A rite of passage that seemingly many East Asian children go through, with varying degrees of success, is learning an instrument. Parents hope that coercing their child into playing music will leave a positive influence. Similarly, I experienced this time-tried journey at the age of seven. With this paradigm in mind, my mother decided that it was the right time for me to start learning the piano, but I was completely against it. Initial rebellion were tantrums; fake tears spilt in hopes of avoiding practice sessions. However, as time slowly passed, I started falling in love with the massive, wooden instrument. Eventually daily practices started flying by as I buried my daily stress under a large pile of old, wrinkled sheet music. That view
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After dealing with an hour of angry instruction; I decided enough was enough. Even if I did not win anything, I was going to make sure the belittling language spouted from my teacher would stop. That next week, I set up a rigorous practice schedule and threw myself into the music. I spent two to three hours a day polishing quick, crisp staccatos and smooth, mellifluous slurs. Even with the additional boost in practice time, however, nothing went right during my lesson. Unsurprisingly, loud shouts erupted from her mouth and a familiar feeling of failure set in. Nothing had changed; my hard work was seemingly for waste. In spite of all her anger, while packing up my books and preparing to go home, my teacher shockingly smiled slightly and lightly hugged me. As quickly as it appeared, her encouraging demeanor turned irritable again, and she shooed me out of her studio.
Shocked at the sudden show of support; I sat in amazement on the car ride home. That silent encouragement erased all despair and hardened my resolve in the set practice. The next two months, my piano and I became one. I was a singer, and the piano was the voice that conveyed my feelings and brought out the artistic genius of the composers. My relationship my teacher blossomed as well; my trepidation and depression disappeared while she became more understanding and helpful. Together, we perfected the competition pieces to the best of our ability, playing music I never knew I could
After dealing with an hour of angry instruction; I decided enough was enough. Even if I did not win anything, I was going to make sure the belittling language spouted from my teacher would stop. That next week, I set up a rigorous practice schedule and threw myself into the music. I spent two to three hours a day polishing quick, crisp staccatos and smooth, mellifluous slurs. Even with the additional boost in practice time, however, nothing went right during my lesson. Unsurprisingly, loud shouts erupted from her mouth and a familiar feeling of failure set in. Nothing had changed; my hard work was seemingly for waste. In spite of all her anger, while packing up my books and preparing to go home, my teacher shockingly smiled slightly and lightly hugged me. As quickly as it appeared, her encouraging demeanor turned irritable again, and she shooed me out of her studio.
Shocked at the sudden show of support; I sat in amazement on the car ride home. That silent encouragement erased all despair and hardened my resolve in the set practice. The next two months, my piano and I became one. I was a singer, and the piano was the voice that conveyed my feelings and brought out the artistic genius of the composers. My relationship my teacher blossomed as well; my trepidation and depression disappeared while she became more understanding and helpful. Together, we perfected the competition pieces to the best of our ability, playing music I never knew I could