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Meredith Chin

Professor Gary Vaughn

Intermediate Composition 2089

21 February 2022

After the End Credits Roll: My Piano Literacy

I don’t remember my firsts. I don’t remember my first words, my first day of high school,

the first time meeting my best friend, or even my first period. Things just happen. Likewise, I

don't remember the first time I sat down at my family’s 1960s Baldwin Acrosonic Spinet that

had no prior use other than being a shelf for anniversary clocks. My literacy story in piano could

be a Hallmark movie it seems so predictable. Tiny Chinese girl starts playing piano in fifth

grade, meets her best friend and trusty sidekick through her music, ends up playing in front of

1,200 people, and ends up proving herself to be better than the boys she plays with! But what

happens after her triumph over the boys and the end credits roll? Her literacy burns out, she gets

overwhelmed even looking at how many keys there are. She’s mentally blocked. A skillful

literacy is a strong tool to have in anyone’s arsenal, but it can only develop as far as a person’s

mentality will allow it.

At the start of my piano literacy, I found myself in what I can only compare to the young

stages of being in love. I was completely and utterly enamored and obsessed. I would dangle my

little legs off the bench and play c-major scales like I was finishing the final movement of a piece

at Carnegie Hall. I think an obsession is the best way to start the development of any literacy. At

school, all the boys would be rhythmically tapping their pencils, while I would tap my scales on

the desk. I would come home from school, grab some Goldfish, and run straight to the piano. I

would eat while I practiced (my parents hated this habit), until I would inevitably get bored. But
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around 8 or 9 pm I would pick right back up. My parents, being working-class people, also hated

this habit and eventually enforced a “No practicing after dinner” policy. It devastated me

because, like Malcolm X, I often found myself “[R]ight in the middle of something engrossing”

(3), just before dinner. The only thing that could pull me off the bench was the enchanting smells

of a homecooked meal.

Nobody in my family was deeply involved in any musical community. The only person

my mom knew who could even read music was a singer in our church band, Jennifer. She was,

and is, the true definition of a “teacher.” She imprinted herself in every bit of crucial foundation I

needed, and it worked. She gave me weird acronyms for remembering notes on a clef to being

taught personalized fingerings for pieces that my musical compatriots don’t understand.

Other than just hitting the right notes at the right time, Jennifer gave me the literacy tool

of dynamics and meaning to the sound waves dancing in my ears. In math, when a teacher shows

you a problem, but not exactly how to do it, you figure it out using a culmination of methods

you’ve learned during the semester. That’s what Jennifer did for me. She taught me to count and

feel beats, working off the fact that I taught myself how to pedal. She told me she can’t figure

out how to teach her new students to pedal now. She taught me the basic meanings of fortissimo

and decrescendo and I later taught myself to tie emotions with the music I am playing. Without

Jennifer, I would not hold the power over my literacy that I do today.

We outgrow shoes, clothes, even habits. However, people, I did not know you could

outgrow. Until one day, Jennifer told me I was too advanced for her teaching. So, I moved on to

a higher-level piano teacher, Mr. Cummins, who just so happened to be my school choir director.

The summer I began, he would wear Hawaiian shirts, but year-round his house smelled like a

mix of home-cooked chili and Yankee candles. My mentality regarding piano slowly started to
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shift from simply an activity to cure boredom to a real skill set and how much of a potential

threat I could be with this instrument. Mr. Cummins didn’t teach me, he trained me.

His method of developing our literacies was anything but gentle. Who was the most

literate in pitch recognition? Who could read music the fastest? Who could play in the most

difficult key signature? He would even write down our practice logs and publicize our times,

showing every student that you’re not contributing as much to your literacy as they are to theirs.

Everything was a competition to be the most literate.

It worked though. I could recognize some pitch intervals before my weekly training even

began, but I wasn’t nearly as proficient as those with perfect pitch. Nonetheless, I cultivated and

conquered the skill. I still have a strong ability to sight-read today which can only be attributed to

the iPad games he would incorporate into my weekly lessons. Jennifer’s acronyms were now

evolving into the note identification that enabled me to quickly master complex pieces.

Everything I was taught and now trained to do as a pianist was churning my skills like cement,

pouring into the concrete foundations of my literacy.

However, I already knew how to read music, hit the keys, and get the rhythms. I was only

evolving more of a piano skill set. But after I applied all the basic foundations Jennifer taught

and Mr. Cummins built on, I developed an ear to hear the music. Music tells a story. I know

Stephen King wasn’t talking about music theory books when he said, “[B]ooks are a uniquely

portable magic,” (104) but with proper emotional context, music can be cosmically magic.

Different lines and dynamics can rise and fall to convey hate, peacefulness, even surprise.

I personally would like to hear a piece written in the context of the feelings I had when

Mr. Cummins said, “So how are you feeling about playing last at the next recital?”
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The order of play at recitals was designed with the least advanced first, and most

advanced last. The logic was that the younger children who were beginning to play could look up

to the most advanced player and make it a goal to take their place one day. His reasoning as to

why I was the most advanced, even though my technique was never as good as the older boys? I

told a story. It’s difficult to articulate how to feel music. You must breathe every growth and

release. It’s not about the moments that are already marked fortissimo. It’s about the moments

you feel should be fortissimo. Finding emotion and meaning is the largest mental part of music.

In the process of technically learning “Wedding Day at Troldhaugen” I developed a deeper

meaning of what it is to feel music and emotionally learned the piece as well (and it’s all visible

in my annotations!). For once, I could feel each scene behind the melody. I imagined how each

Figure 1- My annotations of "Wedding Day at Troldhaugen" (note the blue yarn towards the bottom of the spirals,
where I ripped my music from turning the page so vigorously!)
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party felt on their wedding day: the bride walking down the aisle, the peace she finally felt, the

lively reception.

Given that the only thing the other students and I had in common was our teacher, my

heartbeat was recognizable in the estranged silence.

I sat through what felt like hastened seconds as slow as hours listening to small children

pounce on the grand piano in front of me. I could feel their mothers beaming from behind me.

My paradox of time reached reality as the last two boys each got up to play. Both were older,

taller, and perhaps smarter (we’ll at least

let them think that), than I. I knew the

songs they were both playing and couldn’t

scope a lapse in their playing technique.

My leg bounced and I found myself

twisting and knotting my hair tie around

my fingers. But I was last. There was a

reason. (Being an emotional woman

finally got me somewhere in life!) I had to

prove it. I started by moving the bench

forward a little (the boys are taller,

remember). Next, I moved my hands to the Figure 2: My performance of "Wedding Day at Troldhaugen"

first trill of notes. Finally, I let my muscle memory take over. Everything Jennifer taught me,

every self-taught breakthrough, and every emotional discovery enthralled my body through to

the tips of my fingers. I felt the cold-feet-jitters/excitement-to-marry-the-love-of-your-life grow

to anxious screams jokingly escaping the groom with his groomsmen. In the next moment it
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became transparent to me the feeling of the quiet and incandescing stares at the bride as she

walks down the aisle. You know the pianist knows what they’re doing when they lean their head

back and feel the emotion flow through their minds along with the music they’re producing. But

I didn’t lean back. Instead, I smiled. I smiled as my work to become literate was showcased

through emotion, rhythmic pedaling, and an overall excellence in my skills to play.

After the final chord, I was in a natural euphoric state. I received a standing ovation. A

recording later revealed I had played off memory for seven minutes. I was confident my mind

could take me anywhere with my literacy. I could develop it to a mastery level. I could learn

harder rhythms, more intricate pedaling, take the emotions I showcase even further. So, I picked

the very next song in my book to play. It was just as difficult and sounded just as elegant as my

triumphant “Wedding Day…”. The piece was a dark, minor, Beethoven Classical era piece

entitled “Sonata Pathétique.” I started to move along in adding it to my repertoire. The rhythms

were like those I hadn’t encountered in my commonly played Romantic era pieces. It was a

challenge, but I knew I could manage if my mind would allow me to develop my literacy around

this new piece.

But summer was over now, and the end credits of my Hallmark movie were just

beginning to roll.

AP chemistry began, precalculus revved up, and tennis matches found me busy every day

after school. Waking up at 6 a.m. did me no favors. Piano was put on the back burner and my

educational literacy took precedence. Suddenly, my literacy development didn’t just depend on

finding time to rehearse. It relied on my motivation and correct mental state to push through

educational exhaustion. My mind forced the curiosity and obsession of my literacy out, and the

next recital was coming fast.

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Mr. Cummins had seen my full potential at this point and put an ungodly amount of faith

in my level of performance. However, I truly felt my rendition of “Pathetique” had become

pathetic. So, I tried to convince him that I didn’t deserve to be last, and I didn’t want to be last.

He would plead, “But why? You’re going to be fine; you’re going to finish your piece. It

doesn’t matter if you don’t have it memorized; you’ll be fine. You’ll have expression and

emotion and that’s what makes a piece.”

I believed I knew my limits and what I could accomplish in a short span of time better

than a 40-year-old balding man. So, I would follow with, “No, I know myself. I won’t have it

done in time. I won’t even know the notes. It doesn’t matter if there’s expression if I don’t know

the notes! Put Evan or Brandon last. They’re older and they’ll sound better than me. I’m sure

they’ve been dying for the opportunity.”

He would terminate the conversation, reassuring me that I would be fine by having me

play through some of the piece. It never went well. My mind had blocked my ability to develop

my literacy in any way, emotional or physical. It was to the point where I found it hard to sit on

the bench without forcing myself.

At least I would look cute. If this were a real funeral, it wouldn’t be so bad. Ironically

enough, the shoes I was wearing my sister wore to a funeral. That made me feel better. My

heartbeat and leg followed the same anxious dance they did only a few months prior. Except this

time, my stomach joined in as well. The boy’s performances made me feel shameful to play what

I was about to.

And it was just as terrible as I predicted it to be.

There was no standing ovation, just confused claps as if to ask, “I wonder why he put her

last?”
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There was no emotion in my piece, just trembling fear and humility.

There was no technique and my pedaling was long and drenched.

The last skill my literacy snuck through my mind’s mental fortress was the ability to act.

I developed a cold face that frowned in disdain at my sheet music and did not let my fears drench

my eyes. I refused to let those boys know they won until I had left the bench.

Even though my literacy pushed through on the final act, I could feel it had been frozen

by my mind’s ability to overwhelm me. Any drop of development that may have been thawed

had now washed away.

That’s why I come to you now, to tell you that literacy isn’t a set path. Literacy is power

and becoming literate in piano has exponentially changed my life. But it is only as strong as my

mind has allowed it to be. Mentality will always overpower literacy, no matter the skills you

develop along with it. If I were to have the motivation to finish the piece and hadn’t become

overwhelmed every time, had I even glanced towards my 1960s Baldwin, my story might be

different. Perhaps my Hallmark movie would still be playing, and I wouldn’t be in a state of

limbo if my end credits hadn’t begun.

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Works Cited

King, Stephen. “What Writing Is.” On Writing: A Memoir of the Craft, by Stephen King,

Scribner, 2020, pp. 103-107.

X, Malcolm, et al. The Autobiography of Malcolm X. Ballantine Books, 1992.