The Piano Recital Disaster

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I despised the piano. I hated it with every fiber of my being.

This ordeal first started when I reached the age of six and was able to focus on a certain subject for longer than five minutes. From that point on, my parents encouraged me to experiment with extracurricular activities to discover what I liked to do. Of course, I had to obey my parents, so my mom enrolled me in various classes.

The next week, I began tennis and art classes, both of which I enjoyed very much. Every time my mom drove me over to the tennis court or the art studio for my classes, a certain thrill coursed through my veins. My teachers even described me as an effervescent student who was always eager to learn. I thought to myself at the time, “This isn't so bad. I could even add a third activity.” When I relayed this idea to my mother and father, they decided to register me for piano. However, they specified that I must be committed to this class and the endless rehearsals, recitals, and competitions that I would be required to attend. Being the naive little girl that I was, I told them that I was prepared for anything. I quickly regretted that decision.

My piano teacher seemed to be a pleasant and cheerful woman who wore a green- and brown- patterned cardigan and spoke with a slight Bulgarian accent. Being an introverted six-year-old, I was rather intimidated by my teacher. I was rather uncomfortable with meeting new people. However, she slowly eased me into the process of taking this class by smiling and assuring me that I would have fun. In fact, I did! Even though I was given numerous books filled with musical pieces, I was rather enthusiastic to prove my capabilities. I listened to recordings of the pieces I was given, played different warm-ups to get my fingers into the habit of flying across the keys, and even allowed my parents to critique me. This class would make me a star!

Fast forward several years: I was entering my first year of middle school. By then, I was gradually losing interest in piano. My piano teacher was no longer a lively woman to be around. She was overworked from having to teach a new wave of students, take care of her two sons, and oversee the renovations to her house. On top of all that, she was still recuperating from surgery. I understood why she adopted a different attitude, but it was difficult for me to learn from a grumpy woman who criticized every move I made. As she became increasingly irritated by my mere presence, I became terrified of her. I was more used to the motherly personality she had when I first began the lessons. In retrospect, I should have realized earlier that the class environment was becoming toxic and unhealthy for my mental state. However, I continued my classes with her because my parents believed that playing the piano was “good for me.”

Each class had also become rather mundane. It almost seemed as if I were stuck in a time loop where the same events occurred during each lesson. We would rehearse the same warm-ups and go over the same pieces. I felt artistically and musically restricted. I was not improving in any way, nor was I fascinated by playing an instrument. My teacher ordered me to play in a specific manner without allowing me any creative freedom to incorporate my own style into the musical pieces.

The old saying is that the more you practice, the more you will forget what you are doing. This is exactly what happened to me. The more I played, the more I forgot some of the notes during my rehearsal sessions. It did not help that I was expected to memorize my pieces. Each time I forgot, I was completely humiliated by my piano teacher, who brutally criticized me and harshly commanded me to repeat the piece from the beginning. “You’re not playing this correctly!”, “What’s going on in your brain?”, and “Why can't you ever play this correctly?” were all statements that I have heard repeatedly in class. At this point, I was just trying to just survive through each class. I looked at the piano at home as if it had offended me in some sort of way, and I resented being forced to play by my teacher and my parents. Unfortunately, a piano recital loomed in the near future, so I decided that I would tell my parents that I hated taking piano lessons and pray that they would let me quit.

The piano recital was quickly approaching, which I was dreading. Even though I practiced each piece for a million times, I was still petrified that I would forget a measure during my performance. Soon, the day arrived when I would go on stage in front of a packed audience to play my piece. Before I started to hate my lessons, I hoped for people to actually like the way I played my piece, but now, I just wanted to maneuver through the piece without forgetting a single note.

When my mom and I arrived at the recital hall, I picked up a program and skimmed through it. I spotted several of my friends who would be the first people to play. Finally, my eyes landed on my name, and I silently cheered. I was the 18th person to perform. This gave me plenty of my time to look at my piece again and memorize each detail. I was so immersed that I did not realize it was almost time for me to play. After the 17th person finished playing, it was my turn. I can say, with confidence, that at that moment, I felt like throwing up.

My mom whispered some encouragement as I rose from my seat and shuffled towards the stage. It almost felt as if time had stopped as I inched towards the piano. As I drew closer, all I could see was that menacing piano, as pitch-black as the horses of Nyx. When I sat down on the seat, the piano loomed over me, “baring its keys” threateningly at me. Inhaling deeply, I told myself to just get it over with. Positioning my slim fingers over the enormous keys, I began to play the first few measures which I had just reviewed. “Maybe this performance will be alright,” I mouthed to myself. That is where everything went wrong.

My mind suddenly blanked, and I completely forgot the next few measures. Panicking, my fingers fumbled over the keys to the point of almost slipping off the piano. I could not believe that this was happening. Making a quick decision, I went back to the third measure and began to play again. I still could not remember what came next. Screaming internally, I was floundering, unsure of what to do. Suddenly, a miracle occurred: before the teacher signaled for me to get off of the stage, I continued to play as if nothing had happened. However, I still made that horrible mistake and, for the rest of the piece, I was grimacing at my error. Finally, I finished the piece and quickly stood up. I bowed sheepishly to a smattering of applause and ran out of the recital hall. My mom followed me out and comforted me. She said that she realized that perhaps she had forced me to take this class for far too long. The next day, before my class, my mom emailed my teacher and told her that we were quitting. Not even a minute later, my piano teacher responded, stating that she still saw potential in me. She wanted to make a few changes in my classes to revive my fervor for piano. However, after my mom adamantly refused, my teacher gave up and asked me to return every bit of material she had given me to help with my practices. During this whole process, I was smiling. I was finally free from this nightmare.

It has been two years since that catastrophic performance at my final piano recital. Sometimes, I still get wistful about my piano lessons, but I know that quitting was the best decision to protect my mental and emotional health. I have grown as a person and have gained more confidence than I ever had. Of course, I still wish the best for my teacher. One day, I might decide to play the piano again, but for now, I am focusing on finding new interests and being the best me I can be.

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Published August 10, 2021

Graphics created by Abinaya Balaji