Feedback would be great before I begin to send this into colleges.
Prompt is: Topic of your Choice.
During my first piano lesson with Ms. Elena Piastro, a St. Petersburg native, she told me I would have to learn her language. It took me a while to realize that no, this did not mean I should purchase a Russian dictionary. Instead I was to begin to understand the idiosyncrasies of her speech. Although I have been able to easily decipher most of her English, there has been one phrase that I have struggled to make sense of. When I perform a piece, Ms. Piastro always responds with the same words, "My dear you have a Russian soul!" As she continues on, my mind is still stuck on that first phrase. I am flattered, but curious to learn that my Ethiopian exterior houses a Russian being. What exactly is my "Russian soul?"
Lessons are a mixture of workshop and conversation. I am just as excited for detailing the text of Bach as I am for our weekly moment of dialogue. I will be following her lecture on the characteristics of Bach when suddenly I cannot help but ask a question about his life in Germany. Somehow the discussion will find its way to a fact about World War II, then a story about growing up in post-war Russia, and in no time we are back to the eleventh measure of Bach's prelude. When I leave my lessons I am appreciative of the work we have accomplished. Even more so, I am amazed at how the discussions and opinions of an elderly Russian immigrant and a young African-American female can still mesh. Although I take piano lessons to learn the art, I will admit that my anticipation for Wednesday nights sprouts from these conversations.
When I play piano, I indulge in the moments of music that make me smile on the outside and soar on the inside. My fingers hit the keys and I am in a state of bliss. The only thing that can bring me back down to earth is the last measure of music. It is when I am overflowing with this breathless satisfaction that I understand Ms. Piastro's language. My "Russian soul" describes the level at which we relate. Around the same time that I first made this discovery, Ms. Piastro advised me to pursue a major in music. In reply, out spilled my aspirations for a career in public health; how I wanted to participate in health policy and enact health initiatives throughout the world. She then affirmed, "If you love music, you won't be able to stop." That sincerity is what has me aiming to attain a degree in music along with one in community health.
I am slowly beginning to realize that when I leave for college there is nothing I will miss more, other than family and a few friends, than Wednesday night piano lessons. Through the past few years I have not only gained knowledge in music, but also an outlet for my interest in history, a cultural understanding, and a new friend. Perhaps my "Russian soul" is the result of my own openness. My soul cannot possibly represent a single viewpoint. It holds the concerns of a girl raised by an immigrant father and African American mother in the Minnesota suburbs. But it is not solely defined by these experiences. My soul expands through the conversations with those around me. It allows me to indulge in whatever I am doing and relate it to whomever I am doing it with.
Prompt is: Topic of your Choice.
During my first piano lesson with Ms. Elena Piastro, a St. Petersburg native, she told me I would have to learn her language. It took me a while to realize that no, this did not mean I should purchase a Russian dictionary. Instead I was to begin to understand the idiosyncrasies of her speech. Although I have been able to easily decipher most of her English, there has been one phrase that I have struggled to make sense of. When I perform a piece, Ms. Piastro always responds with the same words, "My dear you have a Russian soul!" As she continues on, my mind is still stuck on that first phrase. I am flattered, but curious to learn that my Ethiopian exterior houses a Russian being. What exactly is my "Russian soul?"
Lessons are a mixture of workshop and conversation. I am just as excited for detailing the text of Bach as I am for our weekly moment of dialogue. I will be following her lecture on the characteristics of Bach when suddenly I cannot help but ask a question about his life in Germany. Somehow the discussion will find its way to a fact about World War II, then a story about growing up in post-war Russia, and in no time we are back to the eleventh measure of Bach's prelude. When I leave my lessons I am appreciative of the work we have accomplished. Even more so, I am amazed at how the discussions and opinions of an elderly Russian immigrant and a young African-American female can still mesh. Although I take piano lessons to learn the art, I will admit that my anticipation for Wednesday nights sprouts from these conversations.
When I play piano, I indulge in the moments of music that make me smile on the outside and soar on the inside. My fingers hit the keys and I am in a state of bliss. The only thing that can bring me back down to earth is the last measure of music. It is when I am overflowing with this breathless satisfaction that I understand Ms. Piastro's language. My "Russian soul" describes the level at which we relate. Around the same time that I first made this discovery, Ms. Piastro advised me to pursue a major in music. In reply, out spilled my aspirations for a career in public health; how I wanted to participate in health policy and enact health initiatives throughout the world. She then affirmed, "If you love music, you won't be able to stop." That sincerity is what has me aiming to attain a degree in music along with one in community health.
I am slowly beginning to realize that when I leave for college there is nothing I will miss more, other than family and a few friends, than Wednesday night piano lessons. Through the past few years I have not only gained knowledge in music, but also an outlet for my interest in history, a cultural understanding, and a new friend. Perhaps my "Russian soul" is the result of my own openness. My soul cannot possibly represent a single viewpoint. It holds the concerns of a girl raised by an immigrant father and African American mother in the Minnesota suburbs. But it is not solely defined by these experiences. My soul expands through the conversations with those around me. It allows me to indulge in whatever I am doing and relate it to whomever I am doing it with.
