For complete context about why I’m not having a birthday party for my 27th birthday this year and how you can still celebrate with me, read You’re Invited to My 27th Birthday Bash.
In 1989, I got Barbie Beat for either my birthday or Christmas. Barbie Beat came with a cassette tape, which played Barbie and her friends’ theme music. You were encouraged to sing along with them. Like a good little girl, I’d spend hours jumping on my bed and singing my little heart out. (My bed actually collapsed once as my constant jumping on it loosened the screws enough that it fell apart. While I was jumping on it.)
My maternal grandma, whom I love and adore, used to tell me I was such a wonderful singer. She’d whip out her child’s recorder — all primary colors and big buttons — and record me singing whatever new songs I’d learned in school. Grandma still has those tapes as she played them for me a few holiday gatherings ago.
Like every small child in the US, I wanted to be a famous musician. However, I’m both completely tone deaf and have a bad voice. My singing career was cut off at the knees. Only my grandma would defend my voice today.
At 7-years-old, I started playing the piano at my mom’s insistence. When I first started playing the piano, I had to play inside the barn. My mom had been dragging around an upright piano rescued from a friend’s summer home, and the barn was where it was stored. I’d sit inside the hay-filled barn, listen to the mice, and play “Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star” over and over. Then I’d go pet the cows. By the time winter rolled around, my parents moved the piano inside the house, where there were modern amenities like heat.
Then there were the recitals. I had to wear ridiculously puffy dresses to my recitals. To this day, I’m pretty sure scratchy tool constitutes as child torture by the UN. Continue reading “Birthday Bash Day 2: The Pianist Child Prodigy”
