Music. Music attracts people for two main reasons; first, it attracts people to the beat—the “song stuck in my head” phenomenon. But second, and perhaps more significantly, it attracts people to its meaning. More often than not, the songs that people consider their favorites are those whose meaning resonates with them—whether it’s because of some memory it sparks or some event it speaks to. When I first heard Lee Greenwood’s God Bless the U.S.A., I remember getting shivers down my spine at the line “And I’ll gladly stand up next to you/And defend her still today”. I was a young immigrant child, and to me, that song didn’t have any political meaning or social impact—it just made me proud to be an American, even if, at the time, I did not really know what that meant.

My realization in the power of art and music came from my father. He, as a way of rebelling against the Soviet machine, spent his 20’s in an underground rock band. For my father, self-expression (or what little of it was allowed) was achieved through his music: the words, the beat, the rock and roll. At a time when music was heavily regulated for fear of spreading Western thought, my father’s music influenced young Muscovites to demand change. Unfortunately, he did not stick around to ensure that change was enforced - he took my mother and I, him as a political refuge and my mother as an asylant, and off to America we went.

My father’s musically inclined genes conveniently skipped over me and ended up in my sister, Emily. When she’s on stage, it always shocks me how something so small could have the gall to get up in front of a huge crowd and just let her voice, her feelings, and her emotions out for everyone to see. When she sings, I feel the impact of every word, and the meaning of the song is left with me far after she’s off the stage. That’s the beauty of art—it stays with you.

When I was younger, I was soft-spoken - and understandably so. I did not speak English, my parents and I could not afford anything outside of basic necessities, and it was hard to connect with children whose lives were so similar to each other’s, when mine was so different and engulfed by a completely different culture. Unlike my father and my sister, I was too afraid to turn to music for expressional release, for fear of getting laughed at, ridiculed, or, quite simply, pronouncing a word wrong. I turned to painting. Visual art allowed me to create my own world and find meaning within it—and plus, it was fun. I submitted my work to contests, exhibits, and it was also a great impromptu present. Something was still missing. As much fun as I had painting, I was missing that element that my father and my sister had in their music—the ability to incite change. Sure, I could paint a town or a pretty flower, but that wasn’t what I was feeling or thinking inside—it was just an appeal to aesthetics. In high school, I decided to step out of my comfort zone. I joined the debate team. Although to most people, this is not a big deal—to me, this was huge. Again, I was a soft-spoken, shy child—but I knew there was more that I wanted to be and more that I wanted to say than I could reflect in my artistic pursuits. Debate became that outlet for me. Debate became my music, the auditorium became my stage, and my competitors became my band. Every time I got up in front of my audience, I felt nervous—my stomach would hurt, my knees would shake and my fears of mispronunciation or just forgetting English completely resurfaced. But then, I would start to create that world that my sister and my father create when they perform, and my worries slowly disappeared as I built argument upon argument.

College shaped my appreciation for debate. As an adolescent in high school, I debated whatever topic came my way—proliferation of nuclear weapons, the death penalty, the International Criminal Court, anything and everything. Some things I cared more about than others. In college, however, I found my niche. Perhaps I was inspired by my family’s history of political and social oppression—as Soviet citizens, as Armenians living in Azerbaijan. The pursuit of the protection of rights, specifically, of civil liberties, was my forte. Every artist has that one song or piece that speaks to them to such an extent that performing it just feels like a weight is being lifted off of their body and all the emotions that they are feeling are being transferred to every listener. That was what I felt when I participated in my first collegial moot court tournament. My emotions were not abstract or artsy like those of my father or my sister—they were concrete and specific—but to me, it was music. Being able to fight for a liberty that I believe to be fundamental to American ideals is my music and I’m happy that I live in a country where I don’t have to cover up my thoughts or my political associations with flowery, artistic language to dilute (or cover up) the meaning of my words, as my father had done in former USSR to avoid political trouble.