And then there was the new generation. Maya had started a foundation in her father's name: the Chen Music Foundation provided scholarships to young musicians from low-income families—kids who had talent but no money, kids who practiced on borrowed instruments and dreamed of something more.
Every year, Maya personally auditioned candidates for the foundation. She sat in a room much like the one where she had been judged, and she listened to young people play: some were good; some were not so good. But she never stopped anyone after thirty seconds; she never told anyone they belonged in a community choir; she gave every single candidate a chance to show what they could do. Because she remembered what it felt like to be dismissed; she remembered what it felt like to be told she was not good enough. And she never wanted anyone else to feel that way.
One afternoon, a young boy came to audition for the foundation. He was twelve years old, small for his age, wearing clothes that were clearly secondhand. His violin was old and scratched. He looked terrified.
Maya smiled at him. "What is your name?"
"Thomas," he said, his voice barely above a whisper.
"It is nice to meet you, Thomas. What are you going to play for us today?"
"A piece by Bach," Thomas said. "But I am not very good. My teacher says I need more practice."
Maya leaned forward. "Thomas, can I tell you something?"
The boy nodded.
"When I was nineteen years old, I walked into an audition just like this one. The judges stopped me after thirty seconds. They told me I was not good enough. They told me to go join a community choir. They did not give me a chance."
Thomas's eyes went wide.
"But I asked for sixty more seconds," Maya continued. "And in those sixty seconds, I showed them what I could really do. So I want you to know that no matter what happens today, you will get your full chance. I am not going to stop you early. I am not going to judge you before you are finished. I am going to listen—really listen—because everyone deserves that."