Tigress

She taught me how to survive.

The pads of my fingers were bandaged, my eyes were pink and sore, and I felt like I had a nail driven into my brain. I was 12 years old and I was convinced I had everything memorized down to the rubato. Chopin Nocturne Opus… Opus… Everything memorized except some number no one ever bothered to remember.

E minor. That was the important part.

“Play it again.” She would tell me.

“But — ” I would stammer.

“This time, no mistakes.” Four words, firm and forward. That was the end of the conversation. Deep breaths. One. Two. My hands glided across black and white dividers as I raced through imaginary pictures in my head.

Instead of the typical boats sailing on the ocean, tiptoeing through the dark, or bouncing on stormy clouds, I would grab myself a pair of the composer’s shoes. I’d imagine Frederic in his 19th century European garb. He’s pretentiously sitting in that gold-crusted piano parlor. Now he’s imagining he was on the cusp of being the next Wolfgang Amadeus —

Silence.

My eyes opened. As the light filtered back in, I caught a glimpse of my fingers. They weren’t moving anymore. The pictures faded away and all I could see was that the magic was gone. Just a slightly stained, now yellow-white carpet beneath a creaking upright piano.

“I can’t.” I heard the syllables slip out of my mouth.

“What?” Her voice called out. Sitting there perched above on the fifth level of the stairwell behind me, she posed still, but still eyeing my every move.

“I can’t.” I mumbled.

“Again. 1. 2. 3. 4.” She counted.

Nothing.

“1.”

“2.”

“3.”

“4.”

“Why?” I thought.

My fingers were limp. I was half slumped over. I was pretty sure that half an hour ago I needed to go to the bathroom. But again. I had to play it again. Clenching my teeth and channeling my inner Chopin, I began to spin pictures again.

Back in Eastern Europe.

Back in wigs and long robes.

Back in grand ballrooms with crystal chandeliers. Brilliant colors flashed by as dancers twirled in their prismacolor gowns.

Back in —

A finger tripped over its black heels and down it fell. Tumbling down. One casualty after another. Irrecoverable.

I looked up. She was still there, waiting, not saying a word, but waiting.

I knew that it was futile but I still managed to murmur.

“Can we be done for today?”

Silence. Just waiting. Waiting.

“Again.” I myself imagined those words mouthed into my ear. “This time no mistakes”. The same words rang in my head that I’d heard a million times.

This time my fingers tripped and fell from the start. No good. So again.

And again.

And again.

I focused, and my eyes focused, and I saw my fingers dancing across the keys.

E. B. G.

E. C. B.

And I saw the next note. And the next note. And the next diminuendo. And swell.

And again.

And again.

I opened my eyes and I saw my right hand cross my left. E. And the final chord sounded.

The awkward wrinkles across my knuckles. My slightly chubby digits with my left index finger wrapped with two bandages: one covering the tip lengthwise and another wrapping horizontally around the first. My tired skinny arms that immediately took to sagging by my sides. That was the image that held in my mind.

And then silence. The silence that hangs in the air only for those who have played the perfect piece.

I turned around and there was no trace of the tigress that had lingered through the night. Not there for enjoyment, not there for gratitude, simply there to teach me. Teach me not to just cry. Teach me to use tears to fight. Teach me to say no to the odds and bandage my sore wounds.

She taught me to survive.

Just like a nocturne, a Tiger Mom only shows her fangs in the night.