Violin

I may have been a truly miserable student.

He was a horrible teacher.

Or that was just my opinion. Everyone else loved him, the teacher with a name I can no longer remember. I know it was an unusual color, either Lavender or maybe Magenta. He had a long face and a curly dark brown beard in a ponytail. He had an earring in one of his ears--the one middle school boys would snicker at and call the gay ear--and dressed in a way that was professional enough but at the same time just simply cool.

When we started playing our instruments, I just couldn't get it right. My fingers would be in the right place, but when I would slide the bow across the strings a horrible screeching noise would ring throughout the trailer-classroom. Apolegetically smiling, I'd let up, and try pressing lighter. Or maybe harder. Or maybe, in moments of fierce frustration, slide my bow back and forth pretending it was a saw and I was going to cut my piece-of-junk violin in two.

I broke numerous strings that way.

In fact, my teacher started a count on the strings I broke. He'd also remind me I had to be delicate with the violin.

I was a fairly good girl for a sixth grader, so it seemed out of character for me to say, "Delicacy my a*s."

Of course, this wasn't out loud. This was in my head. But sometimes I'd fantasize saying that out loud and looking like an ultimate badass.

It was a constant struggle between Mr. Lavender-or-Possibly-Magenta and I. While the rest of the class seemed to be excelling, I'd have trouble remembering my notes. He'd ask me in exasperation several times if I ever even practiced, and I'd tell him of course I practiced, but when the dogs start whining and your grandmother turns up Clay Aiken so loud you can hear it on the other side of a 3000 square foot house, it may be a sign that it's time to stop.

He didn't really believe that. He didn't believe my excuse of the fire ants taking over the back yard when he suggested I practiced outside, either.

(Okay, that excuse was only true for a couple of weeks.)

When we had our first concert, I merely just pretended to play along with the boy from the Philippines who couldn't play the cello. My grandparents and mother congratulated me, and I remained ever cheerful though deep down I knew I wasn't playing.

By the end of the year, other opportunities for electives opened up for the soon-to-be-7th-graders. I had decided to go into Video Broadcasting, not because I was interested in a career of video journalism, but because I'd be able to use the computers all period. When I told this to Mr. Magenta-Lavender, he said out loud so the whole class could hear, "Thank god!"

I was thinking the exact same thing. I wouldn't have to hear anything about his gay earring anymore from the boys that sat behind me in Orchestra class.

Though I am sorry, Mr. Light-Purple-or-Horrible-Pink. You may have been a great teacher, and I was a truly miserable student.

But I still think you were a bad teacher.

Reviews

[ScarlettTheDreamer]

Good. Really good.

[appingo]

Yeah, it's a true story for the most part. :) It's been years so I filled in a few details that I couldn't remember.

[Once upon a time]

True story?