Her foot long, mini braids whipped like two dozen pendulums out of control as thirteen-year-old Cassandra Esther Bernice Jones darted across the intersection. If you blinked her sleek, naturally tanned silhouette melted into the shadows of the graffiti of each building she passed. Occasionally, the long, tapered fingers of her right hand brushed aside the rainbow of beads which both activated and guarded her braided bangs.
Half of her relatives–on her mother’s side–boasted that Cassi’ lean build was the reincarnation of Grandma Telly. The other half–dad’s crew–insisted that Cassi was a miniature model of Big Mama Bertha. My own opinion is cast for Big Mama, whose musical genius had mesmerized more than one young mind, not to mention, Cassi’ heart. “When God gives your kind of talent, girl, you gotta do everything in your power to develop it”. It cost the women in this family a lot of sleepless nights and worn knees from praying. Praying for you, Baby Girl. Knowing that God chose you for greatness.” Cassi’s daydreaming was interrupted by her cell ring tone. She let it go to voicemail. She would have to deal with Mr. Jackson, her piano teacher, soon enough.
Scrapbook photos spat out the haunting similarity between three generations of delicately sculptured, yet strong, hands. The striking contrast of brown tones against the cream colored, ivory keys of a reconstructed Steinway was remarkable. These were “equal opportunity” brown hands which played sonatas as skillfully as jazz pieces. These were brown hands that any young, budding musician would be proud to have.
Of course, Cassi was a free spirit. She loved these hands because they allowed her to just barely squeeze through the opening of the pickle jar to claim the last one before her brother. And her friends appreciated the fact that she was the only one in the neighborhood who could slide her hands through the bars and slip open the latch on the playground gate. This feat, however, did not endear Cassi–or her hands–to the playground monitors who seemed quite flustered when the barrage of unwieldy youngsters swarmed through the fence without notice. Today, Cassi narrowly escaped being hauled off by the label of her “I Was Born Special” T-shirt. She chose to haul herself out the back entrance before the adults realized that she was the instigator. When you’re good, you’re good. Another call from Mr. Jackson.
Perspiration trickled down Cassi’s forehead into her eyes–temporarily blinding her as she finally arrived at her destination. It was close, but her watch beeped with twenty-five seconds to spare. Mr. Jackson did not approve of tardiness. A mere couple of minutes on the wrong side of her 4:30 lesson could positively cancel out the joy of a good week of practicing. Cassi couldn’t exactly put her finger on what dampened the mood. He was a man of few words, but she got goosebumps just thinking about the last time she was late for her lesson. She vowed to put aside her differences with Schmitt–the major difference being that his exercises were boring. Cassi just wanted to play Chopin and Beethoven, Mary Lou Williams, and so many more. “I’m not getting any younger,” she remarked. “I’ll be in high school this fall.”
“Schmitt’s momma probably forced him to play piano when he really just wanted to play right field,” Cassi muttered as she sort-of-accidentally dropped his book of preparatory exercises. His music teacher must have secretly hated kids, Cassi surmised. Her smirk transformed into devilish glee as Cassi lifted her left foot, motioning the destruction of the first 211 exercises. She would rip them to shreds and stomp out any semblance of music from the tattered pages. Then, as a finishing touch, she would bury the remains behind the old, abandoned shed in her backyard where they would never again torture another aspiring musician.
“Ouch. Cassi wailed. She was so immersed in her fantasy, she stumped her big toe, and the pain was pounding out its own melody. She really was late, now. Before she could compose herself or a plausible excuse, Cassi felt the entire six-foot, three-inch presence of Mr. Jackson at the top of the landing. She fought to gather her thoughts. “I, I, er, uh, it…then…sorry,” she stammered, expecting to incur his full wrath. She didn’t dare confront him eyeball to eyeball. The tears that began flowing became indistinguishable from the salty sweat now soaking the word “SPECIAL” on her shirt. Cassi was certain that this word would be permanently washed away as her punishment for being a fraud. At that moment, she would stand in front of almighty God, Mr. Jackson, Big Mama, and the entire neighborhood, naked in her deception. With her luck, her toe would fall off, roll down the street, be run over by a semi-truck, and be lost forever.
The lesser—but no less painful penalty–would be the permanent loss of her mentor’s respect. Now sobbing uncontrollably, Cassi turned to leave, gathering the remains of her pride. She fully expected to be banned from ever walking the hallowed halls of this building again. Her entire body would slink into the shame of failure, with only her legacy and Schmitt as companions.
The rain that had begun to fall would set a steady rhythm for the walk that would mark the death of a family heritage. Cassi almost forgot to limp as she began her descent. One moment of foolishness. One misguided act. She was still just a kid. But Mr. Jackson had practically caught her in the act. She stiffened as she heard her name called. Mr. Jackson’s voice was soft but stern. “We have a lot to cover this week. You know I don’t like to start lessons late and we will need to discuss a few things. We’ll begin our lesson with Schmitt.” Cassi smiled. She never imagined that Schmitt and relief would be linked for any reason. Her mini braids fell back into their dignified stations and her long, tapered fingers brushed aside both the rainbow of beads and a lingering tear.
How Cassi got to the piano bench is a blur. With all the drama, she hadn’t noticed the envelope propped against the music stand of the Finally, Mr. Jackson removed the letter and began reading, “We are pleased to inform you that your student, Cassandra E. Barnes has been selected from over 1500 entries to participate in JSM Summer Master Classes. As you know, this honor is reserved for the top piano students from the US and across the globe.”
Cassi must have gotten home on autopilot. Streetlights must have reprogrammed themselves to be green when she reached the intersection. She couldn’t recall what exercises or pieces she played during her lesson. But, from that day, she never complained about the drudgery of preparing to be a woman of excellence. The saying on her next T-shirt read, “Special Because GOD and Big Mama Bertha Said So”!
The excitement she brought to her concerts grew to become more and more contagious as she toured the country. And Cassi never approached the pianos in the concert halls without bringing the tattered cover from the Schmitt Exercise Book of her childhood. She often thought of Mr. Jackson and how proud he was of her accomplishments. Big Momma followed Cassi’s journey and became quite proficient at using a cell phone for critiquing every concert performance. Cassi pretended to be annoyed, but secretly cherished every comment. The love between them was undeniable and so was Cassi’s joy as she dreamed of the day when she would pass the family legacy of music to another generation.