Piano Lessons

Here is another one that I wrote for my personal history group.

Despite the fact that I took piano lessons for years I do not play any musical instruments.  I started piano lessons when I was about 7 years old.  My older sister played so I was thrilled when my mom signed me up.  I think my teacher moved me though the lessons even though I hadn't really mastered them.  After about two years this teacher moved and I went to a new teacher. 

Teacher number 2 recognized than I wasn’t playing at the “Level 3” that my previous teacher had me at and had me switch to a different course of books.  She explained to me that this course numbered their levels differently and while I was a level three in my previous books I was at a level 2 in this course. 

Two shmoo.  I could tell I was being demoted.  I had no natural musical talent and combine that with the fact that I didn't really practice it meant that I wasn't very good at the piano.  Oh my mom made me practice every day and I did my 30 minutes of “practice”, but I didn't actually try very hard.  Don't worry mom I am getting my payback now as I can see Alan practice something for hours but not get a lick better because he isn't actually trying.

Well teacher number 2 caught on to the frustrations of teacher number 1  of having a student that was not progressing and she moved me though the books again so I was back at level 3 when she moved (are we seeing a pattern here?  Did I drive my teachers away?)

On to my third and final teacher.  At this point I think I was asking my mom to quit piano. But my mom made me persevere.  Teacher number 3 said I needed to brush up on my basics.  She pulled out her level one book and told me I would breeze through it in just a couple weeks, but it would be good practice for me.  Well, due to my lack of effort, those weeks turned into months.  She didn't want to pass me off until I had really learned it. 

I was with her for a few years and I eventually moved up, whining and complaining to my mom the whole time.  My mom still wouldn't let me quit.  This lasted all the way up to my final piano recital (I was 11 or 12 at this time).  I had “practiced” the song for weeks and I thought I had it until I got up to the piano.  I placed my hands on the keys and started to play.  I didn’t play more than a few notes because I quickly realized they were the wrong keys.  I tried again.  Wrong keys again.  I tried again.  Wrong keys.  I don't remember how many times I tried but I realized that I could possible sit there all day and never get the right keys.  I thought in my head of what my options were.  I don't think I even had my book with me in the room.  I thought “maybe I can run out of the room crying and then people will just feel sorry for me”.  But running away crying wasn't really my style. So I finally decided that I'll give it one more chance and I'll play the song no matter what.  I should have chosen to run away crying.  I couldn't get the right notes so I played the entire song without getting a single note correct.  I could tell how bad it was because my mom never said a single word to me about my performance.  She did tell me however that I was allowed to quit the piano.

It wasn't until at least 15 years later that I ever heard my mom say anything about the performance.  I had told John the story and he was the only one brave enough to broach the subject and ask my mom about it.  15 years later and she still couldn't completely hide the horror from her face.  All she could manage to get out was a quiet “It was so awful.”

To piano teachers everywhere.

I’m sorry.

*When I read this to my personal history group we all had a good laugh and one of the ladies there is a fantastic musician and has taught piano for many many years.  She was telling me that I probably had low graphoria (can't read two lines of music at once).  I was expressing my reservations at letting Alan take trumpet next year but she assured me that trumpet was only one line of music and would be much easier to start on.  We'll see.