“Cultivation Of Culture In Kansas” Stories From Childhood

My mother teaches practically every child in my little town piano. I sit under the old spinet and wait for her. I get very good at waiting and knowing the letter of each note being played and if one is missed knowing what it should be. I crave my mother’s attention but she is giving her patient, gentle, caring to another child and then another. I wait and wait for her. I am 3.

I am pleased with the shoes but they are different from any I’ve ever seen before. I wish they were not pink. I hate pink but am getting used to the idea that my mother is going to pick out pink clothes for me and I do not have enough power to change that. We are in Topeka. We go into a building I’ve never been in before. I am not told where we are going. I am with Susanne but she disappears as soon as we go through the door with other girls into the main part of the room. I panic without her. My mother is there. She is angry with me. She is pulling at my coat and I am refusing to take it off. I am crying. Then I feel hysteria overtake me. I must be loud by the looks the other mothers give who are standing near us.  It is hot and crowded. I sense their eyes on my mother and me and hear snickers, laughter and remarks that my mother should take me outside. I cannot breathe. I feel like the most important thing in the world is to keep my coat on. If it is on, I won’t have to go with the other girls and Susanne. Mommy gets angrier and angrier. She has stopped trying to take my coat off and is now bending down talking to me.  I only hear parts of what she is saying: “If you don’t get out there...............” “I will never.............again.” “You were the one who wanted to do this and now ... ”Look what you are doing to me?” I am certain I have not asked for this because I have never seen anyone dance before. I am pulling away from her because she is too close to my face. Then I look up and people come into view. I lunge at my mother and cling to her leg. I am overwhelmed with anxiety and shyness! This is my first memory of feeling shame and embarrassment. I know I am a bad person because I have hurt and upset my mommy. I am 4 years old.

I don't know where we are going, but our lacy stockings and black patent leather shoes have been carefully placed on our beds. Susanne’s dress is blue but otherwise the same as my pink one. Mommy drives us to Topeka and we park in a lot behind a big grey building I don’t recognize. I struggle up some concrete steps and go through heavy metal doors. I see my piano teacher. She smiles and waves then comes over to us and hands my mother a folded paper with printing on it. My mother is fussing with our dresses. She tells me I am going to play “Tiny Tiger”, which is a piece I like to play a lot. She stands behind me as I peek out between heavy red velvet curtains. I see lots of people sitting in chairs facing a stage. The lights pointing at a stage blind me. Mrs. Durine is talking through a microphone to the people in the audience. I have never heard a microphone before. She gets done talking and walks toward me. Then she gives me a little push and I am on the stage. I am paralyzed with fright. For a minute I cannot walk toward the piano, which is black and open to the sky and extends practically clear across the stage, nor can I go back. All my thoughts disappear. Tears are rolling uncontrollably down my cheeks onto my dress. There is an uncomfortable rustling in the audience. Finally, I run off the stage into the arms of my furious mother. She takes me to a corner behind the stage and is bending down talking to me. She is too close and her grip on my arms too hard as if she is going to shake me. Her face is red and I know she wants to yell but cannot because of all the people. I hear another child playing the piano on the stage behind us. Mrs. Durine comes over and my mother straightens and stands up. Mrs. Durine is unhappy with me but it is not the same kind of anger as my mother’s. Her anger is not about embarrassment or feeling humiliated like my mother’s. She is simply trying to convince me to go out and play my piece. I am crying and cannot catch my breath. I am too upset to find any words. She goes away and comes back many times. In between, she tells the next student to go onto the stage to play. Susanne plays her piece. Then she stands quietly next to my mother. This back and forth pattern of Mrs. Durine’s goes on for what seems like forever. Finally, Mrs. Durine says she will give me a doll if I will go out and play “Tiny Tiger”. I jump at the opportunity for someone to be nice to me. By this time everyone else has finished playing. When I walk out onto the stage everyone in the audience laughs. The students have played in order of age and the high school seniors have just finished playing. I remember bowing but do not remember playing “Tiny Tiger”. I am 4 years old. I never get a doll.

Mr. Fetter is teaching me violin. I want to play because I like the sound of the violin when my big brother, Phil, plays. Mr. Fetter’s office is in an old stone building at Washburn University in Topeka. It is large because the orchestra practices there when he isn’t teaching. He is smoking a cigar and I am holding back a wave of nausea from the putrid smell. Mr. Fetter loves Phil. He has a daughter who is in Phil’s grade. It is a well-known fact that Phil is “like the son he never had”. Everyone encourages this relationship. Mr. Fetter doesn’t particularly like me or enjoy teaching me. He does it because I am Phil’s little sister. I am very motivated in spite of his indifference and do very well. I am 6.

I am playing “Meditation from Thais” at church. I play it beautifully. Flawlessly. Inspired. After church, some little old ladies I do not know come up to me. “That was so moving and beautiful,” one says. “ It was almost as good as if Phil was playing it.” I am 11.

Mrs. Flannigan is my piano teacher. I am playing Mozart and Beethoven Sonatas. I like them very much. She insists that I take a pencil and make a line every 4 measures on the pages through all the movements. Then I am to practice only one 4-measure group at a time, over and over and over again. It is tedious and although I can see value in it, it is not enjoyable. Mrs. Flannagan sits in the next room and chain-smokes. The house floats in a heavy blue haze. She barks out directives and criticisms. I can be there for an entire lesson and never see her. I do improve and music begins to make sense to me in a new way and takes on form, shape, depth and hue. I am 12.

I am preparing to play a solo for State Music Contest. Mr. Fetter has brought in an accompanist who is a student at the University. He is only doing it for the money and we do not hit it off. My best friend, Ron and I have been playing the piece together and doing great. I go to Mr. Fetter and tell him I would prefer playing with Ron. Without hesitation he says that is not a problem. Then, shortly after that, my mother tells me I am not going to take lessons with Mr. Fetter any more. She tells me he is extremely upset with me for going against his assignment of an accompanist. He doesn’t want to work with me anymore or see me ever again. I am 13.

I take on 5 piano students my mother doesn’t have time to teach. We start out slowly and soon they are playing advanced pieces well. It is the first time I have ever taught, except for Red Cross swimming lessons, which is completely different. I enjoy sharing music that I am starting to love SO MUCH! I am 14.

I am the drummer in a rock band called “Psychotic Reaction”. We play for dances in neighboring towns. I am having a blast playing trap drums and it gets me out socially without the pressure of having to talk to people. Even though I go with the guys in the band to the dances, my parents wait in their car through the entire dance and follow me home. One night I am wearing a red and navy hound’s-tooth pants suit and I am hot. A beautiful guy is there dancing with a number of different girls. I can tell that everyone finds him attractive and would do anything for his attention. He walks up to me at intermission and starts talking. His name is Dick Love and he is also a drummer. Would I go out with him after the dance? “No,” I say. “I have State Music Contest in the morning and my parents do not let me go out.” The next day I walk into the room where I am to play my violin solo and as I get ready to play I look up and there is Dick Love sitting smack dab in the front row. I am supposed to play a Mozart Violin Concerto and instead play the first movement of the Mendelsohn Violin Concerto, which I have never even read through but have heard Phil play. I do not realize I have played the wrong piece until the judge asks my why I played a different solo than the one listed. I never see Dick again...I am 15.

Mrs. Kew is a jewel. She is teaching me violin after Mr. Fetter has kicked me out of his studio. She pushes me hard in a gentle way and I am sounding better and better. She navigates my mother’s challenging ways by moving out the way like an Aikido Master. Soon after I begin working with her I earn the position of Concertmistress in the Topeka Youth Symphony, win the Topeka Symphony Young People’s Music Competition and play a concerto with them, play in an adult orchestra in St. Joseph, Missouri and start playing a series of recitals with my friend Ron. Mrs. Kew lives in Atchison, which is 60 miles from my home. I hate riding in the car anywhere with my mother, especially long distances. We fight all the time now and my anger overtakes my reason and I find myself off balance. I feel trapped in the car with her. I need her to stop. I am 16.

I am riding in the car with my mother driving down Topeka Avenue, which is wide with large trees along the side. She is yelling at me and threatening to not let me go to college if I talk with a certain boy in my class ever again. It is because he is a Catholic, she says. I am hemmed in by the confinement of the car and feel as though I will explode. I am yelling back and my mother speeds up. When I cannot take the pressure another second I open the car door and roll out onto the road. My mother continues driving and I have to scramble up out of the way of traffic. I am scheduled to take a piano lesson with Ron’s teacher that afternoon. I decide to walk to her house, although I have no idea how far it is. As I am walking I realize I am going past Washburn University. I walk to the music building. Just as I walk through the front doors Mr. Fetter walks out of his office. He sees me and comes over and gives me a large hug. He asks if I have a few minutes so he can talk with me. We go into his office. He tells me he was never upset with me but had had “enough” of my mother. He just couldn’t take her “demanding nature” any more. He was disturbed that I hadn’t been told the truth. I leave and continue walking. My feelings are confused by our conversation. I am happy that he cares about me. I keep walking and arrive at my piano lesson exactly on time. The teacher, who has only met me once, doesn’t realize anything is amiss until she asks where my music is and sees tears in my clothes and tears in my eyes. She is concerned and makes some phone calls in the next room. In about an hour my sister, who has come home from college for the weekend, shows up and drives me home. My parents never mention incident. We all pretend it did not happen. I am 17.

Dorothy Thomas has a clever racket going. She teaches groups of 10 girls half hour lessons in tap, ballet, modern dance and acrobatics. Every Saturday she teaches from morning until night. Marilyn Boone, Kathy Lever and Sheri Satin are her favorites—at least they always stand in the front so we can follow them. My sister and I are fleshy, tall and dark haired. Marilyn, Kathy and Sheri and the other girls are tiny with blond hair and blue eyes. They all live in Topeka and are friends. Their mothers wear stylish clothes and makeup and drive pink thunderbird cars and talk with each other during the lessons. My mother is overweight and feels bad about her and wears dresses that are outdated and practically rags. No one talks to her. I don’t know which is more embarrassing—my sister, our mother, or me. To add more humiliation to this experience, every year Dorothy has a dance review at the auditorium theater downtown. We have costumes for each dance we are in. That means about a dozen each. Everyone else has outfits sewn by the same dressmaker. Our mother makes ours. Ours are always way off mark and obviously different from the others even from the back of the auditorium. I hate dancing and Dorothy Thomas and Marilyn, Kathy and Sheri and my mom and the other mothers SO MUCH! I have never been more miserable than at Dorothy Thomas’s and dread going there every Saturday. I beg to stop and finally am allowed to quit after 4 years. I am 18.

I am playing principal second violin with the All Student Orchestra USA. We are playing a concert on the Eifel Tower in Paris, France. It is Bastille Day. As we play, large dark clouds gather and loom above us, threatening rain. We are outside on the first deck. I feel a sprinkle followed by several more. I do not wait for the conductor or the Concertmistress to give us all the signal to leave but get up and walk quickly under cover. Everyone follows me. I think this must be the most independent, powerful thing I have ever done. I am 18.