I Remember

I remember back to my first ever lesson, to a time 15 years ago, as I am sitting calmly backstage with other fellow pianists and string players, waiting for our turn to shine onstage at the Annual Brunch Music Recital at Brown University.

I remember being tired in the car.

I remember that my parents murmured to each other in the front. There was a gentle piano melody that played from the speakers, like the twinkling of a little music box. It was 4pm: it was hot outside, but I felt comfortable, while listening to the quiet breeze from the back.

I remember I hugged a cute, stuffed animal in my seat, and slowly bent and leaned my head until I hit its fluffy head, and rubbed my cheek against its soft, light brown fur. It was 4pm, a little after my normal favorite time for a nap, serenaded by a lullaby, and I was comfortable with the air conditioning. I closed my eyes.

I remember light leg pats, a common signal for me that we’ve arrived. I slowly uncurled and squinted. Underground, there were an abundance of cars parked rows, dotted yellow parking lines, artificial white light; but an absence of plants and color—everything was gray, black, with the occasional yellow and white highlights.

I remember feeling like I’m searching up terms in a dictionary. After I walked through the automatic doors to the lobby, I carefully clicked down the list of names of the apartment buzzer system, looking for the letters that my parents told me. “C”. “C”. “C”. “L”.

I remember the “he-llooo!”. It startled me at first. But, the phrase was always cheerful, a female voice tilting high at the end through the speaker. Week after week.

I remember the smile, the quick little wave of the concierge, before the click noise of the door opening, followed by his greeting of “hello!”. I wondered if there was only one concierge or if he was just part time. A day each week, week after week. A smile, a wave, a click, a “hello!”.

I remember the three elevators that were deep inside, but not hard to find, in this rectangular prism. The doors were of a gold-ish color, and I could see a bit of a reflection of myself.

I remember that I had a common, nervous tell. My arms around the body of my favorite stuffed bunny, my hands tugged at its soft, limp ears, as I shifted my weight from side to side. The end product was fur that seemed to be fussed with, as with velvet, where the fur seemed to lie away from its natural direction. Ding.

I remember when I met her for the first time, after I nervously gave a couple of taps on the door. It opened to a smiling, old lady with her “He-llooo!”.

I remember a smile. There were many smiles that day – from my mother, my father, me, my stuffed bunny, and her – my new piano teacher.

I remember the floral scent and the gentle constant sound of mist, from her little humidifier in the corner of the practice room.

I remember a tall piano, one where when I sat on the bench, my feet couldn’t touch the ground. Swaying, swaying, swaying. Just like a pendulum.

I remember the creak when the lid was folded over, after the velvet cover (I couldn’t help but rub my hands gently over its soft surface) was taken off.

I remember the keys. I never knew that keys would be so important to me. Keys of pianos, keys of computers, password keys, room keys.

I remember seeing the portraits that lined the walls. At the time, I didn’t know who they were. The more sheet music I learned and played through, the more they became familiar faces.

I remember the brown bookshelf in the corner that was about a meter wide and stretched from the floor to the ceiling of the room. Thin books, thick books, some with faces that I saw from the walls. I remember that my piano teacher quickly grabbed a thin book, with a neon green cover and massive white font, from the bottom of her shelf. I wondered if I would ever reach the top.

I remember her asking about my little stuffed friend. I shyly held it out to my parents to take, but she let me put it on the lid of the piano, behind the music stand, as an additional audience member to only my mother and father. Little did I know that I would have many more listeners in the future.

I remember seeing a lot of black and white. The keys, the notes, the piano. Later on, I began to draw similarities to text on paper—a mode of expression, and most often having black text on a white background.

I remember I had small hands. I still have them. Small hands.

I remember the hand positions and fingerings feeling foreign. What a foreign feeling it would be to still experience that now.

I remember seeing a hand. Not mine. Hers. A little demonstration for me to learn a scale from. Fluid, consistent, strong, and harmonious.

I remember when it was my turn, I pressed a lot of keys in a row, hesitant and inconsistent in speed, trying to recall if I used that finger already or whether I needed to use it for the next note.

I remember being assigned a piece to learn from the neon green book from the bottom of her intimidating bookshelf. I saw what I thought at the time was an abundance of circles of black and white.

I remember repeats and sections. Sections of two bars. Repeat, repeat.

I remember fond goodbyes. Week after week, year after year.

I remember that my number of performances increased and my stage fright decreased. My parents and piano teacher witnessed my audiences grow, from being in a small practice room with only them, to large auditoriums and concert halls filled with friends, strangers, professors, and adjudicators.

I remember after many circles, repeats, and the portraits becoming familiar faces that I did eventually reach the top. I sat in line ready and waiting to do my final performance exam for the highest certification. And in my lap, were several books pulled from the top of the bookshelf, one of which was the score of Shostakovich’s Piano Concerto No. 2, with Shostakovich’s face on the front cover.