Elated by my mother’s approval, I signed up with a teacher named Floyd. That Saturday afternoon my mother and I sat in a quaint, brightly colored room that held a mahogany vertical piano. Initially, I played a simple song: hot cross buns. Easy notes; B A G with nine different variations. After the half hour lesson concluded, Floyd cheerfully handed over my very first music book, containing songs ranging from A Whole New World to Zip-A-Dee-Do-Dah, a few Disney Classics. Sunday turned to Monday, Monday faded into Wednesday and eventually, Friday rolled around. My lonely Yamaha keyboard sat untouched up until that point. I frantically dabbled a few notes of the song Floyd assigned to me. The following Saturday morning, my hands rested on the brilliant piano for my instructor. Painfully, I could only manage to play very little of the piece. I felt an immeasurable amount of embarrassment as I clumsily fumbled to find the correct keys. …show more content…
At the age of eleven, I thought my skills were above practicing the basics. I discovered “faults" with my keyboard. I insisted my basic keyboard was not grandiose enough in size and aesthetics. Its dull, yellow tinted keys deterred me from touching it and I rationalized that its keys may fall