Essay Masterclass / References
I lived in the neighborhood music box.
8:30am to 9:45pm; piano burst from my father’s studio windows, through the floorboards into each corner of our house. He came equipped with bad jokes and a cosmic laugh to our hurried family dinners, before whizzing back downstairs. My brother and I waited for his metronomic clapping, sighs and finally the ear-splitting warble of a piano teacher’s attempt to sing. We also waited for Auckland’s prodigies; the seat’s familiar creak, pause, before all heaven broke loose.
My childhood was smothered by his legendary legacy. While the Chinese community mobbed him on the street, I mastered the art of thumb twiddling. When they gushed over Sylvia’s acceptance to Juilliard and Lawrence’s clean sweep of national competitions, I basked in their light which anonymised yet defined me - the piano teacher’s daughter. Like them, I had to be a success story. Breakfast scents of Mum’s steamed buns drifted into Saturday lessons as my fingers toiled through sonatas, etudes, concertos. Competition ricocheted between the numbing fear of failure and dizzying relief at success. Pig-tails proud, trophy in hand, I scoured for my father in the audience. When his eyes crinkled, I knew I was climbing his ranks. Championing this label gave me substance after years of anonymity.
Time blemished the façade, and I embraced the growing opportunities to explore literature, speech and acting. Others’ lives fascinated me, and the more I read, lived, and acted theirs, the more the studio’s hold waned. Determination was substituted for anger. His cabinet of smiling students’ photos - their soft dimples and flower bouquets – once magnetic, now mocked me. Surely I was more than this prescription; the expectations and successes of “the piano teacher’s daughter”. I had to define myself.
Literature unlatched freedom of interpretation, nuance, authenticity – a stark contrast to black and white keys. My interests broadened further. Cramming steamed buns, avoiding my father’s gaze, I bounded out the door to act. Mrs. Martyn’s wine - red nails glazed the bookshelf, pulling characters out, leaving their scenes in my hands, their words to my voice. On stage, each passing millisecond was plump with possibility – an eye twitch here, the hint of a smirk there – bound to reassuring, constant words. I dedicated my skills to school – a sanctuary where I could cultivate my acting, writing and musical voice amongst and for my peers.
Street spottings became my greatest dread. Thumb twiddling couldn’t save me from “how’s piano going?” any more than it could smooth the rift between my father and me. Leaving the studio married liberty and throbbing regret, and the latter gnawed at me in all my pursuits. The cost of aspiring had unanticipated consequences. Even more unexpected was the exponential growth of such regret, fear, and resentment at having disappointed my father; though he never openly admitted so.
The revelation occurred after Junior Black Watch Choir’s final rehearsal. The children jostled out the door except Rose - a second row soprano - who strode up to the piano. “I want to play like you when I’m older.” She darted out as spontaneously as she came. That was when it sunk in. This glorious “pursuit for freedom” had been a misinterpreted self-diagnosis. In music’s absence, the truth had manifested itself. Piano pedagogue’s daughter or not, with or without expectations, I had grown to hear artistry, authenticity, possibility; the other arts had helped me realise their presence. Music had never been lacking, I had. When I returned downstairs, it was on my terms – not a student, or a daughter, just me.
A year later, I found myself in Parliament, no pigtails, standing with my mother. I caught Mr. Yang’s eye – a street spotting, but no father in sight. “Congratulations Francesca! It’s so lovely to meet you!” I welcomed the shock. Mum's eyes crinkled. I'm not just the piano teacher’s daughter. But then again, I am.