For a long time now, I've forsaken my confidence and faith my piano playing, oppressed by my piano teacher, my failures, and my feelings of incompetence. The last time I had been completely sure of myself on the piano was when I was eleven, performing Schubert's "Impromptu Op. 90 No. 2 " at an NJMTA recital. I had taken flight on the piano that day, but I haven't stretched out my wings since then.
The journey of my upcoming music camp, and international institute in some remote place from my home, presently implies an imminent destruction to what little self-confidence I have of myself in this respect. And it has been so since I've been accepted.
And here, my piano teacher takes my fear and plunges it into me. Maliciously.
She says she "wishes that I won't be at the bottom in camp". She wonder why I've been "slacking off" and "being lazy". She questions me as to why I have an "attitude" and why I am "so confident that I think I don't need to practice."
Yes, laboring three hours a day on the piano is the epitome of slacking off, Mrs. Your-Words-Cause-Me-Pain.
At my lesson,I start to shatter and she hurls her accusations at me.
As she turns to look at the music on her piano, I face her and moth, "What do you know about self-esteem anyway?" She's the destroyer of it.
Tears well in my eyes, and I can only keep myself from crying. I don't-can't speak because i know my words will only falter into something inaudible, making me look only more like an idiot than I probably already do to my piano teacher.
My attempt to justify myself will only backfire.
For a long time now, I've forsaken my confidence and faith my piano playing, oppressed by my piano teacher, my failures, and my feelings of incompetence. The last time I had been completely sure of myself on the piano was when I was eleven, performing Shubert's "Impromptu Op. 90 No. 2 " at an NJMTA recital. I had taken flight on the piano that day, but I haven't stretched out my wings since then.
The journey of my upcoming music camp, and international institute in some remote place from my home, presently implies an imminent destruction to what little self-confidence I have in myself. And it has been so since I've been accepted to go there.
And now, my piano teacher takes my fear and plunges it into me. Maliciously.
She says she "wishes that I won't be at the bottom in camp". She wonders why I've been "slacking off" and "being lazy". She questions me as to why I have an "attitude".
So now she twists the blade. Blood spurts everywhere, but she is blind.
She asks me why I am "so confident that I think I don't need to practice."
Yes, laboring three hours a day on the piano is the epitome of slacking off, Mrs. Your-Words-Cause-Me-Pain.
At my lesson, I start to shatter as she hurls her accusations at me.
As she turns to study the music on her piano, I face her and mouth,
"What do you know about self-esteem anyway?" It barely satisfies my need for assertion.
Tears well in my eyes, and I can only keep myself from crying. I don't—can’t speak because I know my words will only falter into something inaudible, making me look only more like an idiot than I probably already do to my piano teacher.
My attempt to justify myself will only backfire.
So I sit, my back erect, my head squared towards the piece of music lying on the piano.
The notes on the paper haunt me, taunting me of my inability to play them adeptly.
My eyes struggle to contain my tears. It's hard.
I try blocking out her voice, telling myself to just wait it out, like a bad movie. But unlike eyes, ears don't have lids.
I want to pounce on her, give her a nice sock in the face and triumphantly ask, "How does that feel? This is the physical version of what your words do to me."
Mama says I shouldn't let words hurt me.
And I have never vented to her so vehemently.