Playing for Myself
The piano sits in the living room, collecting dust. Years ago, it would’ve been used daily, coating the living room with melodies, but now, it only serves as a shelf for family photos. Pretty ironic, because my family was the thing that made me choose to stop playing.
I started piano when I was just five years old. Fiddling with the various buttons on my dad’s Roland keyboard (we didn’t have a real piano at the time), I became familiar with childhood classics like Auld Lang Syne, Twinkle Twinkle, and Ode to Joy through the autoplay function. At the same time, my mom would gather stacks of CDs with names like Mozart, Beethoven, Vivaldi, and Brahms, and insert them into the player, filling the house with classical music. Naturally, I tried to copy what I heard, spending hours experimenting with the black and white keys.
As I continued to grow, my family kept moving to new countries. When I moved to Thailand, I stayed back after school to learn Canon in D on the keyboard in the music room. In Singapore, I marveled at the street performances along Orchard Road. And when we moved to Russia, it was with my elderly Russian teacher that I first learned pieces like “The Entertainer”, continuing to hone my skills. With every relocation, the piano followed, and the bond between myself and my beloved instrument was strengthened.
That all changed one day when I watched a local piano competition at the Bolshoi Theatre. My third-grade self looked on as a high-schooler approached the massive Steinway grand piano in the middle of the stage. With magic in her fingers, she performed a complicated aria flawlessly. Her piece enthralled the audience with its canorous pitch and mellifluous story, and when she finished, deafening applause erupted. I couldn’t help but join in. That performance encapsulated everything I wanted to learn in piano: the poise, the elegance, the precision. Even though I now realize that she likely didn’t choose that piece herself, the skill that emanated off the stage reeled me in. I wanted to be just like her.
Something I didn’t know was that my mom, ever the ambitious parent, was even more enraptured than I was. In her mind, playing piano could become an extracurricular, for college and beyond. On the way home, she made a phone call, and a few days later, a new piano teacher arrived at the door with an ABRSM Grade 4 booklet in hand. She taught me how to play three pieces she selected and asked me to practice them for the next week.
At first, I went along with it, but after practicing for the first time, I realized I had no desire to play three random songs whose names I could barely pronounce. I wanted to be the girl on the stage, playing that complicated aria, and narrating with my music. I wanted to learn pieces I liked. Yet, I never had the chance, nor the choice to speak up, because my mom had already made up her mind. She ordered that I would spend an hour in front of the piano every day, practicing the three pieces.
I toiled away at the piano after that. It didn’t matter what time or day it was—I was chained to the instrument. Practicing the pieces became homework, and the ABRSM test became a final exam. Although I still enjoyed hearing the melodies, it didn’t feel the same as before, because now I was doing it for a grade. As the test date drew nearer, stress mounted, and the practice got more demanding. My piano teacher set a new rule: play the three songs flawlessly 10 times to end the practice. This seemed like an insurmountable task—playing a song flawlessly once was already desperately difficult. Worse, I had lost all choice of playing the songs I liked before; now, it was just bare repetition, muscle memory, and monotonous toiling. I wasn’t turning into the girl with magic in her fingers. I was becoming a robot, playing with no passion or emotion.
When the day of the test finally arrived, I entered the center quaking from nervousness, sitting beside the proctor in a sweaty mess. I can’t recall many details now, but I do remember that I emerged from the room with my head in my hands, confident that I had flopped.
After a few nervous weeks of waiting for results, however, I received an email from my piano teacher. I’d passed, after all, even getting a distinction award. Ecstatic, I celebrated, and my teacher said she had a present for me. The next time she came over, she brought me a rectangular object wrapped in gift paper. When I opened it, my eyes narrowed. It was the ABRSM Grade 5 booklet. Yet, the happiness of the distinction award overshadowed any doubt or remorse in my mind about not playing songs I genuinely liked. So, I pushed those feelings aside and just smiled sweetly, thanking the teacher.
In reality, suppressing my implicit thoughts begging me to quit felt unnatural. I hated repeatedly playing songs I didn’t like for extended periods every day, and now, I’d signed up to do it all over again. A whole year of the same thing. But, with no way to turn back, I convinced myself to continue for other reasons.
As the euphoria of the award wore off, I told myself to keep going because of my mom. I knew how much piano meant to her. On long car rides, she’d go on about how music develops the mind, and how playing the piano would miraculously make me smarter. At home, she’d put orchestral music on the speaker, and express her regret about how she couldn’t play when she was younger. She never had the choice to learn music, and surely, she wouldn’t let her child squander this opportunity when it was right in front of them. I told myself I wouldn’t let her down.
One Saturday evening, I found myself caged again while the rest of the family was out eating a nice dinner. My eyes narrowed on the sheet music as I fiercely played the final notes of a Bach fugue, my fingers a blur. Just as I was about to end with a flourish, my finger slipped off a black key, and the dissonant notes echoed throughout the room.
Failure.
Anger spurted out of my gut like a bloodied gash. I slammed my hands against the piano over and over, trying to tear the walls down with the hideous sound. Although the noise was jarring, I felt a bit of solemn beauty knowing that I chose to play it myself. When I finally finished the raucous assault, I closed the lid. As I did so, something hit me—I didn’t want to be the girl performing on stage either. I didn’t play piano for the test proctor, or the audience. I played piano for myself. And I didn’t enjoy it anymore.
In light of my experiences, I realize that we all are controlled by the decisions others make for us. Whether it’s making someone else proud and fulfilling their desires, like me to my mother, or simply wanting to make them happy, the motives of others drive our actions. This isn’t necessarily a bad thing. Being empathetic is a skill that strengthens relationships, builds bonds, and allows us to be compassionate. However, I believe that we can’t allow others to dictate and impose upon what we truly love; otherwise, it will only lead to resentment.
The piano still sits in the living room. We don’t plan on getting rid of it anytime soon. Maybe one day, after high school, I’ll sit there and try to stumble through the Bach fugue one more time. Maybe after college, I’ll get a piano—place it in the corner with some family photos—and attempt to remember how to play the pieces my Russian teacher taught me. And maybe after I get a job, I’ll try to find the old Roland keyboard, press the autoplay button, and listen to Auld Lang Syne while fiddling with the buttons. But whatever I do, I’ll choose to do it myself.