The piano teacher's quandary

I’m a concert pianist, a career I chose to pursue because of my passion for Western Classical music. So the first time my 11-year-old daughter Kiana told me she hated Classical music, I was taken aback. Was this the same child who had asked to hear the first movement of Mozart’s Concerto in C Major, K. 467 (nicknamed Elvira Madigan) ad nauseum as a two-year-old? Who gets straight A’s in school? Whose parents both studied at Juilliard? She hears me play all the time. And hates it? Is it really that bad?

“But you listen to classical music every night,” I protested, referring to the EMI Lullabies CD that has been a bedtime ritual since Kiana was tiny. “How can you say you hate it?”

“I only like it at night. It’s boring, so it helps me sleep.”

Debussy’s Clair de Lune, boring? If Claude got royalties for that one, he’d be a trillionaire. Kiana couldn’t be serious.

But she certainly was consistent. If she got into the car and I’d left the radio on NPR, she’d immediately ask to change the station. If I asserted my right to listen to whatever I like in my car, she would soon complain of a headache. Interestingly, a pounding hip-hop beat never resulted in the same malady.

I’m no musical elitist. I’ve played all kinds of music for my children, from R&B to gospel to jazz to some hip-hop (depending on the words) to the best of Bob Marley. I’m a fan of Beyonce and Mariah, or any other singer who comes across the airwaves and actually understands how to create a tone that sounds pleasing without digital distortion. I’m not so much interested in fostering a love for Western Classical music as a love for musical classics in general. Yet I was disappointed by the music Kiana chose to reject. How could I enjoy a Beethoven sonata if my kid was complaining about it every three minutes?

What better teacher than her mother?

Perhaps I’m partially to blame for my daughter’s aversion. While I wish a musical career only on the most obsessive instrumentalists and singers, I did think my child should take music lessons. Kiana is blessed with long fingers, solid rhythm and the kind of ear that allowed her to match pitch even before she was two. Since we own a piano and I’ve taught since I was 13, I figured I’d introduce her to the instrument. After all, my mother was my first teacher. My grandmother taught her kids. Cecilia Bartoli studied voice with her mother. In my little home town in western Canada, several piano teachers taught their kids. Besides, why spend money unnecessarily on an outside teacher?

The answer to that question soon became obvious. To Kiana, my teaching piano was just another opportunity for her mother to tell her what to do, or worse, point out her failings. Here I was, making the tiniest of corrections, saying far less than I would to the students who paid for my pearls of wisdom, and Kiana was freaking out for no apparent cause. Only after several months of struggle did she reveal the reason for her distress: “I’ll never be as good as you are.”

My sisters’ jealousy

It was dishearteningly familiar, this business of negative attitudes resulting from a competition I’d never even known I was in. I’m the eldest of three girls in a family full of musical talent. As the one who started first and, quite frankly, practiced the most, I was seen as the standard bearer, despite my sisters’ considerable musical gifts and achievements. “Maria’s Sister” was a description neither of my female siblings enjoyed, nor were they thrilled when I was labeled “the one who played the piano” (since all three of us did). They resented me, and I resented the resentment, since I wasn’t trying to outshine them. I was just trying to do well because I could, which was all the reason I needed.

So here I was again, hurting a loved one just by being me. I thought my example would inspire Kiana, but instead she saw me as proof that her efforts were futile.

I tried my best to reassure Kiana. “I’ve been doing this for 34 years,” I told her. “If you can do in six months what took me 34 years, I’m pretty pathetic.”

She smiled and continued to work haphazardly and without passion, occasionally finding a piece that moved her enough to play it really well. Every time she got a new assignment, she struggled through the first day or so, then quickly solved all the problems. Each new piece became a chance for me to remind her that no matter how challenging the first few days, she always achieved mastery, and relatively quickly, too.

Why I gave in

Nevertheless, Kiana’s initial tears of discouragement grew more frequent as her pieces grew harder. Despite her obvious talent, ultimately I concluded that there was no way I could shape my child’s musical destiny. If I forced her to continue, maybe one day Kiana would thank me. Then again, she might hate me— and the instrument— forever.

God had given Kiana a professional musician for a mother, but her musical education wasn’t going to happen unless I let go completely. I was clueless, a complete failure in this area of mothering.

In any case, I lacked the energy to keep pushing her. The experience had become so painful for both of us that I didn’t see another option except to let Kiana quit.

A surprise postscript

The rightness of my decision was confirmed by the immediate reduction of tensions between us. Removing that half-hour of daily stress at her lessons or when she practiced (and I criticized) was priceless. Kiana feels things very deeply, and life without that constant irritation felt much better for both of us. My assumption that my offspring should be proficient (though not necessarily accomplished) pianists had died a natural and welcome death.

A few weeks ago, nearly ten months into her emancipation from piano lessons, I picked up my daughter from her tennis lesson. I had classical music playing in the car. Ten minutes into the drive, I couldn’t resist.

“You didn’t ask me to change the station,” I said.

She shrugged. I refrained from further comment.

Then about a week later, she said, “Mom, did you throw away my piano books?”

“No.”

“Is it OK if I start again in the fall?”

I paused for a moment, letting the question sink in, then casually responded, “Sure. And I’ll only help you when you ask for it, OK?”

“OK.”

I can’t say for sure whether or not Kiana will follow through, but I’ll be fine if she doesn’t— honest. This experience has reminded me that talent and passion don’t always go hand in hand.

What changed Kiana’s mind? Maybe it was my admission that I don’t like to practice either; I just like to play well. Maybe it was that she noticed how many of her friends were taking piano lessons. Maybe her refusal to play was a way of asserting her independence, and that assertion no longer seemed important.

One day, I may ask her. Right now, I don’t want to do anything to change her mind.



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