Lesson #3: Don't Be Fake

Dear Baby,
When I was in First Grade my parents, your loving grandparents, enrolled me in piano class. My teacher was a tiny octogenarian named Mrs. Lazlo. I never did get her first name. Shame, actually. I would have loved to know it now. Anyway, Mrs. Lazlo was little but mean! And had an accent...I believe it was German. And her fingers nails were thick with fungus and, in a sad attempt to hide the fungus, covered in a coral colored finger nail polish that only hightened the look of sick. But the little firecracker could play the piano. Dang could she play. It was my favorite part of the lesson, hearing her play. I would often try to find new ways for her to play something to me. And on those Thursday afternoon's, in the tiny little room on the second floor of my grade school/convent (yup, the top level of St. Mary's of the Vally Grade School in Beaverton, Oregon is a convent), she would rock Beethoven or Bach or Mozart. It was awesome.

What was not awesome, however, was her ability to teach. Maybe it was the thick German accent, maybe it was the fact that she didn't really like kids or have any patience for them, or maybe it was because she was gifted and it irritated her to hear her prescious music mangled, but I never learned how to read music from her. And, what's worse, I was too affraid to tell her that I wasn't learning. Luckily, I had a great ear. So, when Mrs. Lazlo would attempt to teach me a new piece, I asked her to play it for me so that I could get "inspired" to learn it. What I was really doing was learning how it sounded. And then I would somehow figure out how to memorize the way her fingers moved across the black and white keys. So, the day of the big recital would come and I would proudly approach the piano, lay out my sheet music and begin to play. I would know where I was supposed to turn the page. And on cue, would turn it. But I wasn't reading music. I was faking.

For eight years I did this. EIGHT YEARS!! And that recital, on the eve of my eigth grade graduation, was the last time I could play a whole song on the piano. A few years into high school my mother had friends over and pulled out some sheet music for me to play something for them and I couldn't. I believe at the time she thought I was too full of teenage angst to be delightful for a moment and entertain her friends. And she wasn't wrong (althought I certainly hope you rise above teenage angst...don't worry, I won't hold it against you if you don't). But the truth was, I was a faker. A terrible terrible faker. I wasted my parents money and wasted Mrs. Lazlo's time. And I vowed, in all of my teenage angst, to never fake it again.

I was being an asshole, Izzy. I was. I was too proud to admit that I needed special help. That I wasn't "getting" it and I felt like a failure. And in the end, my faking made it so that I did fail by never learning how to play the piano. Something that, now, I would love to know how to do. So, I give you permission to fail. Give yourself permission fail. But whatever you do, don't fake it.

All my love (for reals),
Mom