VOLUME 0: AUDITIONS

Entry #40: Black and White

BLACK AND WHITE

Mother keeps on telling me that it's just part of my training -- the almost 24-hour practice; the scolding I get from her when I slouch my back; the skipped meals because I cannot perfect the piece: and the blurry vision when my eyes start to water -- to become her virtuoso.

But she never asks me what I really wanted.

"Stop spacing out and tap those keys!" she shouts at me. Her eyes glaring at me, filled with anger.

I continue playing, making sure that I won't miss a note. For missing a note means I'll receive a slap from her.

"Very well, Johnny. Keep on doing that," she commends me.

She wants that. I mean, the commendation from her amigas.

They'll commend her for being a great teacher to her 8 year-old son. For making her son the best pianist in his school. For making him a paragon to his colleagues.

But he hates all of it. I hate all of it.

I have no idea what is happening with the world around me.

I keep on hearing the beautiful sounds the world has. But I can't see its colors.

What I see is a monochromatic painting. A picturesque view made of blacks and whites.

That's not what I want. What I want is to turn the world into my great coloring book. I'll fill it with different shades of colors and be careful not to color outside the lines.

"Mommy," I call her, "I don't want to be a pianist. I want to be a painter," I say with hopeful eyes.

She doesn't respond, but she's looking at me with sharp eyes.

She purses her lips and charges toward me.

She grabs me by the hair, "You will be a pianist or you will not be my son anymore."

She lets go of me as I start to cry.

"Continue playing, Johnny."

I nod.

As always, I play the Kreutzer. My fingers magically tapping the white keys. . . then the black. . . then the white. . . then the black again.

Not only my fingers touch the keys, my tears touch them as well.