1982
“How do you do it, Anna?” Mrs. Tanner, my mother’s friend, asks her as she smiles at me. I look back at her and smile my warmest smile. The one Mother says is my most perfect smile full of grace and elegance. This is the smile I give her, not because I need to look pretty and make an impression—like Mother always says—but because Mrs. Tanner likes me, and she always gives me candy or cookies when Mother isn’t looking.
“Do what, Carol?” my mother asks.
“How do you get your daughter to behave so… so perfectly? I mean, look at her.” She points at me. “She’s such a darlin.’”
That good feeling, her words make me feel, expands in my tummy. It’s wonderful because I know my mother is going to be so happy and proud when we get home. She always tells me how proud she is of me when I’m on my best behavior. That a daughter must always do as she’s told and be perfect because perfection is our goal.
My mother turns to look at me, and I smile at her. She returns the smile, then nods, instructing me to get back to coloring. So, that’s what I do. Lowering my head, I concentrate on coloring inside the lines. If I make this picture perfect, then mommy will hang it on the refrigerator. To have my picture hung up on the refrigerator is the highest honor that can be bestowed upon me, but that only happens if the picture is colored perfectly and prettily. Though I know I have to concentrate, I can’t help but listen to their conversation. They are talking about me, after all.
“While kids her age are throwing tantrums, being messy, loud, unclean, and doing all those annoying little things little kids do, your little girl just sits there and colors. You can take her out in public and not be worried she’ll embarrass you.” Mrs. Carol shakes her head and smiles in amazement. “When Derrick and I finally decide to have children, I hope our children are as perfect as your little girl.”
“Thank you, Carol.” My mother brings her hand to her chest, smiling. “Lucian and I have done our best to teach her the best of manners and raise her right.”
“Well, you’re doing a wonderful job.”
Sneaking another look at my mother, I see her smile grow. As her smile brightens, so does mine. I remember our family motto: We must not settle for anything but perfection. That includes my actions, my behavior, and the way I speak. They always tell me that I may only be four, but that doesn’t mean I have to act like a baby. So, I try my best.
My heart becomes full when my mother’s friends notice I’m a well-behaved girl because that makes my mother happy, and that’s all I want to do: make my mother and father happy and proud.
1986
“What is this your mother is telling me?” My father looks at me. In his tone is something I don’t often hear—disappointment.
“I’m sorry, Father.” My voice is small and apologetic. It’s moments like these that I severely dislike. I feel inadequate and like a failure.
“There is no sorry. We don’t lag behind, and we don’t do things that cause our teachers to write notes home to our parents. You’re eight, old enough to behave correctly, not in such a manner that has others talking. Have your mother and I not taught you better?”
“Yes, sir.” My head bows in shame. I should have tried harder. Practiced more. Taken more time instead of playing.
“So what are you going to do?”
“I’m going to practice more until I memorize my songs and can play them perfectly. I do not want Mrs. Patterson writing another note to you and Mother.”
“Good. You know if you don’t memorize your songs and play them well, you will not do well at your recital. Perfect practice makes perfect. Correct?” he reminds me.
“Yes, sir. I know.”
“We can’t have that happening, now, can we?”
“No, sir.” I look up at him.
“And why is that?”
“Because if I don’t stay with my peers, people will talk, and we cannot have that, especially with your position. And a lot of money is being invested in my ability to play music. I cannot go on stage during my recital and embarrass our family.” Most of these points are things I have memorized from the first moment.
“Good. Now, go to your room and practice. Your recital is in a few weeks, and you need all the practice you can get from now until then. Otherwise, your mother will be upset.”
Properly chastised, I rush to my room. Opening my music bag, I take out my books, open them to my songs, and place them on the piano stand. With perfect form, I sit on the bench that is accordingly distanced from the piano and make sure my back is ramrod straight. Selecting my most difficult song, I gently place my fingers over the ivory keys, just like Mrs. Patterson instructed.
Making sure to give each precise beat, I slowly play each section. Once. Twice. Three times. Each time faster than the other until it is near perfect.
Repeating the process with each section I have difficulty with, I finish the song. Then I play the song again, just a bit faster. When I finish, I play the song again and again and again and again. This continues for over an hour, each time the tempo quickens.
If I play an incorrect note, I scold myself and begin all over again.
Because one must not settle for anything less than perfection.