Personal Narrative: Facing The Music

Facing The Music Her eyes glistened with a repulsive gleam of a smile on her face. I walked slowly hearing the whispering of my socks against the floor. It was that time again, piano lesson. Mrs. Zhang looked at me and smirked eerily. I sighed and took my place on the on the bench, close enough to smell my teacher. I put my shaking hands on the keys and began. I had always loved music. My parents once told me I sang before I spoke, I played piano before I could ride a bike. I listened to everything from mariachi music to soft jazz. For me, there are secrets hidden in the melody of a song, filling me with a need to decode it. That was why I had always loved to play and related to my old piano teacher, Rachel, who felt the same as I did.
It went that way, youngest child to eldest for piano, saving me for last. I was dessert.
By the time I was seated in front of the piano, it was dark. I had taken my seat and started my scales. I lost myself in the arpeggios, the notes musing together. I was lost in this world until a snap between my eyes had snapped me out of it. I looked over at my annoyed tutor. I had not noticed that we were done with the warm-up. I gave a small nod of an apology. She had me play a piece. I was allowed to choose any piece as long as it was memorized and she would look at the written piece as I played. I had chosen Moonlight Sonata. It was a personal favorite of mine; a piece of highs and lows and multiple paces all forming into a quick rush of sound. It was chaos and yet, was completely under my control. When the last note was played, the “helpful critiquing” started.
“No no no. Where are your dynamics? Where is your balance? You did not play as written!” Mrs. Zhang screeched out.
I had never played a memorized piece as it was written. After perfecting and memorizing a piece I would transform it to match my own style. My old teacher had understood this; my new teacher, not so
Every suggested tempo was tried. Every dynamic was attempted. I tried so hard I thought I would explode but, even with this effort I made plenty of mistakes. Each lesson I was given another “friendly critique”, feeling me with dread. It had never been as hard to please Rachel as it had been to please Mrs. Zhang. It was a constant struggle for me to stay eager to learn in her lessons. I had confronted my parents on my struggle only to be given uncaring remarks and a sarcastic “sorry” from my mother. For the first time ever, music was something I was not looking forward to