A Defining Moment

[Guest guest]

[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??"