And Why That Makes Me Glad I Homeschooled

I took piano. 

I want to bring attention to my wording. I did not “learn” piano. I took piano.  

When I looked at the sheet music, I saw gibberish. It was another language. It didn’t click. I didn’t get it. 

But more importantly, I didn’t need to get it. 

I had a trick up my sleeve. 

The sweet, naive teacher was unaware that I (age 7) was a little manipulative. I knew that grownups didn’t take me seriously, so I played dumb. 

“Can you play the song for me so I know what it should sound like when I read the sheet music?” 

She would always enthusiastically agree. I would watch her play and then copy what she did. I would stare at the paper. I would pretend to read. I did this without any thought or comprehension of what it said. 

I never did learn how to read sheet music. And that teacher didn’t know until my mom ruined my ploy at the end of 2nd grade. 

“And she’s doing so well reading music!” The teacher exclaimed. 

My mom sold me out. “Yeah, she absolutely does not know how to do that.” 

(Fun fact: I got fired from piano lessons. The teacher didn’t want me as a student anymore because I wasn’t “learning anything.”) 

Later, in the car, my mom told me, “You tricked your teacher.” 

“Well she thinks I’m stupid. Why do I need to learn her way when my way works so well she didn’t even know?” 

Hence my school issues. Similar problems continued much later than second grade, with much bigger topics than piano. 

Eventually, my mom pulled me out. She homeschooled me. Gave me so many classes I couldn’t get bored, let me choose topics I cared about, and find things that interested me. 

Side note: I never “learned piano.” Not in a traditional sense. But I can sit on the bench with my headphones on and play what I hear. I can watch a YouTube video and copy the keys. I can do the same thing with guitar, bass, ukulele, violin, and every instrument I’ve gotten my hands on over the years. There are a million ways to learn and ten times as many different versions of intelligence.  

That doesn’t matter, though. Not to the experts. Not to the traditionalists. I can’t read music. At this point, I’m sure I could learn. 

But I don’t want to. Part of me will always be an angry, stubborn seven-year-old who knows my way is worth something.