The Teacher Who Didn’t Push Me
Sometimes we need others to meet us where we are.
We all have those songs that trigger our senses: the summer anthem from childhood that brings back the smell of sunscreen, or the love song that recalls the heartache of our first unrequited crush. For me, that list includes several famous pieces from my 10 years of piano lessons. These lyrical, complex works, designed to inspire joy and awe, instead evoke in me the unmistakable taste of vomit.
I loved the piano from my very first lesson. I sped through the early scales, chord progressions and beginner songbooks, eager to get to the “good stuff” — the Beethoven, Chopin and Debussy I heard the advanced students practicing on the other side of the door when I arrived early at my teacher’s cozy apartment. When I played, I felt at peace, like I was floating on a cloud.
But there was one aspect of piano lessons that filled me with panic, and that was the twice-yearly mandatory recitals. Intended as a way to showcase our progress (and to give our parents something to record on their hefty Panasonic camcorders), they were akin to torture for me. I would barely sleep the night before, and if I managed to choke down a few bites of cereal that morning, it wouldn’t stay down for long. My legs would quake walking up to the stage and my palms would sweat so much I could barely stroke the smooth keys. Decades later, I remember every awful sensation that came with those performances.
My parents and teacher were not oblivious or insensitive to my anguish; as an only child with strong perfectionist tendencies, I masked a lot of my suffering, and it took me years to muster the courage to tell them that if I had to play in one more recital, I would rather give up the instrument entirely. Although my parents were understanding, I braced myself for my teacher to dismiss my anxiety or attempt a futile pep talk. She was a kind but no-nonsense woman, and we had never talked much about “feelings.” I knew she believed recitals were an important part of the musical education process.
But she listened. Like the best educators in any arena, she understood that this wasn’t a moment to encourage some discomfort in the service of developing “grit” or to help me achieve some unrealized potential. She heard what I was saying: these recital experiences were threatening to destroy everything I loved about playing music. She was also able to appreciate the key fact that for some of us, developing a certain skill is something we do not for outside recognition, but instead to satisfy an urge within ourselves. My piano-playing was just for me, and that didn’t make the pursuit any less valuable.
I never played in another recital. I was able to keep my relationship with the piano private, and I look forward to reacquainting myself with the instrument now that my three children are getting older and our house no longer resembles one large playroom. And of course I hope one of my kids might develop an interest in playing an instrument, though I will be equally happy if they play at Carnegie Hall or for an audience of one.
My piano teacher passed away many years ago, before I was able to recognize and share with her that what I felt after that pivotal conversation wasn’t just relief (though there was plenty of that), but also gratitude for being seen as mature enough to know my own heart and mind. A great teacher has that ability, the perceptive skill to determine when to push a student to the next level and when to hold back and let them get there in their own time — or even never get there at all because their personal path is leading them somewhere completely different.
When I do start playing again, in whatever closed-door room I’m able to find, I will be dedicating those first songs to my teacher. She lit the spark and helped me keep the flame burning when it threatened to die.
