Alligator tears crashed on to the old ivory keys as I failed yet again to play the insignificant song. The sharps became naturals on the black and white page and out of the corner of my eye, my teacher’s face became more and more like mangled tissue paper with every flat note. I was distraught, tired, and as the bubble of hatred that had been building in my stomach popped, I knew that I hated my piano teacher.

Before moving into my neighborhood I was blessed with the most amazing teacher. She was cheerful and compassionate, and one of the most talented people I will ever meet. Not only could she make me feel like I was the next Mozart, but she had a way of loving her students more than herself. After leaving her with much unwillingness, my family searched everywhere for someone that could even remotely live up to her standards. We resulted in trial and error, which is where my neighbor Mrs. Jacobson comes in.

Sylvia Jacobson was a very pompous person, although it didn’t seem like it at first. She was short, with curly brown hair, a fake wrinkly smile, and a mousey high voice, which, to me, was a professor Umbridge reality. As word got around that we needed piano lessons, she told us with a strange gleam in her beady little eyes that she would be simply delighted to teach us, and understood that she was only going to be with us until we found someone else. As lessons began, she seemed like a sweet piece of candy: like something that we needed. She gave us challenges, we were improving, and everything was going fine. But after a few weeks, things began to change.

Mrs. Jacobson began to make odd rude remarks that seemed out of place coming from a grown woman. It was almost as if she didn’t know what she said could actually hurt my feelings. Implying that I wasn’t very smart or I wasn’t doing a very good job was just the beginning. I trampled through the door after every lesson with a dark look in my eye, ranting on and on to whoever would listen about how very upset and frustrated I was. It felt like middle school drama, but with an old woman who was teaching me piano.

During one of my lessons, after I had put up with her for what seemed like an eternity, my wall finally came crumbling down. While playing a song, which I hadn’t practiced, very, very poorly she stopped me and said something that still boggles my mind. In a very brat-like voice she remarked, “You don’t know the key of A? That’s sad.” I continued to play, but as note after note came out worse than before, tears came rolling down my cheeks, silently but surely. She stopped me and in a nice, “innocent” voice asked me if I was crying because of something she did. I was as polite as I could be and answered no, but in my mind I was strangling her neck and screaming, “YES!! YOU FOOL!” But sadly, my fantasy couldn’t be a reality. We soon quit her lessons after almost the same things happened to my sisters.

Despite the fact that I may not have enjoyed this experience, I can still look back and see something better than it was. Although it was hard, I was able to look pass Mrs. Jacobson’s differences, even if she might have hurt my feelings when my emotions were at the peak of insanity. It is inevitable that life is going to be full of bad experiences and bad people, but why sulk around in animosity and negative energy when we could love instead?