Black. White. Meaningless. Chore.

When I was nine years old, hearing the word “piano” brought these words to mind. My parents signed me up at a young age just as they did to my older brother. We were forced to practice every day for thirty minutes and when we complained or threw tantrums, our parents would remind us how much money they’ve invested already. By the age of eleven, it was too late to turn back. I dreaded our yearly recitals and performing in front of people that weren’t my piano teacher or my parents. It wasn’t until I was sixteen or so that I truly started to appreciate music and this instrument that could create such beautiful colors with only black and white keys. I learned to enjoy practicing and becoming one with each piano piece that represented a different situation or feeling. Whether the piece was melancholic, happy, or mysterious, I was intrigued by what laid beyond those notes. I was interested in the backgrounds of each composer and learning what drove them to write such elaborate pieces. Although my nine-year-old self cursed my parents for putting me through such misery, I wouldn’t trade that experience for anything.