"I have a dream...." said Martin Luther King Jr.

My mom said that this reference is totally out of context, but I believe that his dream is still related to mine. His dream was that all Americans would be brothers and sisters regardless of skin color. My dream is that all people of all nations would become brothers and sisters through music. Of course, MLK's dream is in an infinite number of ways much grander and more necessary than mine, but I felt that my dream also stemmed from the biggest issue in my life: communication.

This issue has overrun my life with riddles and questions. When my brother shot himself at 19 in his 1995 Toyota Corrolla, no one understood why. He had left behind an alcoholic father, a workaholic mother, two sisters and a girlfriend. And his suicide note said three words: "Please Understand Me". Sadness is not a word strong enough to express how I felt then, and still isn't strong enough to express how I feel 3 years later.

"Please Understand Me"

My brother's name was Darren; a quiet guy to say the least. I had never seen him yell before, except once when my father came home at 3 in the morning from drinking all night with his friends. He was at school when he wasn't home and in his room when he wasn't at school. Somehow, my sister Ella and I knew to never ask questions, but we were always curious what he was doing in his room and what he talked about with his girlfriend. 

Occasionally, he came out of his room to carress the piano sitting in our living room. It was out of tune and clanky, but when he played his latest composition on it and sang, the whole house went silent to hear every note.

Those moments were as ethereal as they were evanescent, and before we knew it, Darren went back to being the hermit we all knew him to be.

When I turned 14, I came home to an empty house. My mom was at work, father at who knows where, and Darren was picking up Ella from her violin lesson. I still remember how defeated I felt that day. The middle school self proclaimed queenka had given me a bag of smelly seaweed to "congratulate" me.

"I heard Koreans eat seaweed soup on their birthday!" she said sickly sweet as she the bag of seaweed into my face. "Plus, it might help you get your period! We all know you're still a baby. Good luck!" She giggled and left with her posse.

"Those es" I thought. "I'll show you one day you racist, ugly pigeon!" Of course, my face showed nonchalance, but inside, I was dying.

I threw my bag of seaweed out into our kitchen trash can and trudged upstairs to start my homework. I sat down at my old wooden desk, clicking on the rusty lamp that stood at its corner. The lamp shed light on a small USB sitting on the center of my desk. Under it read a post-it: "Baby sis! Happy Birthday. I know you love music, so here's a little compilation of my songs for you to enjoy. You are the light of our family, Jules. Never forget your worth. Love, Darren."

I didn't know I had been crying until I saw a dark splotch appear on the note. A crusty smile cracked onto my lips as I quickly grabbed my laptop and plugged into his voice.

Listen to my heartbeat

It calls you whenever it wants to

Because within this pitch black darkness

You are shining so brightly

Give me your hand save me save me

I need your love before I fall, fall

Give me your hand save me save me

I need your love before I fall, fall *

The stripped down piano plunked out a mysterious melody. I was in utter shock at its beauty, and the chords! They were insanely well crafted. The skill, the talent, the genius of his composition; they all wrecked me to the core.

From that day on, my view of Darren reached beyond being a quiet, unreachable soul. He became a part of me, shared a piece of my heart and love. No matter where he was, his music would drift into my ears and remind me that he was human. That he knew the power of music and the ability for it to connect every person through candidness.<