memoirs of a pianist.

Scarsdale, NY. 2006. I was 13 years old. This is my story.

Her name was Pin Pin. I wish this was a stereotype, but her name was really Pin. Pin.

Tuesdays meant twelve Lemonheads to the face. Tuesday, like any other day, carried 24 hours. These hours were dedicated to excessive talking in class, trying to get fatter, and playing spitball in the McDonald's play-place on Broadway.
23 of those hours were spent trying to convince myself that 23 was a far more interesting number to look at. Mami tells me that military time makes you smarter.

"Alistate, que nos vamos. You're going to be late," my mom would say to me.
"Ma, I'm sick today. I can't go ma. I'll just clean my room instead, madre linda mia del cielo."
"We pay for these classes for what? Para la mierda, get dressed, and let's go."

The more I procrastinated, the faster my mother would drive. I never won.

Out of the 24 hours, one hour was spent, every Tuesday of every week, eyeing the time, along with my fingers, and the sheet music that never managed to stay on my keyboard. We were forced to play on thick, Casio keyboards that were conveniently twice our age. All four keyboards were connected together by expired mustard for cables that we were forbidden to step on.
If one student failed, we all failed. If one student played the wrong chord, we had to start over.

My teacher's eyes were never on her piano. She played while simultaneously watching us, as if the sheet music was beneath her.

"Losangelica, Losangelica," she'd project through the class. "You play the wrong thing. Sing the notes now."

I turn back to look at my mom, but she is asleep. I think of an excuse to leave the room... vomit, my period, Seinfeld.
Word vomit beats all excuses and I ask "Why?"

Her alarm clock rings, and I'm saved by cliche's once more.

Each time 8PM came, so did her pep talks. I couldn't complain though. 8PM meant a new day- a regular 24 hour period. I'd go back home and return to my, "normal" only for Hispanic women in The Bronx, life. I'd listen to my mother scream my name across the hall.

"Prepare for the future, Rosangelica! No esperes que llege manana!"

I'd lock the imaginary lock on my door, and blast Eminem. His anger was one of the first emotions that any artist has ever tapped into, and I loved it.

"Rosangelica, ven a practicar el piano antes que se ponga tarde," yells my mom from the kitchen this time, one room closer.


My mom loved Pin Pin. Her name was indeed, Pin. Pin. She would ask us for dating advice, but never enhanced my skill. Not once did she teach us to play Hip-Hop, but she convinced an entire room that the letters L and R sounded exactly the same.

Her name was Pin Pin, and I fucking hated her class.