Dreaming about being French as I eat my sandwich at school, I pour sweetened tea into my cup and take a sip. French people speak French. I don’t speak French yet, but I will as soon as I become a French person. Even now, I have confidence that I can communicate with any French person because I have creativity, which is shown in the arm waving dance that I created in music. French people eat French bread. It should be similar to the white bread I eat every morning. No problem. I assume they drink sweetened tea. I easily get over another hurdle. I continue the self-taught private lessons on “French” at home, which are far from authentic. I play a LP record disc on the turntable. This is Swan Lake by the Russian composer Tchaikovsky. My arm flapping act is like nothing that someone else has done in my school. My choreography expresses the elegance of a swan that is contemplating which way she is going to swim to and fly to. I become closer to being French with each graceful movement of my arms and tip toes. Maybe, one day, I might be on the stage in France.
When my mother takes me to Yamaha Music Academy for the first time Tuesday after school, my heart starts jumping. Yamaha sounds French to me. (I learn later that“Yama” means mountain, while Ha means “leaf” in Chinese characters) “I’m sorry but I can’t play with you today because I have to go to Yamaha,” I apologetically brag to my friends in the school bus. Yamaha Music Academy rents the space in the Lutheran Church in the town where my grandma Fumi still resides. Lutheran church sounds French to me, too. I am so ecstatic to be back in this church where I used to play everyday, and even go to Sunday School. We push open the heavy glass door, painted, “Lutheran Church”. The floor has hard and shiny tiles that are gray and black. I proudly lead my mother to the left and step up the red carpeted stairs as if walking on a cloud.
There is a large room, and in it there are more than ten fantastic looking electric organs with double layered keyboards. These amazing looking instruments have a bright oak brown color, ands are shining. A right hand goes onto the top keyboard and a left hand goes onto the bottom keyboards. I am in shock when I notice that this already-too-amazing-organ has another keyboard just for the feet! Ms. Nagaya tells me that it is called an Electone. She guides me to the Electone that is closest to her piano. I inhale a strong scent from her which is like a clean restroom. She must be from France.
I look over the back of the room. There are another ten regular, terribly poor looking organs. They seem very pathetic without the luxurious functions that the Electone contains. They have an air pump for your feet, and don’t have double keyboards. You simply need to pump to make these instruments sound. It is totally unfair for these tedious organs to be compared to the fancy Electone, but it’s hard not to. The organs’ height are way shorter than the Electone, too. Their color is grayish, and it brings back unpleasant memories of rainy days. I am so relieved that I am not on that ugly, low-function, single keyboard. I determine that I will never ever be late for Yamaha so I will not miss the Electone. I have to claim the Electone before all of them are taken by the fellow Yamaha kids. Everybody must be thinking the same thing that I’ve been thinking. I don’t think I can control myself if I have to sit with the regular organ. I already have had enough bad experiences in my life.
Ms. Nagaya looks a little bit like a French. I have never seen a face that has such an impact. Her eyes are huge, and underlined with black ink and painted with blue powder on the top. Her mouth is the biggest and reddest I have ever seen in my life. Snow White might have the same color lips; however, I doubt that they are the same size as Ms. Nagaya’s. Her hair is short and a reddish brown that is a bit too strong. It almost looks like a helmet. Maybe French ladies look like her, I conclude on the first day. It almost scares me. I keep telling myself, “I am very lucky that I’m with a teacher who might be from France,” with a little suspicion.
------A little bird is listening to my music by the window and shaking his booty. Mama is listening to my pretty beautiful sounds. We learn at Yamaha Music Academy---- It is easy enough for me to sing the opening song at first time. I see Ms. Nagaya’s large mouth and nostrils very well from my seat. As soon as she sucks up some air, she announces, “Let’s stand up! We will march around the room.” A big circle of little musicians start walking around the high-tech Electones and the old fashioned organs. I step forward, my legs going one by one proudly. Right, left, right, left, I march in synchronization with the marching song that Ms. Nagaya plays on her piano. Nothing sounds better than the piano playing of Ms. Nagaya besides Fur Elise from the speaker that plays after lunch in my school. And how lucky I am to be able to march with the rhythm of the beautiful sound! I act like a soldier stepping consistently with the beat, right, left, right, left.
As the consistent rhythm gradually fades out, a soldier spots an obstacle. There are a bunch of kids soldiers stuck up in one area. Are you nuts? You shouldn’t be. You should be a Yamaha music soldier. You are supposed to be appreciating Ms. Nagaya’s sophisticated music. You must keep walking with it. Right behind me, more people start piling up. But the line doesn’t go any further. It completely stops. I am sandwiched! All of a sudden, I become the General of Yamaha Army, yelling, “Move!”
At the next second, both of my hands push against the girl’s back. I just want her to move. If you don’t respond to my verbal communication, I have to use some physical force. That’s what happens. As she falls, a boy before her falls. The Yamaha soldiers’ domino glissandos to another person, up until one third of the circle of soldiers totally collapses. A girl points her index finger at me, and cries, “This girl pushed me! Waaaa…” I quickly apologize without any remorse nor eye contact, “I am sorry, but you have to move when you are supposed to.” The fellow Yamaha kids look at each other, including Ms. Nagaya. I then realize that this first terrible impression of me has just been etched into the Yamaha kids’ innocent minds. I optimistically hope that everybody will forget about this incident by next Tuesday. This place could make me connected to France. I must survive. I bite my tongue.
-----Good bye. This is all for today. Good bye----- The ending song’s tune sounds pretty mellow. Ms. Nagaya whispers to my ear, “You will get along with your friends next time.” “Yes ma’am,” I sigh. Am I still lucky? Yes, of course. I have not been kicked out yet. I am ready for the same routine plus a different adventure next Tuesday.
Every week seems like there is a totally different atmosphere. No one talks about their previous friends or events concerning the Academy. Only our routine songs are sacredly preserved; the Little Bird opening song and the Mellow-You-Down closing song. Each Tuesday, learning new tunes and songs is fascinating to me. The only thing that I am disappointed about is that there has been more marching around the room with music since Day One. I refuse to think why.
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