An Itinerant Piano Player in a Patriarchal World

Small town high schools have limited course options at the best of times. My school in the eighties had a bleak, grey calendar for an artsy like me. I hated almost everything about school. There was no music, art or drama at all. For this reason, I took the path of least resistance to graduation.

I went back to Family Studies with my eyes wide open, and the knowledge that there would be no sewing in Grade 12. I would still be forced to endure Mrs. C, the family studies teacher who presided over the class for the first half of the term, but I could endure that torture, as long as there was no sewing involved. I had been humiliated in grade 9 more than once as she held up my pathetic and poorly made skirt for the entire class to laugh at. If enduring Mrs. C meant that I could take cooking from February through June, I would make the sacrifice.

I was a lot more mature than I had been three years before. I had a few more ounces of confidence. I could do this! Or, I could take phys-ed, which was the only other way of getting the arts credit I needed to graduate. “Arts” was a loosely-applied term in Ontario prior to 1984, after which the government made art, music, and drama mandatory course offerings in Ontario high schools.

Mrs. C looked and sounded the same as she always had. It had only been three years since I, an anxious and shy ninth-grader, had sat expectantly in her class. I was going to learn to sew! Expectations fell short of reality fairly quickly. Many of the girls, all the girls, in my class had already taken sewing at school or at home, and my teacher had no patience for beginners who didn’t know the bobbin from the spool. Sewing was painful, frustrating and time-consuming. I logged in many after-school hours at the sewing machine, guided by a sarcastic and unhelpful teacher.

I also learned that I needed a hope chest. Needed. For some reason my mother had failed to impart that critical knowledge during my upbringing. Other girls my age had been given their wooden cedar boxes, and had already begun to fill them. They were collecting tableware place settings, crystal, stemware, flatware and linens. Mrs. C lectured us all on the importance of making these critical choices. We debated China versus stoneware. We discussed the proper density and cut of crystal glassware. Heaven forbid we should select an inappropriate pattern, or fail to include serving utensils on our birthday wish lists. She handed out brochures, beautiful little printed booklets that detailed various manufacturers, patterns and prices. We were to choose one set for every day dining and another for special occasions. In fact, for our first assignment, we were to plan our imaginary hope chests, from the smallest coffee spoon, to the thread count in the sheets we would spread upon our marital beds.

For a little while she actually had me convinced that I needed these things. I was a bit frustrated with my mom. Why hadn’t she prepared me for my future? How is it that every other girl knew the intricacies of hope chest collecting before reaching high school, while I knew nothing? My mom never had the time or resources for a hope chest of her own. She left school at 12, started working at 13, and married at 19. My grandmother knew something about these lost arts. But in the 1930’s and 1940’s, she sewed and embroidered her own linens and collected fragile bits of crockery knowing that material goods were scarce, and were meant to last a lifetime. No one told my teacher about economic disparity. Or cultural diversity.

Naturally, the underlying assumption propelling the entire class was that indeed, we would get married. To suggest otherwise would mark us as abject failures before we had completed our first year of high school.

Grade 12 was supposed to be different. Most of the bullying was behind me, largely because I just didn’t care anymore. School was almost over, and I was getting the hell out of that town and never coming back. Mrs. C. no longer frightened me. Since there was no sewing involved, I stood a relatively decent chance of getting a good mark. I naively assumed that Family Studies, a newly-minted term that replaced the obsolete “Home Economics” would involve some study of the family. It was a prerequisite for advanced sociology, so I expected that we would discuss parenting and child care, family relationships and social issues. I knew that in the second term we would cover shopping, money management, budgeting and basic cooking. If I was going to move away, I needed to learn how to cook from someone other than my mother.

Mrs. C. continued to live an idyllic 1950’s existence, and her class was devoted to colour palettes, fabric swatches and accessories. This time we would learn decorating, and by means of practical application, we would plan and decorate our imaginary first apartments. In the three years since I’d been in her class, she had arrived at some kind of realization that a few of us would go to college, or have some kind of independent life before our inevitable march down the aisle.

Our first apartment plans included proper furniture placement, paint colours, and a few tidbits of sound advice. We all had lofty expectations. But my first real apartment was filled with borrowed furniture, scrounged and donated dishes, and an ancient black and white TV. I stacked my books on brick-and-board shelves, arranged my records in plastic milk crates, and I shared a bedroom with my roommate. Furniture placement options were severely limited in our tiny space. I don’t think that many people channeled those fabric swatches into bona-fide curtains and pillows. I hope that someone benefitted from that wasted educational opportunity.

Alongside our classroom learning, we were given an opportunity to work on an independent project. Our leisure time was important, and we were encouraged to cultivate interests and hobbies that would engage us, and help us to be more creative. Many of my classmates were eager to try something new. We needed to develop a new skill, follow step-by-step instructions, and produce a finished product that was either decorative or functional. Ceramics, knitting, embroidery, and macramé were some of the ideas that Mrs. C suggested.

I knew immediately what I was going to do. I would refinish my piano.

I had worked the entire previous summer, and saved enough money to buy a second-hand piano. I worked hard at learning to play, something that had been impossible during my childhood. This piano was the culmination of all my dreams thus far – a chance to express myself artistically, a chance to learn an instrument. It was beautiful to me, heavy and old with a rich, deep tone. I had scraped all the green paint off, and it just needed to be sanded, stained and lightly varnished. I wanted the solid, natural oak to stand out, so that my precious instrument could look as good as it sounded. I filled out my project form and handed it in during the second week of classes.

The next day, Mrs C. stopped me after class.

“Anna, we need to talk about your project. I’m sorry, but you will have to choose something different.”

“Why?”

“Well, it just won’t work. The project needs to be something you can do yourself.”

“I can do it myself. I have everything I need at home.” I shifted from foot to foot, uncomfortable. Mrs. C seemed to be implying that I couldn’t refinish a piano because I was a girl. I had already been told I couldn’t cut the lawn or chop wood for our vacation campfires because I was a girl. I was beginning to resent being told what I could and couldn’t do.

“Even so, it won’t work. You need to pick something else, something more…suitable.”

“I understand you don’t like it, but you haven’t given me a good reason.” I looked my teacher in the eyes, something I had difficulty doing. This was important. “What’s wrong with refinishing a piano? It’s a useful skill, and I’m learning something new.”

“Well, you can’t bring it in to be marked.”

“I can take before and after pictures.”

“Look, I want you to learn something useful you can do in your free time, something that will give you pleasure.”

“My piano gives me pleasure. Learning to refinish old furniture is a very useful skill. So is playing an instrument.”

“Well my answer is still no. Why don’t you try something different, something more…like embroidery, or rug hooking?”

I gave up. I went to the local craft store and bought two rug-hooking kits, and learned the skill of looping short strands of wool with a metal hook. I followed a colour scheme. I stayed within the parameters that the instructions outlined, a set, printed and predictable pattern. I can’t remember what, exactly, happened to the rugs I made. It was very useful. I got a good mark. I was able to watch television and do the project at the same time. That was something.

Excuse me while I go upstairs to play the piano. It gives me enormous pleasure.