Softly Shaped Diamond

Personal Narrative from high school.


As far back as I can remember, I have always admired pianists and their ability to play such beautiful music. There were few things I was passionate about as a child, except for summer and vacations and piano. Since I was able, whenever I caught even a tiny glimpse of a piano, I would toddle over to it and press its cool ivory keys randomly, a song I'd heard recently playing in my head. When my mother brought out her electronic keyboard, I would pester her unceasingly until she sat with me and taught me a little diddle she learned from her past.

It was not long before I had exhausted every piano song from my mother's mind. However, my insatiable thirst for the piano had not abated. So, partly to appease me and partly to save herself from my constant nagging, my mother enrolled me for piano clsses with an elderly woman named Mrs. Jenner.

When this news was given to me, I could not have been more overjoyed. The week before I was to attend my first lesson, I would sit in front of the keyboard and play the songs I knew over and over again. By the time the glorious day of my lesson arrived, I had perfected every one of my mother's songs and was eager to show Mrs. Jenner my piano playing skills.

Mrs. Helen Jenner lived in a neighborhood outside the city limits of Clayton, North Carolina. Her subdivision was nestled in the woods; the roads and houses were perpetually covered in the dappled shadows of pine, oak, and maple trees. Her neighborhood always reminded me of the fall, a cool breeze always drifting playfully through the branches and through leaves left over from autumns long before. Her house, a cozy home made of brink, was hidden behind a labyrinth of trees.

Though I remember her abode on more fond terms, those who did not know her would think that her house was slightly foreboding, like a house from a horror movie. I thought exactly this when I arrived at her house for my first lesson. The bony trees that veiled her house reminded me unpleasantly of the scowling trees from Snow White, and a severe bespectacled women kept appearing in my mind. I imagined Mrs. Jenner would be an ancient, withered old thing, like the mother in Psycho, and just as psychotic, too. In my childish mind, I kept seeing myself backed into a dark, cobwebbed corner with a bony crone standing above me, bloodied butcher knife in hand.

Fear had gripped my heart, my thoughts whirling dangerously in my mind. As I got out of the car and my parents lowered their window to wish me luck, I gripped my father's arm. "Don't leave. Come with me, please!" I pleaded, my eyes widened with an imagined fear. Shaking off my arm, my father stated that I would be fine, but after more incessant begging on my part, my parents gave in and accompanied me to the front steps (which were covered liberally in spider webs) as I rang the doorbell.

The first thing I heard after ringing the doorbell was a frantic scuttling sound from the clawed paws of a dog. Then, high-pitched barks accompanied the wild scampering. "Coming!" a muffled voice yelled from somewhere deep inside the house. Seconds later, I heard deep thumps created by a person heavily descending the stairs. The door unlocked, the click a menacing sound, and the door creaked open slowly.

Upon seeing the woman in front of me, I let out a long breath I was not aware I had been holding. The elderly woman standing in front of me with a smile on her face was nothing like the woman wielding a weapon that I had conjured in my mind.

Shaped like a rounded diamond with her hips being the widest part of her physique, this woman was large and soft looking; I was sure that if I poked her with my finger, it would easily sink into her skin. She was like a mountain, majestic and sturdy. Mrs. Jenner had white, wispy hair cropped short, reminiscent of a softly glowing moon on a clear cool night. Her blue eyes reminded me of the sky behind the green, snow-capped mountains in the musical, "The Sound of Music." Her skin had a worn, transparent leathery look that told of her years just as much as the age spots that dotted her arms and neck.

She beckoned us to enter, immediately striking up a conversation with me. How old was I? Was I looking forward to playing? Had I ever had lessons before? Since the start of fourth grade, I had been afflicted with a painful shyness. When spoken to, my eyes would immediately dart to the ground or to my feet and my ears would redden, my face heating. I would mumble one or two words of just enough to answer whatever was asked. So, at Mrs. Jenner's barrage of questions, I gave my customary no's and yeses.

"All right then," Mrs. Jenner said in her clear, warm voice, "I'll see you two in about an hour."

My head snapped up, and I looked toward my parents. True, Mrs. Jenner was not some serial killer they needed to protect me from, but I still wanted them to stay. To my dismay, my parents nodded and smiled, saying their goodbyes and telling me to work hard. Then they left.

Alone with Mrs. Jenner, I began to notice my surroundings more. Her living room was quite spacious, though cluttered with instruments. An old and warm looking grand piano sat patiently in the corner in all its eight feet glory while several feet back, a love seat faced it and a sofa ran perpendicular. Her fireplace emitted a dull smell of gas and on the mantle above it sat a vase of shiny turquoise and purple peacock feathers. Behind the love seat, on the far right wall, there was a cabinet meant for china collections. Instead of delicate tea sets, there were recorders of different shapes, sizes and colors. Other small instruments lay strewn around on her tables and hanging on walls. Through the back glass doors, I could see a leaf-covered back yard with a medium sized pear tree, its leaves rustling.

Her house smelled perpetually like cigarette smoke, but it never really bothered me. The smell of her smoke, which gradually became a comforting scent, was always slightly aromatic, like sandal and cherry wood. Back then, she had a small Corgi named Wendy. Wendy was an animated dog that ran about at our ankles and always left little surprises on the floor for me and Mrs. Jenner to discover, and, after smelling an unpleasant odor following us around, later find out that her little gifts had stuck themselves onto the soles of our shoes.

Sensing my shyness, Mrs. Jenner refrained from any more questions and sat me down in front of her grand piano. I remember that in front of me, on the ledge meant for music pieces, was a ash tray, a bent stub of a cigarette sitting on top of a bed of gray ashes as if waiting for me to give a recital. The keys were chilled and different from my mother's keyboard. These keys were strong and sturdy and took quite an amount of pressure to depress. I particularly remember enjoying the dull thunk of the key hitting felt-covered wood heard behind every note that I played on her piano.


In thirty minutes I learned to play by memory seven scales (C, F, D, A, E, B and F) as well as several variations of children's tunes. Mrs. Jenner was amazed. She praised me and told me how talented I was. "You're a natural piano player!" she had exclaimed after seeing my near perfect scales. I blushed No one had ever praised me so readily or abundantly before. Growing up in a family with a typically Asian culture and values, criticisms were more liberally presented than praise.

The last thirty to forty-five minutes of my lesson was devoted to songs. Mrs. Jenner bade me to play any songs I knew, and I gladly though timidly recited all the pieces my mother had taught me. Mrs. Jenner grinned praising me again and telling me that she knew I would become one of her best pupils. I smiled sheepishly back, finally able to look into her glowing cornflower-blue eyes.

After teaching me some simple songs from a book, Mrs. Jenner sat down to play some of her favorite songs. From the moment she placed her hands upon the ivory an ebony keys, to the moment she lifted them, I was sucked into a magical spell. She became my own portal to a fantasy world that I had been yearning to visit ever since I arrived into this reality.

Her music started a song deep within me and as she played the piano, she struck chords in me as well. It was as if the keys were connected to strings inside my soul and as she pressed just the right keys for certain chords and melodies, she sweetly plucked my emotions like a harp. Staring at her and her fingers darting elegantly and deftly across the board, I made a promise to myself, though to this day, I've yet to find out what that promise was.

By the end of the lesson, Mrs. Jenner had not only succeeded in teaching me seven scales and three songs, she had also succeeded in opening the closed flower hidden in my chest. In the short period that I had been with her, my heart and mind had opened to her smiles and laughter. Her music had gone from my ears to my heart and had nestled itself quite comfortably in my soul, content to let its gentle vibrations emanate throughout my entire being and through my entire life.

I left her house that day brimming with confidence from her praise. I don't think Mrs. Jenner ever fathomed the extent of her influence on me, but inside of me she had planted a seed of confidence and love and understanding. With each visit I made to her, she watered and nurtured that little seed. She spoke to it, played music for it, talked to it and loved it. And slowly, every slowly, that little seed grew into a beautiful little flower, growing toward her, the sun.