Assignment #1 – ENG 2150

ANGIE

As a ten-year-old forced into piano lessons with my seven-year-old sister, we understood that music, and piano especially, was going to be hard. My parents weren’t around much, always working all the time, so my sister and I stayed with our grandparents, but even without their constant presence, the pressure to do well and excel at everything we did was heavy. And because I was the older child, the expectations mostly fell on me.

I believed with all my might that piano was going to suck, and when my grandparents unboxed our electric keyboard, an instrusive thought whispered for me to destroy it. My sister had no interest whatsoever, but it looked interesting. I liked trying new things, but they were hard.

I was dreading it when our grandparents brought us to the music school, lively and full of other kids and their parents. A few music teachers were out an about, grabbing books off the shelves, or talking to parents, but the rest of them were in the tiny rooms with pianos.

But then a tall, young woman came up to us, calling out my and my sister’s names. My sister, the extrovert between the two of us, waved, and she smiled down at us.

“Hi! I’m going to be your teacher. Nice to meet you!”

She ushered us into her room, our grandparents leaving us alone. She introduced herself, made sure she had our names right, and then dove into a few questions about music. Was it our first time? Did we have any experience? Any concerns?

What felt like a few minutes later, I had played my first song, with my sister watching over my shoulder. My teacher laughed a lot, stumbled over her words a few times, but then would laugh again. She never stopped talking, except when I played the piano keys. She would answer my sister’s questions, but otherwise never took her attention off me.

“Any questions? Concerns? Anything weird?” She asked at last. I shook my head.

“Okay, then. Well, that was a lot, so we’re going to stop here today.”

I looked up at the large clock above the piano. My thirty minutes was over already! It went by faster than I thought. And I had fun.

Every week after that, my thirty minutes seem to go by super fast. She would welcome us each week and allow us to dive straight into how our week went. Her expressions were funny every time we said something audacious, but she would always be laughing. Over time, I got through my first book, although my sister was behind me because she talked more than she played. And it was kind of annoying at first, but my teacher kept asking if I understood or had any questions.

Then one day, she introduced the school competition. I had to memorize two songs and play them perfectly. In front of people! Absolute strangers! I was adamant, but she begged me to try. With a smirk, she suggested that the more practice I had, the better it would be.

So I practiced a lot, but I still thought it was terrible. And every time I played it for her as practice, I thought they were terrible because they weren’t perfect. I always had a mistake somewhere, or my speed was off, or my dynamics were off here or there. But each time, she would nod and smile, sometimes clap, and every time, it was “nice!” or a “good job!” I didn’t understand, I thought it was bad because it wasn’t perfect. I didn’t want to perform anymore. But she dragged me into a group practice class, where it was me and a few of her other students. I was so nervous, but somehow made it through to the end.

She clapped, smiling at me when I was done. “Perfect.”

I smiled shyly, because I while I didn’t make any mistakes, I didn’t think it was perfect, but it was still nice to hear.

She had me do another practice session. Again, and again. So many times until I was starting to get annoyed with the songs I were playing. But each time, I felt a little more satisfied with my playing.

And every time I expressed my doubt that I would do okay, or my reluctance to partake in the competition, she would pout at me, and then go through the following:

“Repeat after me. ‘I will do great.'”

I shook my head.

“I practiced hard, and I will play great.”

I shook my head again, but I couldn’t help smiling.

“I can do it.”

I frowned. She copied my frown.

“I will get top ten.”

I laughed at the preposterous idea.

– – –

I got third place in the competition. Third out of 104 other students.

To be confident is to believe in yourself. A lot of things nowadays require speaking up, or straight-up public speaking in front of an audience. Self-confidence is something that is gained through experience, as well as self-assurance and the belief in yourself that you will do great.

I am first and foremost a student, as in not an adult, but I am also a private music teacher as well. When I first started teaching piano, I was still in high school, and not very confident. As one raised in an environment of constantly being put down, I never really did believe in myself and my own capacities, despite the words of teachers, mentors, and friends around me. Even today, I still constantly downgrade myself on a daily basis. The contrast between the younger me in the current me is that I have started faking it until I believed it, as per the saying, “fake it until you make it.”

One thing that many parents and teachers find out is that by being involved in the lives of these little people, of the younger generation, and by being a constant pillar, someone they can turn to, you start to see the change in their lives, of how they improve, a little at a time, and it is fascinating to realize that, “oh, that might’ve been me. I did that.” Through a few words of comfort, affirmation, or encouragement, there can be a little boost in confidence. I started to see the moments when they believed in themselves. They started to smile more, laughed a little more, happy that they got it, happy they understood what they were doing and realized that they could do it well.

On my first day of teaching, I was first introduced to a student younger than I was, and her mother, in the background. I was not exactly the most qualified, but my boss, and also the one who had taught me music most of my life and led me to success, believed I was, and thus, put me into my new role. She was in elementary school and had never taken a music class before, and I was to be her first light into this new world. My next student after her was not much older, and also a beginner. I took it slow and steady, making sure each of my students was comfortable and not confused, although it did take a bit of an effort to try to coax and encourage words from the blank stares and the minimum eye contact. Through repeated trial and error of questions and review every week, I somehow managed to finish each day feeling satisfied that I did what I could. A few months in, I realized how far I had come. From saying hello to each student and receiving a tiny nod, and receiving silence when I asked a question, by the time my second month with those first students rolled in, they started to get louder. Jumping on their feet as they greeted me with smiles before I could even say hello and bursting into stories about little dramas from their week, they started to open up with me.

It might have been the little daily jokes and interactions, or the encouragement after mistakes or learning something new, or the little scolding after their fooling around, but my students started to listen, started to take in my words, reciprocate my teachings, and pour out their hearts into their playing. They replied to my every question, put their best efforts into their music, and spoke up on their own.

I got them through competitions and performances in front of other kids their age or older, as well as parents. It was apparent how scary the thought of performing on a stage in front of strangers was to these kids, with their immediate shutdowns as soon as I brought up the idea. So I told them stories, of how I was the same when I was in their shoes, terrified of being on stage, under the bright lights, the deer in headlights in front of every pair of eyes that were to be focused on me, and me alone. Music was hard, never mind having to play from memory with the right speed, the right dynamics, expressive emotions, correct posture, and all the little details. I encouraged my students, half my age or less, to give it a try. But I made sure to emphasize that there was no pressure. As long as they tried their best, that was all that mattered. Of course, that wasn’t enough to convince all of them. One of my favorite feisty students, Angie, reminded me of myself. “Forced” into piano with high parental expectations to do well and punishments for failure, Angie was a tough nut to crack. So I roped her into a practice session with a small group.

Up on the stage in front of my five tiny students, all staring up at me like newborn fawns, wide-eyed, shaking, and terrified even though there were only six of us, and their parents all the way in the back in that large room, the pressure closed in. How was I supposed to guide kids who were struggling through something I still had trouble with? Like a parent, I knew I couldn’t show fear, uncertainty, or nervousness in front of them, or else they would feel uneasy as well. And on a professional note, I also had to prove to the adults that I was qualified to teach their children. So I turned to a comedic approach. I was always a class clown, this couldn’t have been much more different. I started off with a few light jokes, getting scattered laughter from the parents, and a few shy smiles from my kids, but they were still nervous. Then I went through a few examples of how to perform. Fear and nervousness mostly came from unknowns. Their ages ranged from 4 to 12, they’d never done this before, and I remembered that feeling. So I made my way down the stage, then back up dramatically, spinning a few times, pretending to be fooling around as I prepared to “perform.” I saw more smiles. I pretended to play a few notes dramatically, then stood up, faced them, and bowed. Instead of thanking the audience for their time as performers should, I told them, “You all are welcome for listening to my beautiful piece,” and then sauntered off the stage. That did it. They started to laugh.

Their smiles and peals of laughter and head nods to my questions told me that they understood, even if just briefly. I gave them a short walkthrough of the “proper” way to do certain things, showed them once more, and then went around for questions. Then I had them go through it, one by one, and complimented each of them on the things they remembered. And they all did remember the things I told them, almost everything, which was quite surprising, given the fact that this was everyone’s first time. By the end of that session, they were all comfortable, with me and the others around them, and with themselves, satisfied that they would do great.

As a child, I grew up quite independently and was quick to adapt. Whenever I didn’t want to do something, I realized it was due to the fact that I didn’t know how to, or was afraid to mess it up. By acknowledging that fact as I grew up, I toughened up to have myself venture out more, to mess up more, because who cares? Instead of staying quiet and ending up confused or nervous, I decided to let my intrusive thoughts out more and to hold my head up high. I followed through with my students. Every day I see them, I encouraged “questions, concerns, comments, or jokes?”, and to this day, I still ask that question every day.