Five Hours East

Parent Tune-up

Brenda Hartman-Souder

The Casio digital keyboard—the one we bought in the States and paid extra shipping to fly to Nigeria—sits silent in our living room.But a tune of sadness mixed with tender understanding plays in my parenting heart when I glance to see it hidden under its handwoven-cloth shroud.

Since returning from a two-month home leave last summer, when their lessons necessarily ended, neither of my kids has once uncovered and plugged in the keyboard to sit down and put their hands to the keys. Since I have resigned from my position as The Motivating Force, they currently possess no interest in piano playing.

Even I, a mediocre pianist, am reluctant to play these days. The sound of music filling the room reminds me how I’ve failed to get the kids to enjoy this instrument and more, how in wishing keyboard competence for them, I neglected the finer points of parenting.

Early in my mothering journey, I was convinced that understanding basic theory and how to read music are practical and useful skills, ones that few people regret learning. They promote the ability to sing or play an instrument, even just for enjoyment, throughout life. And although not rigorous, research to prove my point included conversations with many people who stated they wished their parents had “made” them take music lessons as a kid. I was confident that piano lessons would be one of those things that, with an occasional little positive push, my children would eventually pick up and run with.
Ha.

When Val was six, we signed her up for an innovative group music program that blended instruction in keyboard, rhythm instruments, and parental involvement. We bought an old, petite piano from a music-teaching friend we respected, who advised us back then, “Don’t let her quit taking lessons until she graduates from high school!”

Her dad was able to take off work early and provide the necessary parental accompaniment. A childhood without music lessons—he was too busy exploring the woods with his dog or building something with the neighbor boy—led him to find learning alongside Val novel and enjoyable. For two years, music lessons and practice included daddy and were fun!

When we moved to Nigeria, Val continued learning with Carolyn, a gentle and caring missionary mom. Greg started lessons with Carolyn too, and they went along well enough. Neither of our kids rushed to the piano after school to work on their scales and simple tunes, but with prodding they practiced enough to keep improving. After a while, Carolyn reported that Val’s playing skills were outstripping her teaching skills and that maybe we should look for a more advanced teacher.

We found Mr. Thomas who came to our house once a week for lessons and enthusiastically focused the kids on theory, finger strengthening exercises and technique. He pushed and encouraged them. He told us that in order for kids to excel they should practice an hour a day. Val and Greg responded to that with raised-eyebrow disbelief. We settled on half of that amount of time.

While over the course of a school year, they both improved and played pieces of growing complexity and challenge and even occasionally reported “liking” lessons, their grumbling was the melody line I heard the clearest. They put off practicing until forced by threats from yours truly. And when they finally sat at the piano, their exercises were punctuated by irritatingly frequent 180-degree turns on the stool to look at the kitchen clock and estimate how many minutes were left in this excruciating activity I’d pushed them into.

Then we visited the USA for several months this summer, so the piano lessons ended. But my lessons as a parent did not.
First, our family hung out with some with musical friends who have musical children. When eight-year-old Tim sat down at the keys, we listened in astonishment. When 18-year-old Philippe improvised a jazz jam at his high school graduation party, we sat in awe. Clearly, these kids loved piano music and desired to excel . . . while our kids did not.

Next we ran into that old music teacher friend who had sold us our piano years ago. He rushed across the grocery store parking lot to greet us and then, without prompting, in the course of our brief conversation, volunteered new advice. It was something like this.
“I no longer push kids to keep taking lessons if they complain,” he said. “Now I tell parents to let them quit. Maybe they’ll come back in a year or two and be really ready to play; then the motivation will be theirs.”

My own childhood bears such wisdom out—how could I have forgotten? I’d dropped piano lessons, miserable and frustrated when the piano teacher unfavorably compared my skills to those of my sister, five years my elder and a natural musician. Awhile later I asked to restart, albeit with a different teacher. My parents wisely concurred, and I was a piano student for nine more years.

The real problem, however, is my anxiety that my children, living in Nigeria for almost six years, will be seen as odd and not quite up to snuff when they return to the States. Kids there seem programmed pretty much full-time to participate in a whole smorgasbord of after-school activities. Val and Greg attend a fine international school, but extracurricular offerings are limited. How will my kids fare when most of their childhood was spent simply being kids?

With a silent piano, however, I am beginning to understand that my children are perfectly capable of singing their own songs. Other music fills our home.

Valerie thrives on the challenge of school and never needs to be nagged to complete homework. She reads at night, and listens to music or books on her iPod while washing the supper dishes, crocheting, or weaving friendship bracelets. She’s mastered crepes and French toast. She nurtures a small circle of friends and loves the ability to travel with us and live in another country. And she’s chosen to play clarinet in the middle school band; the skill came easily because of those piano lessons. Val practices exactly 20 minutes a day, the magic number needed to earn an A.

Greg draws, reads voraciously, and is constantly curious about things like animation, video photography, how things work, building stuff from household objects, and what it’s like to be famous, like the president of the United States. We have the first draft of his inaugural speech in hand, along with numerous action-packed stories. He runs though our compound with Nigerian age-mates finding fun without toys. When the mood strikes and dry season arrives, he takes a basketball to the cracked court and shoots the ball through the rusty hoop over and over again.

Isn’t this music enough?

Twice a year, their school holds a recital for all piano students taking lessons from various community and mission teachers. Proud parents fill the front rows with cameras poised, the young performers are jittery in their seats, and clapping after each piece is boisterous and prolonged.

We won’t be at the recitals this year, and I can’t help but wonder how many children love piano or merely play out of dutiful love for parents who need them to play. Because I’ve been there. And part of me would still like to be there.

But we will attend the middle school band program to hear Val and eat her crepes with relish. And we’ll continue to read Greg’s new stories and mount his intricate drawings on the fridge and office walls.

Stay tuned. . . .

—Brenda Hartman-Souder, Jos, Nigeria, serves as co-representative of Mennonite Central Committee Nigeria and, along with spouse Mark, as parent of Valerie and Greg. This is her first entry as a regular writer of her new DreamSeeker Magazine column, “Five Hours East,” which refers to the time zone difference between the eastern U.S. and Nigeria.