“Just Talk To Her”: The Value of Courageous Communication

This is a story about the transformative power of communicating clearly and honestly, even when you’re scared sh*tless. Bear with me: there are some twists and turns, but I promise that this is 100% true account of a pivotal moment in the lives of a sensitive, dramatic tween and her luminously talented piano teacher.

That tween…was me.

I began taking piano lessons at six years-old. My family was lucky to live next door to a bonafide piano genius. My recall of her biography is sketchy, but I know that my teacher, Ruth, was born in Poland, bounced around post-WWII Europe, and had (has!) the chops to be a professional, touring pianist. Her decision to teach came after she decided she wanted to have children–a choice that made the lifestyle of a touring musician untenable.

Ruth was an exacting teacher–strict, demanding, and quick to verbalize her displeasure and disappointment with students who didn’t live up to her expectations. I was, frankly, one of those students. I barely practiced, I turned in my sister’s old theory homework and passed it off as my own (which never worked; more than once, I turned in the wrong assignment). I was a dreamy, flighty kid, desperate to be liked with a penchant for melodrama. Ruth scared the sh*t out of me. 

I come from a musical family and, given our proximity to Ruth’s house (i.e., the fact that my parents didn’t have to schlep me there), my pleas to quit piano fell on deaf ears. The agreement at home was that I would practice piano for 30 minutes every day. The reality was that I practiced for about 10 minutes, right before my lesson. As the seconds ticked closer and closer to my lesson, my heart would begin racing, my hands would turn clammy, and an overwhelming dread engulfed me. Like I said: melodramatic.

From my perspective, each lesson went something like this: I’d show up close to tears, put my trembling hands on the keyboard and attempt to sight read pieces by Schubert, Mozart, and Bach. Ruth would sigh with exasperation and proceed to lead me through the music with increasing frustration. I’d leave feeling like a failure and a dummy.

Fast forward several years: I’m sitting at the keyboard, cramming for my lesson, and something inside me snaps. I can’t go to my lesson, can’t face Ruth, can’t bear the shame of yet another exercise in failure. So, I do what any sensitive, dramatic kid with a future in the performing arts would do: I decide to break my arm.

I march myself to the top of the stairs like a condemned person mounting the gallows, consumed with self-pity (and, honestly, a little infatuated by the tragic romance of the situation). I reached the top, take a deep breath and…

…I kind of…

…Gently tumble down the two top steps.  I cling onto the handrail like a piece of driftwood after a shipwreck. Btw, my arms feel great; like, better than ever.

My mom pokes her head around the corner. “What happened?”

“I fell down the stairs,” I lie, pathetically.

A pause.

“Practice your piano.”

Defeated, I slink back to the keyboard and try to make it through a few measures of music, but I sound even worse than before. I can’t do it! I simply can’t face Ruth! Breaking my arm is THE ONLY SOLUTION.

So, dear reader, I try again.

I march. I inhale. Steel myself. Close my eyes and I gently–gracefully even–throw myself down the stairs. Ahem, the top two stairs. While clinging to the handrail for dear life. My arms are unharmed.

This time, my mom comes to the foot of the stairs.

“What’s going on?”

“I think I broke my arm,” I say hopefully.

She climbs the stairs and sits next to me.

“What’s going on, honey?”

I start crying. “I don’t want to go to piano anymore. Ruth scares me.”

She puts her arm around me and sighs, leaning into me with love and compassion. Then she says, “Why don’t you talk to her?”

My mom is an incredibly wise woman. “Why don’t you talk to her” is a profound bit of advice masquerading as something so simple. In that moment, it communicated to me was that I could use my voice to assert myself, regardless of the power dynamics of child/adult, student/teacher, expert/novice.  

So, I did. I don’t remember much of the conversation, but I remember that I left Ruth’s house feeling a lot lighter. After that, our relationship–not to mention my skills as a pianist–improved dramatically. I practiced more and found real joy in making music. And, in the week’s when I didn’t practice, I’d tell her without fear or hesitation and we’d spend our half hour working through the music together. I’m immensely proud of what I accomplished, thanks to her.

I took piano lessons from Ruth for 12 years. At my high school graduation party, she told me that our conversation on the afternoon I tried to break my arm changed her approach to teaching. She thanked me.

The idea of having a vulnerable conversation is so scary that some of us would prefer to break our bones—that’s how painful it can feel to let someone truly see us. Those conversations take courage, but my god, are they transformative. So, the next time you avoid talking about how you feel or asking for what you need, imagine the little kid in you marching to the top of the stairs and remember: it’s your duty and privilege to speak for her.