Battle Hymn of the Tiger Mother - Amy Chua [46]
Afterward, when everyone else rushed to congratulate and hug her, I hung back. I didn’t need the clichéd moment where “Sophia’s eyes sought out mine in the crowd.” I just watched my cute little grown-up girl from afar, laughing with her friends, piling up with flowers.
In moments of despair I force myself to relive that memory. My parents and sisters attended, as did Jed’s father, Sy, and his wife, Harriet, and many friends and colleagues. Wei-Yi had come down from New Haven for the performance and was clearly proud of his young pupil. According to Sophia, it was one of the happiest days of her life. I had not only invited her entire grade, I rented a van to transport her schoolmates both ways between New Haven and NewYork. No one applauds as loudly as a bunch of giddy eighth-graders let loose in NewYork—and no one could possibly eat as much shrimp cocktail (which the St. Regis charged for by the piece).
As promised, here’s the ending of Sophia’s essay on “Conquering Juliet”: I didn’t quite understand what was happening until I found myself backstage, petrified, quaking. My hands were cold. I couldn’t remember how my piece started. An old mirror betrayed the contrast between my chalk-white face and my dark gown, and I wondered how many other musicians had stared into that same glass.
Carnegie Hall. It didn’t seem right. This was supposed to be the unattainable goal, the carrot of false hope that would keep me practicing for an entire lifetime. And yet here I was, an eighth-grader, about to play “Juliet as a Young Girl” for the expectant crowd.
I had worked so hard for this. Romeo and Juliet weren’t the only characters I had learned. The sweet, repetitive murmuring that accompanied Juliet was her nurse; the boisterous chords were Romeo’s teasing friends. So much of me was manifested in this piece, in one way or another. At that moment, I realized how much I loved this music.
Performing isn’t easy—in fact, it’s heartbreaking. You spend months, maybe years, mastering a piece; you become a part of it, and it becomes a part of you. Playing for an audience is like giving blood; it leaves you feeling empty and a bit light-headed. And when it’s all over, your piece just isn’t yours anymore.
It was time. I walked out to the piano and bowed. Only the stage was lit, and I couldn’t see the faces of the audience. I said good-bye to Romeo and Juliet, then released them into the darkness.
Sophia’s success energized me, filled me with new dreams. I couldn’t help noticing that the Weill Recital Hall, where Sophia played—while quite charming with its belle epoque arches and symmetrical proportions—was a relatively small venue, located on the third floor of Carnegie Hall. I learned that the much larger, magnificent hall that I’d seen on television, where some of the world’s greatest musicians had played to audiences of nearly three thousand, was called the Isaac Stern Auditorium. I made a mental note that we ought to try to make it there someday.
There were a few shadows on the day. We all felt Florence’s absence, which left a hollowness that couldn’t be filled. It also stung a little that Sophia’s old piano teacher Michelle didn’t come; our move to Wei-Yi had not been taken well, despite our efforts to maintain a relationship. But the worst thing was that Lulu got food poisoning the day of the recital. After practicing her audition pieces all morning with Kiwon, they’d gone to a deli for lunch. Twenty minutes later, Lulu was sick to her stomach, convulsing with pain. She managed to make it through Sophia’s performance before staggering out of the hall; Kiwon took her by taxi back to the hotel. Lulu missed the entire reception, and during the party Jed and I took turns running up