piano, class

A woman I vaguely know has been teaching at the Community Music Center, so tonight I dragged Claire along to a recital by her students. The first thing that happened was catastrophic status anxiety, mine. Claire and I had turned up in our customary jeans and scuffed boots, ironic tees and hoodies. The other kids were all in velvet dresses, white tights and patent leather mary janes.

I kinda wished I had brought Quinn along, just so I could watch her turn into the Hulk at the sight of all that naked privilege on display.

I also felt very small and shabby and besmirched with soy sauce from our sushi dinner. And then I looked at Claire and saw that she was totally punk rock, which made me feel much better.

We tried to sit quietly with the other grownups, but Claire saw that there were kids watching from a balcony up the back, so eventually we snuck up there. The view was way better. And unlike the parents, who had been looking askance at us, the other kids gave us huge welcoming grins.

I have discovered the mark of a great composer. Even when they’re being murdered by affluent ten-year-olds in uncomfortable clothes, Mozart and Beethoven sound really good.

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