Hidden Talent

    

     By the time I was in seventh grade, my parents began to worry I was useless. I had no discernable hobbies or talents, and I showed early signs of being unemployable and homeless. My parents always told me how much they loved me, but I doubt either of them planned on spending their retirements taking care of the 30 year old on their couch. So, my mom decided it was time I developed into better person, and she had the perfect way to do it. She forced me to take guitar lessons.

       I use the word “forced” for a reason. I did not do this willingly. To me, it seemed pointless to take up a hobby. I was perfectly content with my musical inabilities and saw no reason to change things. I tried rationalizing with my mom. I was already 12, I told her; if I had musical talents we would’ve figured it out already. I was too old to be learning new tricks. At the time, I honestly thought I had fully developed as a person and that I knew everything there was to know. Shockingly, this turned out to not be true. Do you guys know about that secret arrow in the FedEx logo? That shit’s crazy.

      My parents, my mom especially, didn’t want to hear my side of the story. Suddenly, it dawned on me that I was not being asked to take guitar lessons; I was being told. This had gotten out of hand. What gave my parents the right? I was an independent 12 year old and had grown accustomed to living by my own rules. I lacked direction, sure, but this wasn’t a bad thing. It meant I could do whatever I wanted. But in November of 2004 all that changed. My first guitar lesson was quickly approaching and my life was about to change forever. I foresaw the hours spent living in my own head drift away as I would be forced to practice song after song on an evil machine that served me no purpose or pleasure. Of course I would be great at it, but it was important that I resisted as much as possible. This was bigger than simply not wanting to do it; it was a power play. My parents had to learn that this type of thing was not okay.

     I showed up to my first lesson with my uncle’s guitar. He had lent it to me for my lessons and said it was very special to him. Sentimentality didn’t work on me back then, so no matter how many people were excited for me to pluck some strings, I remained as apathetic and rebellious as ever. My teacher was a middle aged man, who for the purposes of the essay and also because I can’t remember his name, we’ll call Rick. Rick had lightly graying hair and a smile that looked like it was permanently plastered on his face. He seemed a bit too excited to teach a group of five kids, all boys, the art of guitar playing. Rick loudly and enthusiastically introduced himself and began playing the guitar. He started out with “Jingle Bells” and then started playing the theme song to “Full House.” He was trying to seem cool and was failing miserably. I wanted out before he had the chance to play another note, but I was forced to sit through another 10 minutes of Rick playing random songs to show off how good he was. He then began talking about how cool it is to play guitar. Once he was done with us, we’d be able to join a band and, to use his words, “score chicks.” I was 12. My idea of flirting was staring at the back of a girl’s head during class. I doubted that playing guitar would improve my life in any way; in fact, it would be my downfall.

      After we had all introduced ourselves, I realized I was the least experienced in the class. The session didn’t last long, Rick taught us the basic notes and sent us on our way. He told us to practice, which I thought was funny. When my mom asked me how it went I replied, “I hate it, it’s awful.” She smiled. I was certain this was just some type of cruel joke.

     At the next lesson, we learned how to play “Jingle Bells.” Well, “learned” in the loosest sense of the word. I wasn’t paying attention and if I was going to learn how to play a song, I wanted it to be something better than “Jingle Bells.” I wanted to play Green Day, because as a 12 year old I thought they were cool. I think Rick sensed my animosity and tried to get me to embrace my guitar. I was struggling with the simple notes of “Jingle Bells” and he made sure I kept trying until I got it. Rick told me I had to practice if I wanted to get any better, and the weird thing was I did want to get better. I wanted to be better than the other guys in my class, and eventually better than Rick. I wanted to show them that this whole thing was above me and that any monkey could do it.

       Any monkey cannot do it. The next week, I practiced “Jingle Bells” every day. My parents were proud of my dedication, but I don’t think they understood it stemmed from affectation rather than actual determination. My fingers began to hurt, and I would grow increasingly frustrated each time I failed to stick the landing at the end of the song. The lessons were becoming increasingly worse. Rick had started teaching more advanced stuff, but I still hadn’t mastered “Jingle Bells.” I ignored everything else he taught us and focused all my attention on “Jingle Bells.” I had to perfect it, or all this was for nothing.

     Eventually, I was able to play the entire song from start to finish. I sat my parents down and told them it was time for me to quit guitar. They were confused. Wasn’t I happy to be able to play “Jingle Bells”? Yup. Well, didn’t I want to learn other songs? Nope. “Jingle Bells” was hard and I couldn’t imagine how I would do trying to learn something that didn’t involve the same note repeated several times. In my mind, I had fulfilled my parents’ wishes and my own desire to perfect “Jingle Bells.” There was nothing left for me in the world of music and it was time for me to take my skills elsewhere. Surprisingly, my parents agreed to let me stop guitar lessons and since then, I’ve never looked back.

      I apologize for depriving the world of what probably would have been the best guitar playing ever. But I have no regrets. The world doesn’t need another guitar player anyway. I’m perfectly content with the way my life has unmusically unfolded. I’m not sure how much money my parents spent on my lessons, but I’d like to think it wasn’t a waste. Seven and a half years later, I still can’t play guitar, but at least I can write about it, and for what it's worth I can play up to medium on Guitar Hero.