Friday, April 30, 2021

April Memoirs

 Spring is a great time to get outside and write. It's also a great time to get some of our memories down on paper so that we can preserve them for years to come!  

This month's authors Rong X. and Mackenzie W. preserve the laughter and the tears, and most of all, the lessons learned from both.  Enjoy!


WARNING: Do Not Drink This Cocoa!

“Want me to make you guys some hot chocolate?”

            “Yes please! Our fingers are numb!”

            Only after the offer of hot chocolate did he then walk into the pantry and realize that to his dismay, and ours, we were out of the stir-in mix.

            “That’s alright, we still have the milk!” he gandered, “I think I can easily find a recipe for hot chocolate with just milk and probably some chocolate bars to make it chocolatey?” He gave us a winning smile, but we could all hear the hesitation in his voice.

            He yanked open the fridge door to grab the milk, his outstretched hand grasping only air instead.

            “Okay… so we don’t have any milk…” he said slowly, regretting every word before it even slipped his lips, “But don’t worry! I’ll figure out how to make it from scratch!”

            We sat and waited for several tolling minutes.

            “Come and get it!” An excited voice floated out from the kitchen a few minutes later.

            Snaking my hand through the handle and embracing the mug with my palms, I instantly felt the warmth radiating from within, swimming through my veins. I took in the chocolatey smell that seemed to waft all the way into my brain, and even that gave me enough warmth to make me feel cozier. I couldn’t help but smile a sigh of relief.

Plunking in a few marshmallows and letting them wallow in wait, it looked like the epidemy of the perfect mug of hot cocoa: Marshmallows playing tag in a kiddy pool of chocolaty goodness.

Only then did I squint close into my mug and notice the cloudy, translucent quality of the drink, and what looked like little rocks and pebbles sitting in the bottom. I let my spoon take a dip in the mug and move in a consistent circular motion, swirling my hot cocoa into a tiny tornado. The clouds circled my spoon like a storm, refusing to mix right. What the heck??

            “Dad, what’s in this?”

            “Chocolate chips and boiled water… I know, I know,” he answered as we all glanced at him blankly, “Hey! Don’t look at me like that, we didn’t have anything else, so it was the best I could do!”

Hm, okay. So that ‘delicious’ smell I so joyously inhaled a few minutes prior turned out to be some boiled water and chocolate chips. Yummmm, a sarcastic voice dragged out in my head.

As I looked around it seemed like my siblings all had the same expression on their face as me: Are we supposed to drink this??

Slowly and shakily I brought the mug to my lips. The discolored drink shoved an overwhelming amount of steam into my face making me pinch my eyes closed. Had it been your typical hot cocoa, I would have welcomed the steam with open arms: But this was definitely not your typical hot cocoa, and not by a long shot. I cracked open my mouth just a sliver, allowing the bare minimum of the drink to slip past my lips.

The bland taste seemed overly bland, stabbing my taste buds with its plainness. The chalky texture seemed to cling to my mouth not wanting to let go. A drink famous for having a smile-worthy sweetness, now shown through my eyes, turned infamous for its tastelessness. It’s as if it had been mutated, in my own household, into a flavorless and insipid drink. My throat refused to open up its drawbridge and let the tidal wave of cloudy river pass through. It basically screamed at me: You’re not seriously going to let this poison into your body… are you?!?! None the less, my ten-year-old-chocolate-addict-self pushed it all down into my stomach.

I have little to no memory of what happened in the snow that day, but rather a memory full of gagging down a drink like no other. Ten-year-old me might have poured the drink down the sink without hesitation had she not been craving hot chocolate so much she just had to drink it. It took some time, but now I don’t zero in on the awfulness of that experience.

To this day, it’s funny to watch my dad’s reaction when I bring up his attempt at hot chocolate from scratch. But now I see he took the time to attempt to make something with all the wrong ingredients: And while the hot cocoa train crashed and burned, the memory blossoms and grows fonder every day.

It’s things like that, the little things, that count the most. The little things that I will always remember.

My parents might not even realize the little things: But it’s what they do for me and the sacrifices they make, even the small and subtle, that I will keep folded neatly in my trunk of memories only to look back on and smile about years later. It is these things that truly mean the world to me, even if one of those memories is chalky hot cocoa that I practically forced down my throat.

by Mackenzie W., Grade 9


Artwork by Jacob D., Grade 8


Whoops, Slipped on the Keys!

It has been told to me many, many times: even the best pianists make mistakes during their performances. They just expertly cover up the flaw, so the audience isn’t aware of it. I know for a fact that I am not a part of these “best pianists”, but I do have moments where even I am impressed with how well I covered up the mistake. Nobody in the crowd, besides my parents and my piano teacher, Sylvia, would notice.

            The Sounds of Excellence Concert on April 6, 2019 was not one of those proud moments.

            The day started off amazing (as all infamous days do). I had already found out that I aced the auditions and got into the Sounds of Excellence Concert, so all I had to get through was the concert itself. I’ve already performed in this concert twice, so I really had nothing to worry about.

            Little did I know how rushed I would become. I thought since I was performing third to last, I had all the time I needed. However, I got carried away by the lighthearted and social atmosphere backstage and forgot to practice. Pretty soon, there were only two performers ahead of me, and I only had time to briefly skim through the piece.

            “You sound so good! You are going to be awesome out there!” my best friend Rachel reassured me.  

            I mustered up a nervous smile and wiped my sweaty hands on my dress. “Let’s hope you’re right...”

            A woman, probably in her late 20s, popped in the room. “Rong Xu?” she pointed at me. “You are on deck!”

            Uh oh. I stood up shakily and followed her to the vast area directly behind the stage.

            “The jazz band is currently performing. When they are finished and come backstage, you will then go out on stage, curtsy, and do your thing! You will do great, good luck!” the lady smiled at me and walked out of the room.

            I sat down in the waiting chair and bit the inside of my mouth. I could hear the jazz band finishing up. In just a few seconds, I was going to have to go out onto that stage—

            The crowd clapped and cheered. The jazz band’s performance was over.

            I forced myself not to cry. You’ve done this concert two times already, Rong. I reassured myself for the 50th time that day. You will be fine.

            I took two huge breaths, stood up, and faced my fate. The members of the jazz band that just played jogged past me, a huge smile written on each of their faces.

            Will I be as happy as them after my performance too?

            As I walked out on stage and felt a warm light shining on my face, I looked over at the crowd and spotted my family. I could tell that my parents were just as tense as I was. I moved my eyes down and gulped when I saw my piano teacher.

             I put on the world’s fakest smile and tried my best to curtsy without falling over. I stared at the piano next to me.

            One step. Two steps. Three steps. The expensive Steinway piano was just an arm’s reach away.

            I subconsciously sat down on the seat; the keys of doom right in front of me. I inhaled… and started playing.

            I rapidly scanned through the memorized sheet music in my head and transferred the knowledge to my fingers. My heart was ready to jump out and run away, but I maintained a serene face, extending my fingers to reach all the notes. I had no time to think…the music was going too fast. Sweat coated my fingers, making the keys slippery, but this was common when I performed at recitals. I just needed to make sure that I don’t play a wrong note, because then the whole piece would fall apart.

            As the music rose and dipped, I started feeling the inner pulse of the piece, and the beautiful melody drifted through my ears. Just like how you played at the audition. You can do thi—

            My pinky slipped.

            The world’s ugliest arpeggio came out of the piano.

            I panicked. No, no! This isn’t happening! Soon, all my fingers were playing wrong notes. I was playing everything except what was supposed to be played. Every knowledge of Chopin’s Étude in A flat flew away from my brain.

            The music transformed from a lovely piece of classical music to a horror movie introduction.

            Was that supposed to be a B flat? No! Argh…what is the next note? What am I doing? You messed up at the Kimmel Center! This is a huge concert! Mom and Dad are going to be so mad! Sylvia will never want to teach you again. Such a failure.  I was getting unbelievably frustrated. Even if the audience did not know the piece itself, I knew that they could tell that I made a huge mistake.

            This panic continued for about one minute. Then, for some unspoken, divine reason, I managed to get back on track.

            That feeling of guilt and disappointment never left me. I finished the whole piece with half of the emotion and adrenaline I started with. What was the point of finishing anyway? I had already messed up half the piece. This mistake was unmendable.

            The last chord echoed through the Perelman Theater. The audience started clapping, but I could sense the uncertainty interweaved with every clap. It was the worst feeling.

            I got up from the piano, took a deep breath, and curtsied.

            I tried my best to compose myself while walking off the stage, acting like I didn’t just butcher a whole piece of music. Once I got backstage, I was ready to let it all out, but I remembered: there were still people here. My friends were waiting for me on the other side, not aware that I destroyed my whole performance. I forced the tears back into my eyes and walked out with a shivering smile. Rachel and her older brother, Oliver, ran out of the room where all the other performers were lounging.

            “You did so good!” they exclaimed, smiling as brightly as ever.

            “Yeah, no.” I laughed. I could feel the hot tears welling up again. “I messed up. Badly.”

            Their faces fell. After an awkward two seconds of silence, I flashed a quick smile and walked back to the Green Room.

            When the concert finally ended, everybody walked out to the main lobby and waited for their parents. Every other performer was rejoicing and recalling their performances, while all I wanted was to do was disappear.   

            I shuffled dejectedly up to my parents. My mother even had a bouquet of flowers waiting for me—she thought my performance would be perfect.

            “怎么回事 (What happened)?” she asked.

            I turned my back to everyone in the lobby and starting sobbing, as quietly as I could. “我不知道 (I don’t know)!” I sniffled. “我忘 (I forgot!)!”  

            My father patted my back. “没事. 回家吧(It’s okay. Let’s go home).”

            As upset as I was, deep down inside me, I knew I had learned an invaluable lesson. This was the reality of life: I worked so hard for six months just to perform for eight minutes and to mess up. Even just for a chance at not making a mistake, I needed to work ten times harder. Once I got on that stage and started playing, my fate no longer lied in my hands. All I could do was hope that my hours of practice were not for nothing. Every person goes through this once in their life. It’s the sad truth. I could do nothing about it, and it was no use having a breakdown about something that happened in the past that I could no longer control. I decided to finally let go, to free myself from these chains of disappointment, and to continue facing forward.

            Soft rain pitter-pattered on the car windows. As the Philadelphia cityscape slowly faded away behind us, the remaining guilt and sorrow in my heart diminished along with it.

by Rong X., Grade 9