Facing the Music Read Online Free PDF Page A

from Kansas. It had never occurred to me that the music that I heard might be received as noise to ­another person. It never occurred to me to judge it as good or not good. It never occurred to me that I was performing for anyone’s pleasureother than my own. Music was a part of my body, a part of my experience that allowed me a safe space to feel and express my heart. Before music, I was just another kid who cried when they didn’t get what they wanted. With music, I was becoming a person who began to see emotion as the tangible, real stuff of being.
    The feeling of freedom and escape was similar to when I found writing. Yet it seemed to assuage a burden that my writing could not. I could write until my fingers bled, but there were times when words didn’t seem sufficient. There was still more inside of me. There were emotions that failed to be fully expressed without words.
    Music seemed to give voice to what I knew in my heart but could not spell into being. I might write down words about sadness, but with the help of a minor key, I could make all the world vibrate with resonant empathy.
    It’s easy to wax poetically about it now, but, at the time, I was just a nerdy little girl who failed to have an age-expected obsession with Cabbage Patch Kids or My Little Ponies. Nope. I was enamored of a noisy hunk of plastic, that, along with my love of writing, would form the fabric of how I learned to communicate with the world.
    As with my private writings, I had grown wary of letting my need for creative expression lead me to a place of vulnerability with my stepmother. While I found ways to keep my enjoyment in writing out of her reach, it was more difficult to keep my love of music a secret. By the time most kids’ recorders were gathering dust and our music classes were no longer amusing, I was still blowing away. But, as I got older, my recorder appeared more like a child’s toy rather than a proper instrument. If I wanted to expand my musical horizons, I needed to devise a plan to step up my skills with a more grown-up instrument. Doing so would mean taking a risk and appealing to my stepmother’s own love of music.
    My stepmother was a respectable piano player herself. In the summer, she played for the children’s Vacation Bible School at the United Methodist Church in town. Some Christmasses she’d even take a break from our wars and play a few carols on the old piano she kept at her mother’s house. Maybe, if I was convincing enough, she could see that I shared a similar passion? Maybe I could give her a reason to respect me?
    I spent a season begging my parents for piano lessons. I wasn’t particularly drawn to the piano, but there were other girls who spoke of their weekly lessons and periodic adventures in something they called “recitals.” I didn’t even know what a recital was, but I wanted it so badly. I wanted to play a grown-up instrument.
    â€œPlease,” I bargained, “let me stay after school. I’ll do whatever it takes. I promise I’ll be good! I’ll feed the dogs every night. I’ll water the horses so you guys don’t have to. I’ll mow the lawn every weekend. I’ll clean out the stalls.” I named every loathed family chore I could think of, trying to convince my folks of my sincerity.
    â€œThe piano teacher is walking distance from my school. I’ll do more chores. I’ll dust. I’ll do the dishes every night! Please  . . .!”
    Though I hoped my enthusiasm would spark my parents’ sympathies, there was little discussion about it. My campaign was short-lived, the answer came down firmly: No.
    It was risky business in my household to voice such an obvious desire for pleasure. To ask for anything that might have required an extra effort from my father and my stepmother seemed to always be met with restraint, if not outright denial. Through the years I had discovered that speaking up