The first guitar leaned against my bedroom wall for a week before it had company. Then came a half-moon tambourine and a plastic recorder, a hairline crack at the mouthpiece. I queued the instruments behind my saxophone, an odd ensemble waiting for play. Transporting donations up to my apartment became its own kind of performance. I kept a running list, “Instruments,” as though I were charting parts for a performance I did not know how to conduct.

Months earlier, at Escuela Piriati Embera in Panama, the idea to collect instruments came in the form of a question.

¿Qué instrumentos tocas?

Their faces registered only blank comprehension. 

“¡Yo toco el saxofón!” I said, playing my air-saxophone.

One boy’s close-mouthed smile flickered, a moment of curiosity making me feel welcome and seen in the unfamiliar setting. I thought of my own beginnings at eight, signing a contract promising to care for my saxophone and practice daily. That routine taught me more than scales: it built confidence through commitment and patience. Before leaving Panama, I wondered if those same principles could be shared through instruments themselves.

In New York, I brought the question to Mr. Riggio, my band director, and to friends in the rehearsal room prompting an impromptu conversation about how music shapes identity and persistence, how practice becomes a kind of self-trust. Maybe those same principles could connect Escuela Piriati Embera and my high school band room.

So I started to collect. Guitars, drums, recorders, each a small puzzle in logistics and care. Weeks passed in mini-rehearsals of patience and planning. Today, the project continues and I find myself balancing lists, responding to emails, arranging pickups, and strategizing the delivery. Now named Percussion Project, these instruments offer the possibility to share what music can offer: confidence, creativity, and connection.