Twinkle, Twinkle Falling Star

"I'm a little monkey, climbing up the ladder, climbing to the top to fetch an empty platter Ö" my teacher sang as I scratched my bow down the strings of my instrument several times, making noises almost discernible as notes. I was six, this was my first violin lesson, and I was already watching a squirrel run across a telephone pole instead of watching my teacher. I had no idea what I was doing at this strange lady's house, trying to make music out of a hunk of wood and a rod with horse's hair on it, but I didn't complain.

As far as I knew, violin lessons were a requirement of life. Like school, I had been dropped off in front of a building one day, expected to return on a regular basis, with no say in the matter. If I had gotten the opportunity to voice my opinion, I would have made it clear that the violin was at the bottom of the list of instruments I wanted to learn, right there along with a big jug. Even the piano would have been a better choice, at least hitting the wrong key produced a recognizable tone. On the violin, one slip, and an ear shattering screech, previously unheard by mankind, could result.

Even though after a week my playing still sounded like a fork scratching a chalk board, my teacher told me I'd perfected the "monkey" song and could move on. She gave me my first book, "Suzuki Violin School: Volume One" and explained it was the first step in a long progression of books. I figured when I completed all fifteen, I'd immediately be booked at Carnegie Hall. But it would be a long journey: the first "piece" was "Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star" and even that gave me trouble. It took a month to master, that is, get to the point where my teacher could resist reflexively contorting her face into a look of agony while I played. And when I'd finally finished it, even though no one let on, I was frustrated to find the "new" piece was merely the same tune, except with each note played twice. She called it "The Bunny Rabbit Song" to throw me off.

I spent the next few months of those lessons learning new variations on "Twinkle," with a new name each month to trick me into believing I was making progress. I grew so bored with this that soon the squirrel on the telephone pole appeared to be doing a flying trapeze act. Still, as far as I knew, I was on my way to becoming a brilliant violinist. Sure, I wasn't deaf: I was aware the sounds that came out of my instrument couldn't be considered pleasurable, but as far as I was concerned, that was simply how a violin sounded.

After all, the only indication of how the thing was played came from other youngsters whose parents had jammed violins under their necks against their will. Heck, at recitals, the kid who played three notes of his song, then giving up, tapped rhythm on the thing with his hand as the piano accompanist continued pounding away at the tune, received a thunderous ovation and requests for encores at the end. As might be assumed, my performances, though terrible, were quite well received. No one let on that the violin could produce actual music. When I showed the kids in school that I'd figured out how to play the theme to "Jaws," I got all the positive support I needed to fuel me for another year.

But around this time, as I was nearing my eight birthday, there was a sudden burst in foreign child prodigies taking violin lessons, and the quality of recital performances sky-rocketed. I felt pretty silly playing the "Fox Trot" version of "Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star" that year.

It didn't help my self-esteem that my teacher had transformed from a sweet, patient old lady, praising me every time I slid my bow across the strings, into a vicious military type commander, shouting orders and insults at me as I pathetically tried to make music come out of the instrument I held. It was around this time that other people stopped pretending they liked what they heard when I played, and though no one was blatant about it, it was a generally accepted rule that I wouldn't practice within hearing distance of another member of the family. I began to feel like Jack Benny, always keeping a proud, serious demeanor as I played, trying not to notice as the people around me covered their ears.

Practicing was torture, but I managed to force myself to play an hour a week, every week, for the next couple years. At my lesson, I'd show my teacher what I'd learned. She'd look at me disgustedly and then ask if I'd even attempted the piece before. Didn’t I want to make any progress? And why was I shifting my body weight onto my right foot? Couldn't I stand upright for an hour? Why was I staring hypnotically out the window? Wasn't I listening?

After four years, the effect of the "cute little kid playing the violin" began to wear off, and my rank at monthly recitals had dropped from star billing, to the "let's all clap politely" kid. I was sick and tired of the whole thing. Still, I had passed four Suzuki books already, and I thought the point where I could produce pleasurable sounding music might not be so far off.

One summer day, when I walked into my lesson, my teacher gave me a new piece. When I opened the book to "Swan Waltz in G", the confusing sea of notes I saw frightened me a little bit, but it was encouraging, nonetheless. I'd made it this far! Carnegie Hall was surely just weeks away! I began to feel I hadn't wasted my time, and I was finally going to learn how to play something real!

My teacher demonstrated the song for me, it was slow and melodic, much better than that other stuff I'd been playing, I thought. But as I listened I began to get the feeling I recognized the tune. All of a sudden, I realized it was "Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star" masked in a new tempo with a few extra notes. It was that night that I told my mom it was time to quit, and no one argued with me.