When I wake up in the morning, as hard as that is for me, I assume that most people I meet will be nice and reasonable. I know, that's a very sunny, positive disposition I have, isn't it? And maybe because I expect this it happens more often than if I didn't expect it.
But every once in a while we all meet people whose sense of reason and proportion is so skewed you wonder who or what raised them. I had the great opportunity to interact with such a person.
This person is the parent of a former piano student. We'll call this parent "M". No, not from James Bond. M=messed up-wow. Kind of like the sham-wow, only not nearly as useful as this wonderful product.
I taught this student, called "F" (standing for "feel sorry for the upbringing") for about 6 months. F is really nice, clever, and a fast learner. We bonded immediately, enjoyed each other's company and made good progress on the piano.
M, as you might expect, saw things differently. M thought F was undisciplined, inattentive and childish (my words). F was 5 at the time.
This was a typical lesson: I would start the lesson and M was sitting 15 feet away watching and listening to every word, mannerism, flinch, impulse, quirk, movement, breath, laugh and smile poor little F exhibited. If F smiled a bit too broadly or laughed a bit too much or perhaps strayed from the topic for a moment, M would harshly interject, "F, listen to your teacher".
M encouraged me to be very firm with F. No laughing, no asking questions, no straying from topic in any way. Did I mention F was 5 at the time?
I guess I should state my teaching philosophy here. When I teach a 5-year-old, I do not call the class "piano university". I call it "let's have fun and learn some piano and hopefully over time something will click". I leave the Gestapo manual at home on my Kobo. Getting a 5-year-old to learn piano is like throwing wet kleenex at the ceiling. You throw a whole bunch, laugh at the absurdity of it all, and hope some sticks, dries and stays there.
When I talk to a 5-year-old, I try not to sound like a PBS newscaster moderating a discussion on geopolitics and the nuclear umbrella. I must confess this is deliberate on my part. I try not to sound like Henry Kissinger, but more like Robin Williams. I suspect if I talked to children in my Kissinger voice, they would reach for the nearest colour pencil and stab me in the middle C section.
So, a while back, M lets me go because F wasn't practicing enough. That's fair. I thought he was making good progress, but M didn't see it that way.
Then a few months after that M wanted me back. F had actually requested me by name. I was flattered, but hesitant. Not because of F. F is awesome. F rocks. M, however, rolls over you like a tank jacked up on a case of Red Bull. When M is not happy, that is.
We speak on the phone. I stated my terms in the tense negotiations. F is now 6, so there is very much at stake. A whole career, perhaps. Many important things are so uncertain in this world. I mean, will Syria actually give up their chemicals? Will M and I reach that happy place?
Um, not quite. I told M I can't teach under the previous conditions. M's brain kick starts. Anger neurons fire all at once. Those neurons are connected to M's mouth, unfortunately, so M can't stop talking. I can't remember what M said. I offered, "find another teacher" and hung up.
Ah, but I do remember what M said after that.
M, the parent, an adult, a grownup, a mature person, left me a voice message stating I should be very worried that M will be canvassing the neighbourhood destroying my credibility. Well, this hits me where I'm most vulnerable. I know many people on these comfortable, tree-lined streets look to me as a bastion of smart, cogent living. There are probably some exceptions, because I kind of remember throwing up on the front lawns of some of these houses after a late night at McSorley's. But then, have they connected the vomit to me? There's still hope.
I've saved that message (thanks to the evil tactics of the NSA for that). I encourage all readers to come over and give it a listen so you can see what it's like on the other side of reality and rationality. Free drinks are included.
This is why I love writing. It's very cathartic. I wonder what M does, cathartically speaking? Poor F. Poor L (standing for lame ass spouse).
I suppose M's catharsis is travelling the neighbourhood trashing my name. I doubt M refers to me as "P". Notice, though, that no one can tell who M really is. I hide identities because I'm a decent person on the right side of rationality.
I'll leave the scariest part of this sweet story for the end. It's not about me. No, no. This is not about me. It's about the children. The poor children.
L & M just had another child.
HELLOOOO NEWMAN: Laughter is your sixth sense
