Guest guest Posted April 12, 2003 Report Share Posted April 12, 2003 [Note: I only wrote this because after telling it to Jim I was still feeling guilty and ashamed and he felt that it was important for my own healing to get it into print so that I could read it objectively. Warning: It is not a "spiritual" story, and neither is it uplifting. However, it truly is a defining moment from my life. I am sending this, at Jim's encouragement, to give the people who read what I write a glimpse into my life story.] When I was around fifteen I asked my dad to buy me a wooden clarinet. He got so mad. In my face he yelled, "What?! Do you think money grows on trees? Do I look like a money tree??" I felt incredibly ashamed that I'd had the nerve to ever ask such a thing and I decided right then that I would never ask him for anything else again. I never did. Years later, it was a Saturday morning during my first semester at the university. I was eighteen and my parents came to watch me march in the band and to see the football game. We didn't know it at the time, but it was only about three months before he died. He didn't look well. Standing under the bleachers my mom beamed as my dad told me he'd really like me to have that wooden clarinet I'd always wanted. However, since I had long given up any dreams of seriously continuing on with music, I no longer desired to have one. I saw that it was only because my dad was real sick that he was wanting to buy it for me, so I'd told him that if he really wanted to get me something, he didn't need to spend the $1300; he could buy me a nice guitar for ten times less than that. But he insisted. Some time went by and I got a phonecall from my mom. She told me that my new clarinet had arrived. As I had had a change of heart and decided to pursue a degree in music after all, I was excited about this and I said, "Great." I asked her how we could get it to my dorm as soon as possible, but she told me that, instead, she wanted me come home and open it up in front of my father. "It would bring him so much joy," she said. I groaned. I was afraid I was going to have to play for them and I was petrified about that. I couldn't bear to have them criticize or judge my playing. I couldn't bear to have them be disappointed and disgusted with me once again. My mother reacted to my reluctance by telling me angrily that my father was dying and that this may be my last chance to do something nice for him. I was quite tense about it, but I felt that I had no choice. Besides the fact that I knew my mother might withhold the clarinet from me indefinitely, I had this thought running: I have to rise to the occasion and do this nice thing for my dad. So I asked my boyfriend to drive me home and do this thing with me. As soon as we walked in I smelled a "sick smell." I was getting more and more nervous; actually, I was in dread. I was not prepared for how my father looked. I guess his health had deteriorated greatly since I'd seen him at that football game at school because he was so skinny he looked like a tiny skeleton and he couldn't even get up off of the couch to greet me. Tim and I tried to act like everything was fine, but I was not fine. The box was sitting there on the floor and my hands were trembling as I unwrapped the packing tape. I was perspiring. Inside I found the leather case and I pulled it out slowly. I unlatched the shiny gold clips and raised the top. I ran my fingers over the cool, smooth, black wood and said, "It's beautiful. Thanks, Dad." Then, when I started to close it up, my dad called with a weak and raspy voice, "Why don't you play it?" I was struck with fear. I looked at my mom and she was glaring at me with a "you-goddamn-better-play-it" look, and a glance at Tim showed me his encouragement to go ahead and do that. Incredibly slowly I put the clarinet together, all the while dreading what was to come. I tried to get the reed wet, but I couldn't because my mouth was almost completely dry. When I put the instrument to my lips, my mind was a total blank. I could hardly remember how to hold it correctly, let alone play it. I couldn't remember a single song. I blew one lousy-toned note and my father tried to say "that's nice" but it didn't quite come out and he had to clear his throat and say it a second time. I was blushing hard. I wanted to die. "Why can't I play something nice? What's wrong with me? I am SO messed up!" Those were the words running through my head. Finally I just put the thing down. My hands were so sweaty I'd nearly dropped it anyhow. I said, "I'm sorry. I can't. I've...I've forgotten how to play." My mother, sitting on the couch beside my father, made some kind of disgusted sound and abruptly lifted a newspaper in front of her face with a big crumple. She was squeezing it tight. She couldn't even look at me. My father was disappointed. He knew I wasn't playing because I didn't have the confidence and that was upsetting to him. When we finally managed to get out of that stuffy room, through the door and into the darkness, I took a breath of cold night air and muttered, "That was horrible" and my boyfriend said, "Why didn't you just *play* something??" Quote Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
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