The story of my experience and the lessons I learned from taking seven years of piano lessons from a strict, classical piano teacher, whose name I have changed in this version.
I was twelve years old when I faced my biggest fear. I quit practicing piano, and it was the best thing I ever did.
When I was five years old, I took my first piano lesson from a woman named Mrs. Eichmann, a cultured, dignified elderly German woman who had been teaching piano for an unknowable number of years. Once a week, my mom would drive me through the winding streets of southwest Portland, up into the West Hills, where Mrs. Eichmann's regal house sat at the top of an impossibly steep driveway. From the street, all you could see was a roof peeking out from above rectangular green hedges.
At the top of the driveway was a side entrance to her house, through an impeccably maintained courtyard. On the other side of an elegant magnolia tree was the sliding glass door that lead into her piano studio, where you could hear a faint melody by Mozart or Tchaikovsky growing louder as you approached. You would pull open the sliding glass door to find her leaning over the Steinway & Sons, eyes closed, arms violently flying up and down, right and left, and crashing down with dramatic flair. Then the song would end, and she would rest for a succinct moment, the sudden silence sharply penetrating the room. She would lift her hands from the keys of the piano, fold them delicately on her lap, and finally, she would open her eyes and turn her head toward you, where you were sitting dumb-struck on her sofa, and say, “Good afternoon.”
It was so many years ago, but I can still feel my pants squeaking on the leather of the piano stool, and Mrs. Eichmann's expecting gaze over my right shoulder as I placed my fingers in Middle C at the beginning of each lesson. She treated you like you had all the capability of a young Mozart, and expected that you practice like one; that’s why my parents chose her as our piano instructor.
My parents had a shared vision of my sister and I as beautiful, elegant, athletic, cultured women with genius-level IQs—models of the human race in every way that one can be. In their vision, these women were accomplished pianists. So, there was never any choice in the matter. We were never asked if we wanted to play the piano—it was simply a fact of life.
On the quiet ride home from the lesson, sometimes my mom or dad would say, “Do you know how much we’ve spent so far on your piano lessons?” They would remind me regardless of my answer. My mind was utterly boggled and horrified by the amount. If the thought of quitting the piano ever snuck into my mind, even more a moment, the image of dollars bills burning up into thin air zapped the blasphemous thought right out.
So, over the years, my sister and I became accomplished piano players. My parents bought my sister and me a beautiful Steinway & Sons piano, like Mrs. Eichmann's, that they kept in the front room of the house. It always had stacks of different collections of works, all collections by classical composers.
The older we got, the better we were, and the more pleased my parents were. I took pleasure in being able to make beautiful music, but more than anything, I took pleasure in seeing my parents’ satisfaction. Knowing that there was a finish line made it all bearable: ten years—that was the length of Mrs. Eichmann's piano theory program. All I had to do was meet the requirements of each year’s standard of improvement, and after ten years, I would never have to touch a keyboard again.
After seven years, and I was a decent pianist, maybe even more than decent. We went from playing short, simple melodies to delightful, sophisticated sonatinas, and our parents’ pride for our growing abilities swelled. Though Mrs. Eichmann was no Mary Poppins, she proved to be an effective teacher. I was good enough at playing the piano to capture the attention of a crowd of people or wow my friends and family with my meticulously practiced songs.
Each week, Mrs. Eichmann would lean over my shoulder ask me to show her my progress of my current song, and I would play for her. She would exclaim “Crescendo!” and I’d deepen my fingers into the keys, the volume climbing, anticipation rising. She would raise her open hand to her heart and whisper “Pianissimo,” and my fingers would delicately sigh a relief in the melody of the song. Sometimes my parents sat on the sofa in the back of the room, quietly listening and smiling.
For a few years, I was confidently excelling through Mrs. Eichmann's program, but at some point in between the beginning and the end, I felt myself starting to plateau. It started with one piece that seem to be a bit out of my reach, a little too advanced. I practiced diligently, and with work, I was able to shakily execute the song, but I didn’t relish in the triumph for long. She assigned me a new piece, and to my panic, this one was noticeably more advanced. The white sheets of paper were riddled with increasingly tiny black notes, sharps and flats, dynamic cues. Pages long. I was suddenly graduating from sonatinas to sonatas, and the program wasn’t going to wait for me.
I felt like I was climbing a rock wall, and I was suddenly at a loss for anywhere to grab on. The top was in sight, but impossible to reach, and my hands were growing clammy against the rubber grips. I was beginning to panic as it dawned on me that I was going to lose my grip at any moment and plummet to the bottom. Each dreaded lesson at Mrs. Eichmann's, I’d perform the song that I’d been practicing on her piano, and try to avoid her blank gaze and the bending arch of her eyebrow as my fingers clumsily stumbled over each other.
One wrong note slipped out. Then two. Then three, like the strained muscles in my fingers had finally given in and released the slick rubber.
My sister went even longer than I did—nine years. She got so close. She didn’t quit until my dad walked in on her one day in her bedroom, arms folded over the keys, sobbing over her electronic keyboard.
I can’t even remember the moment that I told my parents that I couldn’t play piano anymore. It was a moment that I imagined at least a thousand times: what I would say, what they would say, the looks on their faces. The disappointment.
I can only remember the feeling of the tremendous weight lifting off my chest—of being able to breathe again. For years after I quit, this phantom-anxiety would sometimes creep over me, a sudden moment of agonizing fear that I was years behind on my practice, and that I had a lesson with Mrs. Eichmann the next day. And then I’d remember, it’s over, and a sobering sense of relief would wash over me.
Quitting the piano was the best thing I ever did for myself. After the dust settled, the pangs of guilt I felt in the presence of the Steinway began to wither, and the piano became just a harmless piece of furniture. Now when I go to my parents’ house and see it there in the living room, I look at it with defiance, like a demon inside of me that I excavated and conquered.
But my experience with the piano wasn’t all bad. It made me who I am today. From time to time, I even attempt to revive my old knowledge of scales, chord progressions and arpeggios on a dusty keyboard I have in my apartment. My fingers twist and squirm robotically, but it’s still fun to flirt with the melodies that I used to know.
It’s hard to say how piano has shaped the person that I am. If it hadn’t been for that experience, would I still be on the same path? Would I be better off, or worse? My family commends me on my diligent work ethic, attributing my dedicated quality to my years of dedication to the piano. Yes, maybe practicing every day for all of those years did shape my work ethic, but probably not in the way that they think.
Quitting piano was the first time I realized I could say No. The imaginary binding contract between the piano and I—poof—disappeared into thin air, like magic. Realizing that I had this ability was utterly profound. I always keep it in my back pocket.
I will never forget my years playing the piano, or Mrs. Eichmann. I will remember her perfect courtyard, her beautiful piano, and the way her small white hands danced effortlessly over the keys. I will remember the squeak of her piano bench and the brown vinyl floors of her piano studio.
I can’t help but smirk when I wonder what she would say if she knew the most valuable lesson she taught me had nothing to do with playing the piano.
Sometimes, giving up is a beautiful thing.