I’ve always been a “writer.” Even as a small child I would write letters to my parental-units expressing my displeasure about how I was being raised, or some horrifying injustice, or general complaints. My mom saved these letters and ceremoniously bestowed them upon me recently.
There were so many letters. But, here is one of my favorites. I posted this to facebook a few months back, but I think my adoring fans that may have missed this post deserve a chance to see it.. and I’ve added a *new* element that I had not shared before.
I was in 8th grade when I wrote this letter: (THIS IS THE ACTUAL LETTER, people!)
Dear Mom and Dad,
Please don't make me play the piano. I have no talent, I have no desire, and I have a deep hate for it. I hate it so much that I lie about it.. I filled out a form for church choir, and it asked if you could play a musical instrument and I said no.
I can't go thru another year of lessons and recitals. I hate our piano, and the piano teacher is creepy. Take the money from my piano lessons and buy groceries or something.
I don't want to go thru another year of HELL and torment to improve this "wonderful ability" that I have... which is a bunch of garbage. If I'm so great, then how come I can only play one song, I can't sight read music, and I can't even read notes... and I've been taking piano lessons for THREE YEARS!
You told me I could quit, but I guess you lied. Thanks, Kelly
Obviously, anyone can see my early talent as a writer in this well-thought-out letter. The reason behind the letter was multi-faceted, but I think it had to do with fairies….let me begin at the beginning..
My piano teacher was the crypt-keeper.
*not actual picture, but close*
To my recollection, she ate small children who didn’t practice their piano. There are missing kids everywhere, and they could probably all be traced back to her stomach. A piano recital was coming up, and I knew in the darkness of my too-small heart…..this wasn’t going to be good. She used her old, skinny, crooked fingers and fumbled thru some papers and pulled out THE PIANO PIECE that I WAS GOING TO PLAY. It was worse than I thought.
Come, Fairies, Come.
Yep, that was the name of the song that I had to play. Surely God hated me.
Come, Fairies, Come ?? Really? Why God? WHY?
I hated that piece. I hated the piano. I hate recitals. I had a PLAN B: I was considering chopping off my arms and eating my raw flesh. But, that didn’t seem too reasonable. So, I sucked it up and went to the damn recital.
Picture this: A small, yet opulent auditorium. A big black grand piano on the stage. The students were sitting on folding chairs up on stage on the side. All the parents were dressed up in their Sunday clothes, with their big, Baptist hair-do’s, with their Polaroid cameras.
There was a microphone up on stage right in the front. One by one, each piano student stood up and went to the microphone and said, “Hello, my name is ______. The first piece I’m going to play is _______________.” We had two different piano pieces. I have no earthly idea of what my second piece even was.
So, in my mind I went over my line...over and over and over…
“Hello, my name is Kelly Wise. The first piece I’m going to play is Come, Fairies, Come.”
“Hello, my name is Kelly Wise. The first piece I’m going to play is Come, Fairies, Come.”
“Hello, my name is Kelly Wise. The first piece I’m going to play is Come, Fairies, Come.”
*this is how I incorrectly pictured myself*
CRAP, its finally my turn, I get up… walk over to the microphone. I looked out at all the big- Baptist- haired- moms, and bored-as-hell-dads….. and I summoned all my awkward-13-year-old-confidence, and spoke as loud as possible right into that microphone.
“HELLO. MY NAME IS KELLY WISE. THE FIRST PLACE I’M GOING TO PEE.....”
What? Did that just come out of my mouth?
“The first piece I’m going to play” turned into “The first place I’m going to pee.”
It was like God really hated me. I wanted the fairies to come immediately and set me on fire. COME FAIRIES COME!! Please come set me on FIRE and put me out of my misery.
I’m pretty sure I blacked out, because the next thing I remember… I had written the letter above.
This is where a normal person would end the story. But here’s the REST of THE STORY:
My parents DID let me quit. My mother was very angry and said emphatically "YOU'LL BE SORRY ONE DAY!" Which I have to say.. I'm not sorry AT ALL. I never walk by a piano and think "Wow, I wish my parents made me keep taking piano lessons.."
NEVER. NOT ONCE. Not one single regret.
My mother did NOT use the piano lessons for groceries. She took the money and SHE took piano lessons, however my mom had even LESS talent at playing the piano than I did. This provided me with a great deal of amusement at HER first piano recital... and guess what? That's right... she quit.
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