The Day I Stayed Seated
I learned to stand for myself the day I stayed seated. No, I’m no Rosa Parks. I’m not young, I’m not African American, and I’m not selfless. Unlike Rosa Parks, my background isn’t squeaky clean. I know from sitting as jury foreman on a manslaughter case that I’d be really uncomfortable about being asked a ton of personal questions about my past. No, that cold February night I sat solely for myself and I refused to budge.
For years, I played classical piano. While other kids attended middle school dances, I spent my Friday nights sitting at my piano and practicing — three hours of scales, arpeggios, sight reading, memorizing difficult passages, and perfecting phrasing. Bach, Beethoven, Chopin, Mozart, and Clementi were my best friends. On balmy nights, our living room door was wide open, and neighbors blocks away would listen and comment to my parents about how lucky they were to have such a gifted daughter. I lived for talent competitions and auditions. I loved the applause and the praise. I loved newspaper write ups and seeing my name and my picture in piano guild magazines. This was my dream.
High school changed everything. No one wanted a classical pianist. Bands needed someone who could play jazz, so I learned standards like “String of Pearls” and “ Girl From Ipanema.” My high school also needed an accompanist for concerts. I backed up soloists for “Ave Maria,” and I played while the choir entered and exited the auditorium. Actual friends, mainly musician types — ok, guy musician types — replaced Bach and Chopin. Then, guys soon replaced me. They became intimidating at rehearsals. They were far too loud and moved in far too close. They had large hands and were far too pushy. I had I to get out of there.
I chose to run. I totally gave up music and ran middle and long distances throughout college. Running was safe, running freed me from worry. I ran so much and so hard that I earned MVP awards for all three seasons during my junior year. Running pounds out hurt. Running pounds out negative thoughts. Several years later, I married a guy who ran with me after our honeymoon. My advice: run with a guy before the marriage. Apparently, I did it all wrong. Even my sit-ups were wrong, and think about this: I had six-pack abs before they became a fad. My cooking was wrong. Sex was wrong. Seriously, how many times a day would take to make him shut the fuck up? Parties I threw were wrong. My telephone conversations at lunchtime were wrong. What the fuck? Really, what the fuck was wrong in my head that I tried to make him happy? Seriously, I should have run after he cancelled my order for strawberries for dessert while we were on our honeymoon. Who does that, who tells his bride that she isn’t worthy of strawberries and then expects sex?
I’m a damn slow learner, but one November night nearly thirty years later it clicked. My ex saw it click. I was at a concert and thought, “Fuck this. I’m doing what I want.” The next day I pulled out some old sheet music and sat at the player piano I bought him for an eighth wedding anniversary present. Maybe I really wanted a gift for myself when I bought it. I don’t know. That Monday after the concert, I started to research piano instructors and I started lessons in February. He hated it. He complained that I was ignoring him. One evening he shouted that I was to never play in his presence again. The old me would have tried to please him. I realized that fulfilling that demand was an impossible task. I was not going back. I sat and I sat. I worked through Chopin’s Polonaise in A-flat major, Op. 53, while he blasted Sam Smith’s In the Lonely Hour album. My hands shook, tears poured down my cheeks, and the metronome kept time to it all. For forty minutes I practiced as the house shook with his music. I refused to be muted.
It’s over two years later. Today a glass of Licor 43 rests next to me as I write. The font is enlarged so I can type because I’m awaiting my new eyeglasses. It’s probably old age, but I prefer to believe that I’ve worn out my eyes practicing. I no longer care who listens to me play and who doesn’t. Like nearly forty years ago, my music is once again for me. Today I sit selfishly, writing and listening to Sergei Rachmaninoff’s Piano Concerto No.2, Op.18. No running, no tears, no fighting. Simply me and the music.
