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.
