At the tender age of nine, my love affair with the piano blossomed. Our living room housed a grand, imposing piano that became my daily companion, and I earned a modest 25 cents each week for diligently dusting its polished surface. The piano, a mysterious ensemble of keys hidden beneath a hinged wood cover and a bench concealing sheets of music, intrigued me to no end.
While my older sister garnered acclaim as the family pianist, mastering Beethoven’s iconic “Fur Elise,” I yearned to follow in her footsteps. Thus began my piano lessons, and what initially felt like a delightful journey soon turned into a struggle with the discipline of practice. I craved playing by ear rather than adhering to the repetitive notes on a page, guided by a metronome and coaching from Sister Marie Delores, my stern piano instructor.
After years of meticulous practice, Sister Marie Delores deemed me ready for the spotlight and scheduled me for an outdoor recital. My mother, sensing the significance of the occasion, stitched a special pink dress with a pleated skirt and bolero jacket for me. However, I detested the outfit and harbored no pride in performing the simple tune, “Four Leaf Clover,” which had been chosen for me.
As destiny would have it, a mishap occurred just before my performance—iced tea spilled on my dress. Unfazed, I approached the piano, back to the expectant audience, and impulsively abandoned “Four Leaf Clover” to embark on my interpretation of Beethoven’s “Fur Elise.” A piece I had been playing for months, unrehearsed and unguided.
With a reckless abandon, I pounded the keys, feeling the music in my soul. The tea stain on my dress became a peculiar companion, adding a touch of rebellion to my performance. Oblivious to the shocked gasps and the absence of applause, I basked in the glory of my own perceived brilliance.
As I left the stage with my head held high, the awards that rightfully belonged to others mattered little to me. I had rebelled against the expected, choosing courage over conformity. The questions and bewildered expressions on the drive home were met with my silent reverie, still playing Beethoven’s masterpiece in my mind.
In the years that followed, I found myself compromising and conforming to societal expectations, losing a part of that rebellious spirit. Yet, occasionally, I spill tea on my dress, a deliberate act to reconnect with the audacious pianist within, hoping that spirit has not completely faded away.
