November 12, 2011...Mark Your Calendars!

Swoooosh! goes the sound of the swift, descending cane.

"Is wan toe, wan toe NOT wan toe tree"
It's one two, one two, not one two three
"Your timing h-is h-off...can't cho read de music?"

My shaky hands, now burning at the knuckles where the cane had landed, start to play the song from the beginning...

I was seven - cute and adorable. This was before MUSON center came into existence and started offering violence-free piano lessons (I could be wrong. I never took lessons there but I knew people who did later on in their teens. I don't recall them mentioning any cane incident). Mama I-forget-her-name was my piano teacher. She was scary and precise - the cane always ALWYAS landed on the knuckles. I don't know where my parents found her. I do remember that a couple of kids who attended the same elementary school as I also took lessons with her. The funny thing is, I went to a primary school with a no-cane policy. I wonder if the other kids left their first lesson with her as scarred as I was. I'm guessing they did.

Mama I-forget-her-name was actually really sweet once the lessons were over. We would have cookies, she'd tell us tortoise stories and ask us random questions while we waited for our drivers to pick us up.

I guess it was just that Nigerian obsession with the power of the cane. A flogged child is a disciplined child. Mama I-forget-her-name was disciplining our hands to play perfect melodies. I remember she was a great pianist (well, as far as my young mind could tell). Her hands seemed to glide so effortlessly across the piano keys and I remember thinking to myself, Hell to the naw, I ain't never gon' get wit it like dat! Ok, so these were not the exact thoughts in my little, cute head. First, I was seven and my name is not Shetanya Sheniqua. Second, the phenomenon that was Being Bobby Brown (remember that tv show? Bravo aired a couple of episodes the other day at 2 am and that shit is still hilarious! Classic crassness and ashiness tv!) had not yet occurred and so there was no way I was acquainted with the phrase "Hell to the naw!". God bless Whitney! No - really. The woman needs divine intervention.

Where was I? Yes, Mama I-forget-her-name was sweet but I still hated going for her lessons. I was actually one of her favorites and didn't receive as much hand-caning. Others weren't as lucky. There was this one kid, Snotty. I call him Snotty not because he was arrogant or bigheaded (although now that I think about it, his head was huge). Snotty's nose was always dripping and he'd wipe it off with his hands ever so often. Like - eeeew! So NOT hot (please read the italicized sentences in a Paris Hilton-esque voice for full effect). Anyway, Mama I-forget-her-name taught us in groups of four. She'd randomly pick someone in the group to play the piece she'd taught us the week before. When this person was done, she'd pick the next. I used to pray and beg, silently, in my head,

Please let me go before Snotty does, please let me go before Snotty. Oh crapitty shit! Snotty is going first today.

I SO did not want to play the piano after he did! What, with his snot-drippy hands touching those keys. Yes - by seven, I had started exhibiting traits of OCD.

Well, Snotty and piano-playing did not go together. The poor boy!

Swoosh Pay swoosh H-attention swoosh swoosh How many counts swoosh h-is a crochet?

*silence*

SWOOSH HI SAID 'OW MANY swoosh swoosh COUNTS?

Then Snotty would cry uncontrollably.

Please don't let his mucus-filled tears fall on the keys. Please don't let his mucus-filled tears fall on the keys. Oh shit, look at that long nasty one that fell on the C sharp.

God forgive me. Whenever I remember Snotty, I pray for him and wonder where he is now. Can he write? Do his hands still function?

Alas, my dreams of becoming a pianist never materialized. I stopped playing at nine. Yes, my parents and I knew, deep in our hearts, that I was Mozart re-incarnated but for some reason, I just stopped going. I was relieved - more after-school cartoon time! YAY! But now, I look at Alicia Keys and think, that could have been me....that SHOULD have been me.

I'm kidding!

...Or am I?

Well, here's the deal. The dream is not completely lost. I have a brilliant idea. I have a plan.

Just know this:

A few years from now, Jamie Foxx will invite me to be a guest on his TV special, a concert marking the end of his singing career (if it hasn't already ended before then). He will introduce me as the best thing since Miss A. Keys. I'll come out, wearing a yummy number by Oscar de la Renta. The audience will applaud. Jamie will make a comment along the lines of "Gurl, go on wit yo bad self...Ain't that a foxy number you got on?...I could just EAT. YOU. UP...mmm mmm mmm". I'll smile politely and beg the audience to stop clapping. It's getting a little embarrassing.

Thank you, thank you. You're too kind.

We take our seats - Jamie at his piano and me (I?) at mine.

Jamie: Georgiaaaaaaaaaaa

Audience begins clapping again, enthusiastically.

CandyS: Geo -ooooo-oooo- giaaaa- aaaaa--aaaaaa-aaaaaa-aaaa (ad libs is a must people).

The clapping will become louder and louder. Then it will slowly recede.

We will finish the song, 4 minutes after Ray Charles would have if he was the one performing it. Those darn ad libs!

An immediate standing ovation. We take a bow. The standing ovation does not cease.

"Encore, encore!"
"CandyS., please, a song from your record-breaking, grammy-winning album."
"We want more! We want more!"
"Jamie, to the left, to the left! Step aside and let Candy S. do her thing!"

CandyS will smile politely and shake her head.

Candy S: No no...this is Jamie's night. Tis JAAAAMIE's night! Please...PLEASE....No...really...thank you....but it's Jamie's night!...I love YOU too!(Read out loud in a Mariah-Carey-Diana-Rossy Diva-esque voice for full effect)

CandyS will then exit the stage.

THE END

So, like I said, just give me a couple of years. I have a plan and the wheels are already in motion. I just made the following investment:
















Yes, I am now the PRRROUD owner of a Yamaha YPG-525 Portable Grand Electric Keyboard. It used to belong to a friend's family friend who was trying to get rid of it. He sold it to me at a ridiculously cheap price considering it usually goes for $600 on amazon.com. When I met up with him to see the piano and negotiate its price, I knew the piano was mine. His desperation was blatant and suffocating. Apparently, Mr. Desperation bought it as a gift for his wife, who also happened to play the piano when she was a kid. Unfortunately (and fortunately for me), after a month or so, she'd gotten bored with her hubby's present and the Yamaha was slowing disappearing under a sea of dust. But now, it sits, dust-free, in a cozy corner of my living room.

I know what some of you may be thinking - I too will probably get bored with it or be too busy to play it. Well, all doubting Thomases, please be gone! I block your negativity with my shield of determination! Best believe that I am NO Mrs. Desperation. Mrs. Desperation was a quitter. I am not. Mrs. Desperation did not aspire to be the next Alicia Keys and sing "Georgia on My Mind" with Jamie Foxx on his TV special. I, on the other hand, know exactly where I will be come the evening of November 12, 2011 (Yes. This is indeed the date when the TV special will air LIVE. Don't ask me how I know. I just do).

I've started playing my new baby and I'm surprised at how easily it's all coming back to me. I thought I might have to re-train my fingers or something. I'm remembering old pieces and learning new ones. The only thing is, the Yamaha takes up a ridiculous amount of space. My apartment looks eerily smaller. I figure a cramped room is the small price one must pay for fame, fortune and glory.