NOVEMBER 12, 1993 GAY PEOPLE'S CHRONICLE 9

PSYCHED OUT

We all need 'piano lessons'

by Mike Radice

After reading about the "Fishbowl" experience in the Chronicle, and getting an earful from some of my acquaintances who attended the session, I got really excited about its potential ramifications. The lid got knocked off one segment of the community, and I had great hope that we would finally begin to dialogue and come together.

As I listened to these people share their experiences around racism, my excitement turned to concern and the hope began to evaporate, as I listened to their self-deprecating language. Many of these people wanted desperately to say things that weren't racist, but weren't exactly sure which word choices might be racist.

Everyone needs some lessons from an expert.

When I was about 11 years old, my parents bought me a used piano. Refusing lessons, I taught myself to play the instrument quite well: well enough to become the accompanist for my junior high school choir (eighth grade, in Westlake). Being an accompanist for the choir, in the 1960s, was a prestigious position. I thought that I'd made it in the music world. While the choir rehearsed the song "The Impossible Dream," from The Man of LaMancha, I experienced difficulty fingering a passage in the accompaniment. The choir director, Mrs. Hutton, left her podium and came over to the piano to instruct me on which fingers to use to play the passage more smoothly. She used numbers to label my fingers. Suddenly my right thumb was labeled “one,” and the pinky became “five.” I tried to fake knowing what she was taking about, but she wasn't fooled. "Why don't you understand what I'm trying to tell you?!" barked Mrs. Hutton.

"I've never had any lessons, and I don't understand what all those numbers mean," I responded, followed by a thousand emotional promises to practice the passage at

home. Unfortunately, my promises whizzed right by her. Mrs. Hutton ordered me off the piano bench and into the bass section, and replaced me with an overly-nyloned straight girl with a broomstick spine and sensible shoes. I was one unhappy little faggot.

I ran home crying, begging my mother for piano lessons.

By my freshman year at Kent State, while majoring in music, I had improved to the point of being the accompanist for music school auditions, solos, private lessons, and even a wedding or two. My fingers moved briskly across the keys, in a graceful dance made possible only by piano lessons and hard work. Prior to the lessons, I thought I'd "arrived" in the Lee Burneson Junior High music world. It took Mrs. Hutton to point out that I still had a long way to go and that I couldn't do it on my own.

I didn't get discouraged or angry. I didn't self-deprecate. I didn't give up. I went directly from the hurt into 200 piano lessons, 20,000 hours of practice, lots of patient persistence, and several humiliating recitals, until I finally made it to a respectable level of performance.

Just as I needed piano lessons, we all need lessons on how to get along and communicate: white and black. The Fishbowl experience was our "Mrs. Hutton." Now it's time for the lessons, hours of practice, and patient persistence. The dance won't begin until we all learn the numbers.

Everyone has value. Everyone is racist. Everyone is homophobic. Everyone is sexist. Everyone needs lessons. The self-deprecating thoughts and speech that resulted from the Fishbowl experience can become psychologically harmful and cancerous to the individual, as well as to our community, if they continue. They need to be replaced with a lot of reasoned knowledge, practice, and persistence by everyone, regardless of color.

SWICKERS

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