Boys & Flutes & A Lesson Learned
I suppose he thought he was doing me a favor. Can’t even quite clearly remember his face even though I can remember all of the other details.
When I was in third grade, my family lived in Medina, NY, a small town outside of Buffalo. We hadn’t lived there long, moving to town a month short of the end of second grade, and I was still the new kid. I had a nemesis, Aaron Slack, and a gang, the Avengers, formed for and dedicated to hating me.
Fourth grade was the start of band in Medina, so toward the end of third grade we were given a slip of paper to submit our top three instrument choices. All I really wanted to play was flute. I loved the sound, thought Ian Anderson of Jethro Tull was cool, wanted to be able to play Greensleeves, a song which still always creeps me out. I put drums second, not because I had much interest but because my stepdad had played drums in high school and in drum corps. I put tuba third for no particular reason beyond ludicrousness.
This is what I remember clearly. Sitting in the library, reading at a big, dark wood table. The music teacher, a guy, youngish, skinnyish, I seem to remember dark hair and a mustache. And he was holding my slip of instrument choices.
He sat down with the air of a man sent on an unpleasant errand. He was here to explain to me that only girls had signed up for flute, only girls ever signed up for flute. He held that little slip of paper with my sloppy writing – flute, drums, tuba – as though it was the illustration of my folly and would help me understand. I can see those words clearly, though that might be an illusion of time because I’ve long been obsessed with how distasteful I find my own handwriting, and so have always studied and picked at it like a scab.
I also remember that my throat felt dry and tight when I said “Yeah, okay, I can do drums.” Because I didn’t want to, and because I had just watched that shiny flute of my dreams dissolve in my hands.
Liv and I have been listening to orchestra music the last two mornings during our hour commute to her day camp – Elmo & the Orchestra yesterday and John Lithgow’s Farkle & Friends today – and it was that old longing for the flute that swelled up into my memory. I dutifully banged away at a practice mat in drum practice with a bunch of kids with long hair, black t-shirts and behavioral issues, and was berated by my stepfather for not showing any of his aptitude or work ethic, throughout fourth grade. That summer we moved to a school district that had started kids in band a year earlier than Medina, and so I was a year behind, and so I had an excuse, though, it was clearly intimated, a lame one, to quit.
I’m sure I missed all kinds of opportunities to pick up the flute or some other instrument over the years, but missing out on school band, which would have meant not relying on my parents to pay for lessons or me to practice alone because it was built into school, has always stung.
Really, it’s another chance for me to blame current ennui on the past, but it is also a good reminder. Because if anyone ever tries to tell Liv that girls don’t do some thing that Liv would like to do, I’m going to teach her to tell them to fuck off.
When I was in third grade, my family lived in Medina, NY, a small town outside of Buffalo. We hadn’t lived there long, moving to town a month short of the end of second grade, and I was still the new kid. I had a nemesis, Aaron Slack, and a gang, the Avengers, formed for and dedicated to hating me.
Fourth grade was the start of band in Medina, so toward the end of third grade we were given a slip of paper to submit our top three instrument choices. All I really wanted to play was flute. I loved the sound, thought Ian Anderson of Jethro Tull was cool, wanted to be able to play Greensleeves, a song which still always creeps me out. I put drums second, not because I had much interest but because my stepdad had played drums in high school and in drum corps. I put tuba third for no particular reason beyond ludicrousness.
This is what I remember clearly. Sitting in the library, reading at a big, dark wood table. The music teacher, a guy, youngish, skinnyish, I seem to remember dark hair and a mustache. And he was holding my slip of instrument choices.
He sat down with the air of a man sent on an unpleasant errand. He was here to explain to me that only girls had signed up for flute, only girls ever signed up for flute. He held that little slip of paper with my sloppy writing – flute, drums, tuba – as though it was the illustration of my folly and would help me understand. I can see those words clearly, though that might be an illusion of time because I’ve long been obsessed with how distasteful I find my own handwriting, and so have always studied and picked at it like a scab.
I also remember that my throat felt dry and tight when I said “Yeah, okay, I can do drums.” Because I didn’t want to, and because I had just watched that shiny flute of my dreams dissolve in my hands.
Liv and I have been listening to orchestra music the last two mornings during our hour commute to her day camp – Elmo & the Orchestra yesterday and John Lithgow’s Farkle & Friends today – and it was that old longing for the flute that swelled up into my memory. I dutifully banged away at a practice mat in drum practice with a bunch of kids with long hair, black t-shirts and behavioral issues, and was berated by my stepfather for not showing any of his aptitude or work ethic, throughout fourth grade. That summer we moved to a school district that had started kids in band a year earlier than Medina, and so I was a year behind, and so I had an excuse, though, it was clearly intimated, a lame one, to quit.
I’m sure I missed all kinds of opportunities to pick up the flute or some other instrument over the years, but missing out on school band, which would have meant not relying on my parents to pay for lessons or me to practice alone because it was built into school, has always stung.
Really, it’s another chance for me to blame current ennui on the past, but it is also a good reminder. Because if anyone ever tries to tell Liv that girls don’t do some thing that Liv would like to do, I’m going to teach her to tell them to fuck off.
posted by JJisafool at 9:48 AM
