 per month. The church arranges the affairs of all of the missionaries so they can have airplane tickets to get to the MTC and then to their mission area. Even though my parents were going to drive out to Utah to take me to the MTC, we decided that I should fly to Utah so that I could spend a few days with my grandparents before I entered the training center. Like a lot of young missionaries, I was leaving a girlfriend behind. I think this is a throwback to the young soldiers who got married just before they left for combat, thinking that somehow stranding a young lady will make you feel better in the long run. I didn't make me feel better and ended up hurting her, but that comes later in the story.

  Getting on the airplane that day felt like a serious ending. In the way of kids, I had looked forward to that day for most of my life even in spite of the misgivings I had in the months before actually committing, and now that the time I had looked forward to for so long had actually come it was a bit of a letdown. I was surprised that the world was still moving, even though my big moment had come. Wasn't my big moment big to anyone besides me?

  I had a very nice few days with grandparents and other relatives. Not long after entering the MTC my grandfather passed away, and having seen him just a short time before meant a lot to me even though I didn't get to attend his funeral. The big day came on Wednesday July 19, 2000. That morning my parents drove me to the MTC, sat with me through the introductory session, and then we were told to hug and kiss. Parents went left and missionaries went right, ne'er to meet again (at least for two years). I think I cried much harder than either my mom or dad, and I ran into a wall not long after following the other missionaries out the door to the right because I couldn't see straight.

  The MTC culture hit me smack in the face when I left the orientation meeting. We had been given orange dots to put on the lapels of our suit jackets, which identified us as newbies. First stop was to finish up our vaccinations, which did little to assuage my budding homesickness. I understood the importance of getting immunizations but I don't think anyone really likes them much, except perhaps the sadistic nurses who seem to enjoy watching you try to be macho even though your arm feels like it's been injected with liquid fire. After being shot we were herded down to the bookstore to get our study materials and name tags. This was a big moment. Missionaries at the MTC learn all kinds of languages, and Mandarin is one of the more exotic ones. I was given a big orange book titled "Mandarin for Missionaries," a set of scriptures and a hymn book filled with terrible squigly characters that looked like the results of ants having a tango competition after swimming in ink wells, and a name tag which proclaimed me Elder Tervort, followed by more of those incomprehensible squiggles.

  I found my room, met my companion (missionaries are always in companionships
of two or occasionally three) and my district, the group of missionaries I would learn Mandarin with for the next 12 weeks. Our first class started just after lunch.

  My companion was named Elder Lai. His family are immigrants from Mexico, and he was even more surprised than I was to be learning Chinese and going to Taiwan. (He thought since he spoke Spanish he’d go somewhere that Spanish was useful.) It was strange to be together with someone all day long for 12 weeks in the MTC and then not see him again for months at a time once we got to Taiwan, but that, too, is later in the story.

  In our first class we were introduced to the horror of learning Chinese. Today, after having worked on my Chinese daily for over 10 years this seems a bit melodramatic, but that first class scared me. Our teacher, Brother Shi, was trying to teach us how to pray in Mandarin, an important skill for a missionary, no doubt. It just seemed a lot to ask in our first class.

  Chinese has no verb tenses, no particles like ‘a’ or ‘the’, and little grammar other than a general word order that should be followed. What it does have are tones, so each time you say a particular word you must say it with the same inflection or else you change the meaning of the word. This would be like saying "monkey" and having one meaning, while saying "monkey?" would have a completely different meaning. If you've ever learned a language with masculine and feminine nouns it would be similar to putting a feminine participle where a masculine one should be and changing the meaning of the word, but this is much harder to grasp when you are learning for the first time. When you aren't sure of yourself it is easy to phrase things as a question, which slaughters any chance you have of being understood in Chinese. I'm sure even God was hard pressed to understand my prayers those first few days.