The Piano Teacher

When I was young, I used to take piano lessons from this woman named Carol. I'd had a different teacher before, but I despised her, mostly because of the way she'd slap my hands whenever I dropped my wrists. So I told my parents I didn't want to take lessons anymore, and I quit.

Then one afternoon, my parents sat me down and asked if I would reconsider. I must have been seven or eight, because I remember they were both there, sitting on the edge of my little brother's bed.

In the end, I agreed to try piano again so long as we found another teacher. That's when they found Carol.

I didn't know what to think of her at first, but I knew I liked her better than my old teacher. My lessons took place in her house a few miles from where we lived. Once a week, my mother would drop me off, and I'd spend an hour sitting at her piano bench with her seated in a chair beside me.

Carol was a heavyset woman. Occasionally, she would have to check her insulin levels while I was there because she was diabetic. It was the first time I learned what diabetes was. Whereas with my first teacher everything was impersonal, like I was a soldier being trained in piano, with Carol it was quite the opposite. I was invited inside her home like I was part of the family. I would occasionally see her husband go in and out, or her two kids, both of whom were much older than I was.

What I liked about Carol was how she took the time to explain things to me. She taught me music theory, and the importance of dynamics, in addition to the more technical aspects such as proper fingering.

I took lessons with Carol for five years. Every few months, all her students would gather at her house, along with any parents and siblings that wanted to attend, and she would hold what she called "A Masters Class". She would teach us about some famous composer, or about a piece of music history, after which one or two students would play something for the group. It was a diverse collection of people for sure. Her students ranged from young kids like me, to middle-aged women, as well as a couple of retirees. Once a year she would hold a recital at her church, and each of us would take our turn walking up to the stage and sitting at the gleaming black grand piano. Carol would encourage me by telling me how members of her church were starting to attend the recitals every year just to hear me play and see how much I'd improved, though I can't be sure she didn't say the same thing to all her students.

My last recital, I played Chopin's Polonaise in A major. I played it well, and the audience clapped, and then shortly after that was when I quit piano altogether. I was probably 12 or 13 at that point. It's hard to say why I quit. Looking back, my guess is that I reached a point where I realized I would have to practice a hell of a lot more if I wanted to improve. The pieces began to overwhelm me, so that instead of seeing them as challenges for me to overcome, I thought them insurmountable .

By then my mother didn't have the strength to persuade me to change my mind, especially all on her own.

Looking back, I can't help but regret not having continued. I'm not saying I could have been a concert pianist or anything like that, but it would be nice to sit at the piano and play music for my sons and inspire them to work hard for their goals. I say this because my 7 year old has recently decided he isn't interested in playing soccer anymore, which is fine, but I would like him to find something he can be passionate about. I suggested he try piano, but he was even less interested in that. I wish I could play him something to try and convince him otherwise.

Thanks for reading and wishing everyone on read.cash a Merry Christmas!