The Piano Recital

When I was five years old my mother signed me up for piano lessons. My teacher was from Sri Lanka, and I was fascinated by her. I grew up in a town where most people had pale skin and spoke like I did. Her skin was very dark and her accent was thick and unfamiliar to my ears. The decorations in her little apartment were colorful and intricate and they were everywhere. She had elephants and hanging tassels and intricately carved furniture, and generally the place just had more style than I was used to. Occasionally she told me about her piano teacher. Her piano teacher had a switch and whenever a mistake was made her little fingers were struck. She never hit me or even threatened to hit me, but that story scared the crap out of me just the same.

At the end of the year there was a recital. All the little children were to play in a little hall far all the little parents. I was to perform a piano duet with a little girl. The pianos sat next to each other on the stage and we had our backs to the audience. We played the opening phrase perfectly fine, and then I stopped. The opening phrase was probably about eight bars and the rest of the piece was probably about 64. I can remember what the music looked like because all I could do during that time was stare at it as my insides turned to jelly and my brain filled with electricity. I sat there in a pool of five-year-old anguish as she gracefully played on, unperturbed, for what seemed like at least an hour. For some reason, my piano lessons ended after that.