memoir
i had to write a memoir for my COM201 class and i'm pretty proud of mine, so if you're mad bored, you can read it and laugh at how much of a loser i am.
A full night’s sleep is not in my mother’s vocabulary. It never was, it never will be. Ever since I can remember, she and her volume-enhanced voice would bound into my room between 8:30 and 9:00 am, not leaving until I had given a valiant argument to sleep later, or as I grew older, thrown a pillow at her face. A creature of the daylight, all her activity ceased by the time the sun set. She firmly believed that evil people and evil things showed themselves in the darkness and that anyone who would actually go out in the dark was up to no good. This would be the reason for 90 percent of the arguments I had with her when I began to drive and wanted to go out with my friends. She always won because not only was she missing a few screws, but she was the most stubborn person I have ever known. Besides, if I left the house after dark, then I wouldn’t be home until late, wouldn’t be able to go to sleep early, and wouldn’t be able to be wake up early the next morning. That would be the most tragic thing in my mother’s book.
That Saturday morning, the hands of the clock had just settled comfortably into the 8:30 position when my Mom had thrust my door open. I didn’t protest that day. That Saturday was different and she knew it. Instead of the usual wake-up call, she sat gently on the edge of my bed, peeled back my covers and waited long enough for my bleary-eyed groan before revealing a palm of pills. At least three or four differently colored drugs stared me in the face as she ordered me to take them. As I hesitantly swallowed them, convinced I was surely going to overdose and die, she grabbed my right arm and furiously applied Bengay. The mint smell would stay with me for another week.
After my mother finished turning me into a human peppermint stick, she said somberly, “Come downstairs in half an hour. You have two hours to practice before we have to leave.”
…
Someone called my name. Once. Twice. And again. The voice floated towards me and I heard it, but it was nothing but meaningless noise. Straight ahead of me, there stood a broken wooden chair, one of its legs splintered. My eyes had been locked onto it for a few minutes. I was vaguely aware of the silent rush of people around me and the voice, still calling for me, getting louder. I was barely even aware of the overpowering mint scent of the Bengay that had been haunting me all day.
Something touched my shoulder and I gasped. Suddenly, the little backstage area of Alice Tully Hall, Lincoln Center, rushed to life and once again the harmonious tones of Paganini overloaded my senses. I became horrifically aware of the uncontrollable spasm in my left leg and hoped that no one else noticed.
I slowly looked down at my shoulder and immediately recognized the round, friendly hand of my piano teacher, Lillian Livingston. Her trademark smile, so big it might have broken her face, beamed down on me.
“Julia! Isn’t this great?”
And if by great, she meant it was like suffering from the black plague, then yes, it was absolutely fantastic. But somehow, between the warm smile, the calm hand, and the six years of friendship and mentorship, her voice was been able to soothe my nerves.
…
“Hi, Julia! I’m Mrs. Livingston,” she held out her hand.
As I reached in for the handshake, I couldn’t help but to notice that she was smiling so big that I couldn’t see her eyes, her lipstick was out of line and her hair rivaled that of Diana Ross. But I guess when you’re one of the best piano teachers and performers in the country with your own television show, there just isn’t enough time in the day to worry about petty appearances.
“Have a seat,” she motioned towards the first of two sleek, black, Yamaha grand pianos sitting side by side, separated only by a thin sheet of cardboard that obstructed my view of her keys. “I’m just going to play a few notes here and without knowing what they are, I’m going to ask you to try to use your ears and play the same notes back for me.”
I knew what Mrs. Livingston was doing. My mother had spent all morning telling me how important it was for me to make a good impression. I was auditioning for a position to study with the best, except I had to try extra hard because Mrs. Livingston has never taken on anyone younger than twelve. She likes to find students that have more experience before they come to her. I was barely ten-years-old. This next hour would determine whether or not she would be willing to try someone and something new.
After the audition, I was asked to wait in the other room, while Mrs. Livingston talked with my mom.
“She has a great ear. She only misheard one of the fifteen notes I played for her. That’s amazing,” I heard Mrs. Livingston say softly to my mother. “But you say she’s still on Bach Inventions and Sinfonias?”
There was a pause.
“She should be playing pieces that are more difficult. She could be an amazing pianist, but she’s being held back. I’ll see you next week. Friday. 3:00.”
…
A moment later, the honeymoon was over and I started to spasm harder than ever. No amount of familiar voices and calming touches could save me now. The performer preceding me was getting closer to the end of her piece and I was getting closer to the end of my life.
“I can’t do it,” I’m pretty sure I stuttered. “I don’t remember any of my notes. I don’t remember how to start.”
“You’ll be fine! Don’t worry about it, you’re just a little nervous,” Mrs. Livingston made a funny gesture with her hands towards my head. “There I just put all the notes back in your head.”
“I don’t remember my notes. I don’t remember them,” I kept repeating, trying to fight back tears.
“Julia, it’s okay. Just take a deep breath. You know this piece like the back of your hand.”
That was questionable. Knowing a piece like the back of my hand would be presuming that I could feel my hand. I couldn’t. Two Aleves, two other unidentifiable pills plus the minty Bengay made sure that I was not able to feel my hand.
…
“You have to practice this piece slowly, with precision. Don’t be tempted to play it up to tempo. This isn’t like any piece you’ve ever played before. Le feux d’artifice is an impressionist piece. It goes very quickly and there is a lot of detail you’ll have to give attention to, so practice slowly. If you try to play it faster than you can, you’ll get tendonitis and then you won’t be able to play for weeks.” Mrs. Livingston thoroughly warned me before handing me the piece.
The fourteen page piece was covered with black dots so small, it was hard to distinguish the notes from the ink smears. When all was said and done, this masterpiece by Debussy, the big finale to his second collection of twelve preludes, would only take five minutes. Roughly three pages per minute, twenty seconds per page. There goes my life for the next year.
…
The crowd applauded as the big stage door in front of me swung open to reveal the violinist before me walking off stage. Suddenly, I felt this other worldly illness hit me. Name it, I felt it: my feet were made of lead, Crazy Glue-d to the floor that had turned into quicksand and butterflies were procreating at the speed of light in my stomach. Whatever it was, I just couldn’t will myself to move. That would not be an issue for long; Mrs. Livingston thrust me onto the stage and closed the door behind me. I’m almost positive that the audience thought I was doing the Jump, Jive, and Wail as I crossed the stage to the gorgeously sleek, black, nine foot Steinway & Sons grand piano.
After my bow to the blinding lights, I slowly sat, as gracefully as I could manage. I inhaled deeply, taking in the absolute beauty of the piano and the moment, and hoped with every throb of my heart that these drugs were working. Slowly, I raised my hands over the piano.
…
“What are we going to do? She hasn’t practiced in two weeks. She’ll never be able to pull it off,” I overheard my mother on the phone with Mrs. Livingston in the kitchen, four nights before the big Lincoln Center performance.
From the top of the staircase, I silently cursed my right arm for succumbing to tendonitis. For the past two weeks I hadn’t been able to practice Le feux d’artifice in its entirety once without having to stop from the excruciating muscle pains in my right forearm. I understood then how badly I had messed up. Piano was more important to my mother than it was to me.
…
I was done. The applause of the audience brought me back to my senses. I looked down and my hands were calmly sitting on my lap. How they got there, I’ll never know. One second they were on the piano, poised to begin the train wreck also known as Debussy and the next moment they were back in my lap. As I stood up to take my finishing bow, I strained to recollect my performance.
I couldn’t.
Backstage, I immediately met the big, warm hug of Mrs. Livingston. Between gasping breaths, I managed to choke out, “Was I horrible?”
Immediately, she pulled back, “Horrible? Julia! That was amazing! I’ve never heard you play it so well! How is your arm?”
Pausing to answer, I realized that, although I could smell the mint that had become my arm, I could not feel it at all.
Perhaps this was mother’s plan all along. I knew there was no way she would have let me pass up an opportunity like Lincoln Center and she would stop at nothing make sure I got there. To her, it was either to drug her daughter to numbness or nothing. There was never another option.
A full night’s sleep is not in my mother’s vocabulary. It never was, it never will be. Ever since I can remember, she and her volume-enhanced voice would bound into my room between 8:30 and 9:00 am, not leaving until I had given a valiant argument to sleep later, or as I grew older, thrown a pillow at her face. A creature of the daylight, all her activity ceased by the time the sun set. She firmly believed that evil people and evil things showed themselves in the darkness and that anyone who would actually go out in the dark was up to no good. This would be the reason for 90 percent of the arguments I had with her when I began to drive and wanted to go out with my friends. She always won because not only was she missing a few screws, but she was the most stubborn person I have ever known. Besides, if I left the house after dark, then I wouldn’t be home until late, wouldn’t be able to go to sleep early, and wouldn’t be able to be wake up early the next morning. That would be the most tragic thing in my mother’s book.
That Saturday morning, the hands of the clock had just settled comfortably into the 8:30 position when my Mom had thrust my door open. I didn’t protest that day. That Saturday was different and she knew it. Instead of the usual wake-up call, she sat gently on the edge of my bed, peeled back my covers and waited long enough for my bleary-eyed groan before revealing a palm of pills. At least three or four differently colored drugs stared me in the face as she ordered me to take them. As I hesitantly swallowed them, convinced I was surely going to overdose and die, she grabbed my right arm and furiously applied Bengay. The mint smell would stay with me for another week.
After my mother finished turning me into a human peppermint stick, she said somberly, “Come downstairs in half an hour. You have two hours to practice before we have to leave.”
…
Someone called my name. Once. Twice. And again. The voice floated towards me and I heard it, but it was nothing but meaningless noise. Straight ahead of me, there stood a broken wooden chair, one of its legs splintered. My eyes had been locked onto it for a few minutes. I was vaguely aware of the silent rush of people around me and the voice, still calling for me, getting louder. I was barely even aware of the overpowering mint scent of the Bengay that had been haunting me all day.
Something touched my shoulder and I gasped. Suddenly, the little backstage area of Alice Tully Hall, Lincoln Center, rushed to life and once again the harmonious tones of Paganini overloaded my senses. I became horrifically aware of the uncontrollable spasm in my left leg and hoped that no one else noticed.
I slowly looked down at my shoulder and immediately recognized the round, friendly hand of my piano teacher, Lillian Livingston. Her trademark smile, so big it might have broken her face, beamed down on me.
“Julia! Isn’t this great?”
And if by great, she meant it was like suffering from the black plague, then yes, it was absolutely fantastic. But somehow, between the warm smile, the calm hand, and the six years of friendship and mentorship, her voice was been able to soothe my nerves.
…
“Hi, Julia! I’m Mrs. Livingston,” she held out her hand.
As I reached in for the handshake, I couldn’t help but to notice that she was smiling so big that I couldn’t see her eyes, her lipstick was out of line and her hair rivaled that of Diana Ross. But I guess when you’re one of the best piano teachers and performers in the country with your own television show, there just isn’t enough time in the day to worry about petty appearances.
“Have a seat,” she motioned towards the first of two sleek, black, Yamaha grand pianos sitting side by side, separated only by a thin sheet of cardboard that obstructed my view of her keys. “I’m just going to play a few notes here and without knowing what they are, I’m going to ask you to try to use your ears and play the same notes back for me.”
I knew what Mrs. Livingston was doing. My mother had spent all morning telling me how important it was for me to make a good impression. I was auditioning for a position to study with the best, except I had to try extra hard because Mrs. Livingston has never taken on anyone younger than twelve. She likes to find students that have more experience before they come to her. I was barely ten-years-old. This next hour would determine whether or not she would be willing to try someone and something new.
After the audition, I was asked to wait in the other room, while Mrs. Livingston talked with my mom.
“She has a great ear. She only misheard one of the fifteen notes I played for her. That’s amazing,” I heard Mrs. Livingston say softly to my mother. “But you say she’s still on Bach Inventions and Sinfonias?”
There was a pause.
“She should be playing pieces that are more difficult. She could be an amazing pianist, but she’s being held back. I’ll see you next week. Friday. 3:00.”
…
A moment later, the honeymoon was over and I started to spasm harder than ever. No amount of familiar voices and calming touches could save me now. The performer preceding me was getting closer to the end of her piece and I was getting closer to the end of my life.
“I can’t do it,” I’m pretty sure I stuttered. “I don’t remember any of my notes. I don’t remember how to start.”
“You’ll be fine! Don’t worry about it, you’re just a little nervous,” Mrs. Livingston made a funny gesture with her hands towards my head. “There I just put all the notes back in your head.”
“I don’t remember my notes. I don’t remember them,” I kept repeating, trying to fight back tears.
“Julia, it’s okay. Just take a deep breath. You know this piece like the back of your hand.”
That was questionable. Knowing a piece like the back of my hand would be presuming that I could feel my hand. I couldn’t. Two Aleves, two other unidentifiable pills plus the minty Bengay made sure that I was not able to feel my hand.
…
“You have to practice this piece slowly, with precision. Don’t be tempted to play it up to tempo. This isn’t like any piece you’ve ever played before. Le feux d’artifice is an impressionist piece. It goes very quickly and there is a lot of detail you’ll have to give attention to, so practice slowly. If you try to play it faster than you can, you’ll get tendonitis and then you won’t be able to play for weeks.” Mrs. Livingston thoroughly warned me before handing me the piece.
The fourteen page piece was covered with black dots so small, it was hard to distinguish the notes from the ink smears. When all was said and done, this masterpiece by Debussy, the big finale to his second collection of twelve preludes, would only take five minutes. Roughly three pages per minute, twenty seconds per page. There goes my life for the next year.
…
The crowd applauded as the big stage door in front of me swung open to reveal the violinist before me walking off stage. Suddenly, I felt this other worldly illness hit me. Name it, I felt it: my feet were made of lead, Crazy Glue-d to the floor that had turned into quicksand and butterflies were procreating at the speed of light in my stomach. Whatever it was, I just couldn’t will myself to move. That would not be an issue for long; Mrs. Livingston thrust me onto the stage and closed the door behind me. I’m almost positive that the audience thought I was doing the Jump, Jive, and Wail as I crossed the stage to the gorgeously sleek, black, nine foot Steinway & Sons grand piano.
After my bow to the blinding lights, I slowly sat, as gracefully as I could manage. I inhaled deeply, taking in the absolute beauty of the piano and the moment, and hoped with every throb of my heart that these drugs were working. Slowly, I raised my hands over the piano.
…
“What are we going to do? She hasn’t practiced in two weeks. She’ll never be able to pull it off,” I overheard my mother on the phone with Mrs. Livingston in the kitchen, four nights before the big Lincoln Center performance.
From the top of the staircase, I silently cursed my right arm for succumbing to tendonitis. For the past two weeks I hadn’t been able to practice Le feux d’artifice in its entirety once without having to stop from the excruciating muscle pains in my right forearm. I understood then how badly I had messed up. Piano was more important to my mother than it was to me.
…
I was done. The applause of the audience brought me back to my senses. I looked down and my hands were calmly sitting on my lap. How they got there, I’ll never know. One second they were on the piano, poised to begin the train wreck also known as Debussy and the next moment they were back in my lap. As I stood up to take my finishing bow, I strained to recollect my performance.
I couldn’t.
Backstage, I immediately met the big, warm hug of Mrs. Livingston. Between gasping breaths, I managed to choke out, “Was I horrible?”
Immediately, she pulled back, “Horrible? Julia! That was amazing! I’ve never heard you play it so well! How is your arm?”
Pausing to answer, I realized that, although I could smell the mint that had become my arm, I could not feel it at all.
Perhaps this was mother’s plan all along. I knew there was no way she would have let me pass up an opportunity like Lincoln Center and she would stop at nothing make sure I got there. To her, it was either to drug her daughter to numbness or nothing. There was never another option.