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I Used to Play the Piano

When I was six, Valerie, my first piano teacher, entered my life. I loved her.
Few memories remain from those first few years of lessons, except that they were all
good. My strongest image of Valerie is when I was seven at a recital at my house. I had finished the first volume of Suzuki pieces and friends and family came to hear me play every song from the book. In a photo I am posing with Valerie, glowing smiles on both of our faces.

Valerie moved away when I was nine, after four years of lessons and two volumes of Suzuki. The books were tattered and taped together, with stickers on the covers and Valerie's delicate, cursive writing throughout the pages. Valerie referred her students who wanted to continue playing to Pam Nyman.
Pam lived in a grand house, her Steinway Grand looming in the middle of her
living room. She was short with very short hair. It resembled a pixie-hair cut but wasn't because I associate pixie haircuts with delicate and kind women. Pam had huge breasts that she tried to conceal under shapeless tops. Her eyes were small and sharp and read my mind. She knew when I hadn't practiced even before I started my lessons. She smiled a lot but the smile never reached her eyes. I became sure that she never left her house, except for her lessons in New York-that she woke up, played piano all day, and went to bed.
My first lesson is still imprinted in my memory. I played the latest piece I was working on for Pam. She sat in a chair next to me, humming and singing along under her breath. She bent her head and swayed, hunched over and moving her arms in a rhythm like she was conducting her own personal orchestra. It was distracting.
Pam taught me to sit with the seat positioned back from the piano so my arms
weren't cramped. She insisted I had enough room to express myself. Sometimes it took her five minutes to get the seat at the right height and position, and she expected nothing less from me. Arms had to be out, parallel to the floor.
"No flapping your wings," Pam said. "Do I have to get out my level to make sure your arms are parallel with the floor?"
I stared at her and adjusted my arms. I played a few more measures.
"No shoes for fingers," she said. "The fingertips should be the first contact with the keys. Caress the keys. No, no, no, move over."
She sat next to me on the seat. There was barely enough room on it for the two of us and she played as if I wasn't there, her bosom bumping against me, making me uncomfortable.

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