Piano Lessons

I suppose some part of me was always rebellious, whether out of human nature or of personal compulsion, I do not know. I remember being carted off to piano practice when I was 7 or 8 or so, with an old lady whose name escapes me now. Her rug was plush ivory cream, her sofas black leather, and I dutifully pounded out simplified Disney renditions and "The Saints Come Marching In" every week. We weren't rich, no matter which way your adjusted or viewed it, so I practiced on a my tiny Kawasaki keyboard a half-hour a day. I remember on her wall hung a list of names and practice hours, and I was number one. One day, we had a mini-recital at her house and I played some kind of Christmas song and afterwards, we were served white frosted cake served on elegantly cut glassware. I had not yet acquired a taste for sweets, so I declined.

I remember that we rented the top half of a house, the refrigerator was rumbly and ancient, a yellow behemoth, and on the lower half lived a college student named Andy. He loved the Lion King, and let me and my friends watch it one time when my family had a party. In the hallway, on top of all the oily floral wallpaper, was a gallery of all my drawings, including an emaciated rabbit with stick whiskers and an Easter basket. I remember there was a bush of red chokeberries by the cracked driveway. Andy told me that only birds could eat them; if I ate them, I would have to go to the hospital. I never tested out his claim. My friend Caroline and I (with whom I had a love/hate relationship) made grand plans to make ink out of them.

My parents always claimed to have my best interests at heart, and perhaps, now, looking from a slightly higher perch, I can see they did. I always give up before I begin, though, and my piano playing days were numbered. One day, my mother held my hand as we walked up that familiar white shutter door, and tucked in it was a note that the teacher had moved. Somewhere else. After that, the piano lessons stopped. I remember going into a showroom of pianos and playing the only tune I remembered, something from The Little Mermaid whilst the salesman smiled indulgently. There's nothing now - not even the faintest memory of what those dense, impenetrable forests of flagged symbols mean. Although, my reasons for wishing I knew how to play are very different now; before, it had been an understanding of some vague destiny of greatness, of Harvard - but now, I just wish I had that musician camaraderie.

I remember two summers ago in a class focused on pop culture, we wrote our experiences with music, and one boy, I believe his name was Justin, he wrote how music was a great way to connect with people, a conversation topic. And perhaps that's a very shallow way to desire it, but it's what I can admit to. Like those girls in the cafeteria in third grade waxing romantic on the Backstreet Boys printed on their juice boxes, they were part of some sorority I had never received admittance to. In the summer before fourth grade, I bonded with my friends over the Spice Girls, and with every guy, attempted to enjoy their musical taste, whether it be the Beatles or Counting Crows or the Sex Pistols. But sometimes, I wish I had continued and played guitar, or drums, or anything, you know. I can't even sing. And I feel like I'm missing out on something, something not as easily attained as agreeing that Brian was the cutest one, right?