Please don’t laugh at me.
A Two Gunnin’ Treatise on Humiliation

A friend recently urged me to recount to them my most humiliating moment ever. When I began to think about it, I mean really think about it, my mind was flooded with competing moments that I could apparently no longer suppress. In fact, I found the sheer quantity of stories rushing back to haunt me more disturbing than the stories themselves.

When I began to sift through the mortifying mélange of emotions, I realized that almost all of my stories revolved around my early musical career (or lack thereof). Fortunately, many of my recollections had to do with flatulence or ‘truth or dare’ sessions or Montezuma’s Revenge (the game, not the affliction), as all good “most humiliating moment” stories should. But my truly crushing moments brought me deep down into my gut, to a place almost too shameful and awkward to relive.  And they ALL had to do with musical instruments.

I’m hoping this article may help serve as a bit of a catharsis for some of you…a shoulder to cry on, as it were.  For those of you who’ve had similar experiences, it may just help to know that you’re not alone. So banish that guilt, indulge in that dishonor, abandon that responsibility and shed that pain. Comrades: Ahoy, it’s time to heal! 

I suppose when I embarked on my journey across the path of lifelong humiliation, in order to find that one defining moment that would forever haunt me, I had to traverse smaller baby step hurdles to get there. And for me, although the instruments got smaller, the hurdles definitely got bigger.

The piano: I wasn’t bad at the piano. Let me rephrase that: I wasn’t bad at my kind of piano.  You see, I was only interested in playing Boogie Woogie or Buddy Holly songs. My piano teacher hated it. She wanted me to play classical music, like all the other 12 year-old piano prodigies/blandies/snot-nosed tattle tales.  The fact that I never practiced also seemed to be a considerable problem for her. Finally, after many years of piano, my teacher actually had the audacity to ask me to “quit.”  Imagine the humiliation that I felt having to go and explain to my mother that I could no longer play piano because Mrs. Switten wouldn’t let me come anymore.  That my teacher would not even let me pay her money to teach me!

And it only got worse from there.

The Violin: I was so bad at the violin that my parents wouldn’t even let me practice. A now mature aspiring young musician, after my harrowing piano experience, I finally realized that it was a waste of my time and money not to practice.  Sadly, however, even the faint hiss of me locked in the basement practicing with the doors shut was too much for my parents to handle. So, again, I had to resort to practicing only during my lessons.  I had decided that in order to become masterful at the violin, I would learn the Suzuki method. So I purchased the book, the record, the lessons and rented the violin. The Suzuki people assigned me to a teacher – and I’m not sure whether it was my karmic musical retribution or the fact that she was in my district, but the teacher who was assigned to me made my piano teacher look like the Easter Bunny. I would come in each week for my lesson and even if my nails were perfectly manicured, my teacher would take my left hand and chop the wanton imperfection out of each nail. And she would simply cut it straight on, not three cuts to each nail, just one – straight across – so that I would cut myself every time I swung my arm until I made it home to repair the damage. Her name was Mrs. Weiss – pronounced “Veiss” and I was convinced that she hated me because I was Jewish. I realize now that I was being harsh and somewhat insulting, but her extreme and pointed German countenance, militant gesticulations and faint mustache caused me to speculate. She was the she-devil incarnate as far as I was concerned and she made me hate the violin.

Because I either didn’t have it in me or simply didn’t practice, I was stuck for months and months learning to play Twinkle Twinkle Little Star in Eight Variations. I think it took me about eight weeks to learn each variation. So when my first ever violin recital date approached, I had been playing for almost an entire year and had nothing but several different yet all equally pathetic versions of a song that most people find too annoying to even sing to their children to show for it.

The violin recital: The pinnacle of my humiliation vocation. I was scheduled to appear in the Seattle Suzuki Violin School’s 1985 violin recital – and of course, I was set to play first because I was the worst. I remember that the days leading up to my unveiling were grueling and panicky at best. And when the big day finally came, I was a disaster.  To make matters worse, the Two Gun Mathilda family was notoriously late for everything and when we finally gathered the four of us together, we were a good 20 minutes behind schedule. Apparently the anxiety and delay weren’t enough; when we finally arrived at the recital hall half an hour late, I realized after interrogating each member of my family, that I had forgotten my freaking violin. Who, pray tell, forgets to bring their goddamn violin to a violin recital!?  While Pappy Mathilda drove back home to retrieve the neglected instrument, I sheepishly followed Mammy Mathilda and Brother Mathilda into the recital hall to face my shame. Mammy found Mrs. Weiss, and discretely explained to her the situation. Not only was Mrs. Weiss not worried at all about the fact that we were, at that point, 40 minutes late, (she was probably hoping that my hands had been wounded in a car accident), but she found the state of affairs quite humorous indeed.  She proceeded to get up in front of the full house (probably around 100 people) to explain to them that, “Two Gun Mathilda [names have been changed to protect the innocent.. –Sic] was going to play first today, however she forgot her violin.” The room exploded into laughter. My brother, exploiting his opportunity to be in the spotlight, started pointing to me and laughing, so that everyone would know who this blatant ignoramus was.

The day grew worse and worse. My Pappy finally brought the violin back to me, and I ended up having to play at the very end of the recital – after all the Suzuki virtuosos.  And I can firmly verify that Twinkle Twinkle Little Star in Eight Variations sounds, well, there’s really no word for it, after a violin concerto by Mozart.

Later that year, after my nerves had calmed down enough for me to buy Motley Crue’s Theater of Pain album, my 3^rd grade teacher set up a mini-classroom recital for my peers. I was supposed to play violin with my friend Caroline in front of our class. In 3^rd grade, it really didn’t much matter how good we were at our instruments, (although Caroline was much better than me) the simple fact that we had learned to play anything on them was impressive enough. Unfortunately, when the time came to showcase our harmonious wisdom, I went into my violin case to find none other than my stuffed animals rammed inside.  The class laughed at me and my distorted stuffed monkey with the Velcro hands scowled at me.  Later I learned that my brother was the man behind the plan – and he ended up having to drive home with our teacher to retrieve my hidden violin, then make a public apology to my class.  It was at that point that I knew fate was trying to tell me something. 

Thank goodness for Motley Crue. My interest in the violin gradually dwindled as my love for Vince Neil blossomed.  It was years before I had the nerve to even consider picking up another instrument.

As I aged, I tried my hand at a few other instruments, but to no avail. The drums proved to be too loud – and they required coordination, of which I had none. The bass was too “funky” for my frame of reference.  And my voice sucked.  My friends and I even put together a band Freshman year of college - ‘Gerfilte Bitch.’ We never made it big.

I’m not sure when the precise turnaround took place, but after a certain period I developed a new sense of confidence.  Some might call it a flagrant disregard for any musical convention, but not me.  I like to think that I began to build confidence in myself. No more fascist dictators, no more whiners – just me.  An aspiring young musician with a snap to her step and a pitch pipe in her hand!

I even graduated to member-status in “Little Mammy’s Grits N’ Liquor” Senior year of college.  We were a real, live, honest-to-goodness jug band and I was their Jews harpist and comb-player. And let me tell you, I was good…damn good. After that I just kept getting stronger and stronger. And the horrible affliction known as humiliation began to gradually disintegrate.

I have now been playing the 4-string Plectrum banjo (early jazz from the 1920s and 1930s) for an entire year now!  This Winter I’ll be embarking on what I have branded, “Two Gun Mathilda’s Rock-togenarian Banjo Tour.” I will be touring nursing homes around the Tri-state area to banjo it up with jazz and cowboy tunes for the elderly crowd.  There will be tour t-shirts sold, with nursing homes and tour dates listed down the back…check out http://www.twogunmathilda.com for more details coming soon!

A photograph of the author as a child…and very bad musician: