pianolssn

Though I trained in music throughout my childhood, I fell short of my mother's expectations for me when I did not attend college directly after highschool. Instead, I married and began giving music lessons when my first child was six months old. That is how I met Dennis, a slight, black boy about ten years old who dressed in clothes either too large or too small, but always clean and neat.

Every Saturday Dennis, his mother, and two younger sisters came for the thirty-minute music lesson. Dennis's mother sat quietly with the girls and listened intensely, anticipating the sound of music. Week after week I tried to get Dennis to associate the symbol for middle C with the proper key on the piano. In the background I could almost feel Dennis's mother ache; she so desperately wanted her son to learn the notes. But despite my efforts and Dennis's, it appeared to be hopeless. Each week I took the three dollars that was not easy for this family to raise, and as each week passed, Dennis still could not read music.

I felt that I would have to tell Dennis's mother that I was sorry, but I did not know what else to do for him. He appeared to be a non-reader, and I did not have the skills to teach a non-reader fundamental music theory. To keep from feeling as if I were stealing the family's three dollars, I tried on last thing.

Dennis's mother and sisters were as usual, sitting patiently on our sofa waiting to hear music. My mother was there, tending my ill son, folding clothes in the adjoining room, when a question came to me, a question I had never asked before, but promise you I have asked many times since. I asked Dennis;

"Have you ever made up a song? You know, played your own music?"
"Yes mam."
"Show me. Play your song."

In an awkward manner, awkward to me, Dennis addressed the piano, thumbs holding pinkies. With his remaining fingers he began to fly up and down the keyboard of my piano, rocking the room with gospel music. His mother and sisters rose from the sofa, clapping their hands and singing. As Dennis revealed his secret music, my mother and I felt chill bumps rising and tears streaming down our faces. When Dennis finished his song, I reassured his mother that Dennis did not need me or the ability to read music. Dennis was a gifted child. And his natural gift was worth more than all the lessons in the world.

I never saw Dennis again, but the lesson of that day lives in my heart. My mother and I sometimes discuss that experience, now that I have a masters degree, and I feel better knowing that we agree that for this lesson, it was worth delaying college.