Andante

Clay hands, the gym, posters, the cafeteria. Halloween ribbons, black and orange. Pumpkins surrounding doorways. Green, red, blue, tan, tile. Teachers busing their children to the bathroom, to their next class. I, with my friends, walked behind her – Miss – to the music room. We walked in and music notes were hung from the ceiling. Green cupboards along the walls, blue carpet covering the cement below – a first grade music room. We sat in a semi-circle and our homeroom teacher left.

He, at the head of the room, began to speak. He talked of music, of the piano, of notes and of rhythms. He even played a little piano and tried to get us to sing along with him. Excited eyes and quick minds memorized the lyrics to the songs and began to sing with him, myself included. Then:

There was an old woman who was skin and bones. . .

Ah, our favorite. We all sang to this one, anxious for the end. Every time, we jumped. Every time, though we knew the end.

Boo!

We jumped, laughed, screamed. He quieted us – the class was almost over – then walked around handing us a letter for our parents.
“I teach piano lessons for you guys,” he said, “and I’d love to teach any of you. Please, give this to your parents.”

We shrugged, and got up; our teacher had come for us.

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Clay hands, the gym, posters, the cafeteria. Halloween ribbons, black and orange. My mom had brought me to school to talk to him about lessons. She had told me that I would learn to play the piano. Enthusiasm reflected in my eyes, in my speech – bubbly.

She led me by the hand into his room, and began to talk to him. Money, times, dates, weeks, semesters, breaks. All this they talked of and I was left out of the conversation. I didn’t mind, I was going to learn how to play.

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Guitars, pianos, keyboards, sheet music – music store. We were looking for a keyboard and for my first piano books – Theory, Technic, Piano, and Performance books by Bastien. Pink books, primer level books, with a metronome on the front.

We walked out of that store with the four books and a brand new keyboard, all for me, all for me.

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The next week, I went to his house for my first lesson – a private lesson. He assigned my first pages. It was only a few black keys, slow rhythms, music theory. I practiced the first night for a long time, trying to be perfect. I did my theory, I played, wrote some more, played. For a week, I practiced, and then went back to his house.

Patience, he would say, learn patience. You play too fast. Then he would go to the next page and the next, black and white. For the next nine years, it was the same. The only thing that changed was the books, the level, and how much I practiced. I practiced less until I learned how to play classical music, like Chopin and Mozart. Beethoven was still hard, even at eight years, but I could play it if I really wanted to.

Still he would tell me, Patience, don’t go so fast. The music won’t run away. Learn to play slow before you play it fast.
So, I learned it slow, began to be more patient. I learned two things: patience and passion.

Black notes, whole notes, notes with half a beat, notes with a dot. Whole, half, quarter, eighth, rests. Bar lines, measures, key signatures, sharps, flats. Staff, treble, bass, fermatas. Allegro, Moderato, Andante.