My Journey with the Black & White Keys--Celeste

I was four years old when I gained an interest of playing piano. My sister, at six years old, would sit in front of the wooden contraption with black and white keys, practicing what her teacher assigned her for that week. I bothered her every time I heard a sound coming from the piano, begging her to teach me a song. She finally did. The beginning of the song went like “CCGGAAG-FFEEDDC-.” I was four years old, playing “Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star,”-- Man, I thought I was a tiny prodigy. Any time I got the chance, I would show off my skills. “Mommy! Mommy! Look what Ate taught me: *plays the song*.” The following Thursday at my sister’s weekly lesson, I performed the song to her teacher. As I finished, I turned my head, looked at the teacher, and saw a big, bright smile. At that moment, I constantly asked my parents to enroll me in her piano class. Once I turned five, the lessons began.
I had a notebook. In that notebook were pieces I had to practice and twenty-one ticks per piece, three ticks per day, that I had to cross off every time I finished a song. I began learning out of the “orange lesson book.” Then came the “green book,” “red book,” “yellow book,” “pink book,” “blue book,” and finally, the “brown book.” Alongside of those came a corresponding recital book. Each perfected song from the recital book was taped on a new, but used, cassette tape. My goal was to reach my sister’s level; have as many taped pieces as she did, but she was always one or two books ahead of me. As my sister and I both advanced, we started playing more difficult pieces. Pieces such as Sonatinas and variations from “Piano Pieces for Children- revised and edited by Maxwell Eckstein.” Around this time is when I decided to make a major decision.
The older I got, I had fewer taped pieces a year. The older I got, the less I wanted to cross the ticks in my notebook. The older I got, the more exposed I was to other extra curricular activities. Playing the piano felt more like a chore rather than pure enjoyment. At the age of twelve, I decided to end my lessons. It was hard to tell my parents and my sister because it ended in an argument. It was even harder to tell my piano teacher. When the topic came up, my chest tightened up and it suddenly became more difficult to breath. Trying to gulp down tears over something I wanted to have happen was confusing, but I somehow understood it. Though, I never determined whether I was feeling guilt or sadness when I left.
Throughout the period I was no longer taking lessons, about a year, my former piano teacher became ill. She passed on her students to her daughter, my sister included. My friends in middle school reminded me how much I loved playing, so I picked up lessons again, but, obviously, with her daughter. She always told me how her mom was so glad that I was playing the piano again. She would set up recitals for her, recitals I would participate in. I wasn’t sure if I was ever going to see my former piano teacher one last time, but I am glad I did. In fact, I was able to see her twice.
This woman I met when I was four was an amazing sight reader. She was able to play a piece at first glance, perfectly, because of her vast knowledge of music theory. The most talented

pianist I knew, Gladys Sitompul, or as I would call her, “Mrs. Sitompul,” my piano teacher. She passed away on September 15, 2017 at the age of eighty-five. She lived a long and healthy life filled with love and happiness. When I attended her viewing, I didn’t shed a tear although I was sad. I regret missing one last year I could have had with her as my teacher. I wish I could show her how thankful I am for teaching me everything I know. When I admitted this to myself, that was when tears fell from my face. I realized too late that I neglected the time and effort Mrs. Sitompul dedicated to me to learn how to combine the black and white keys to create beautiful sounds. It was not about the money for her, it was the knowledge she was able to pass on before it was her time. To this day, when I place a finger on any of the keys, I think of Mrs. Sitompul-- I dedicate the pieces to her.