It had been a while since I cried in class

I had this brilliant plan: in order to get cheap piano lessons, I would join the local music school and put up with the "general musical education" lessons. In the process, I would finally get my official diploma and have cheap piano/singing/violin tuition for evermore and evermore; the end. Straightforward plan, yes?

I have, in the past, had six years of "unofficial" music education, 10 years of violin lessons, and roughly 25 years' worth of choir singing, so I wasn't really expecting any problems. So this evening, I went for an admission test, which also established that, yes, I was fine and good to go. No problems at all, in fact, and I could decide for myself if I wanted to go into the second or third (and final) year.

As is my annoying habit, I was all insecure and thought I wouldn't manage, etc., so before the break I tried the second year class. It was fine. Easy, but fine. Lovely neurotic, reed thin, stiff upper lip teacher (I liked her). Very easy rhythm exercises, easy singing exercises, just-fine theory. Basically, I was not challenged at all. And me being the overachieving teacher's pet that I am, of course I had to go on to the third year class after the break, just to see if that would force me to study more and then shine with my new found knowledge when I put my finger up during the next lesson, shouting "Me, me! Pick me, you lovely teacher, because I studied hard and will now show off to you and my class mates." You get the picture. (Another motivation for moving classes, and to be honest a rather pressing one, was the fact that the teacher had announced recorder practice after the break. Now I have a recorder, but it was lying at home, so the teacher promised to get me a school recorder. To put in my mouth. A recorder that had been touched and blown on by all the smelly school children in the neighbourhood. This was not going to happen. My two options were: change classes or fake my own death.)

So after the break, I stepped into the other class. There I was, expecting some medium difficulty rhythm exercises, or maybe some mildly complicated songs, when the teacher (colourful, buxom, loud) told us to stand up, belted out an African song and told us to repeat it and then improvise variations on the theme. Eh, come again? All the students in fact did stand up and repeat the song, after which they all improvised away for about a hundred repetitions of the original tune. I just stared at them. After a while, I hummed a little half hearted approximation of the tune, but stopped because it just felt so very very alien and scary.

Anyway, after that ordeal we reviewed the song the class had practised before the break - it was fine. Nice and traditional; mildly challenging. Just fine. Then the teacher goes "Everyone take a djembe." - - - I was ready to make a fucking run for it. What did this woman think she was doing? I thought I was in a quiet suburban Belgian town, learning quiet suburban Belgian music, not in some African music workshop. Oh, I was not happy. I was still shaking from the earlier improvisation debacle. No, this was not good.

We started with some very traditional rhythm exercises. Pretty easy and stardard ones, were it not for the fact that we were beating these weird drums instead of clapping our hands. Then we had to make up our own rhythms and play them to the class. My hands were trembling so hard it was pretty hard to stay in time. I did it, but kept apologising for getting it wrong. First time on a djembe, heart palpitation, FEAR!

Then we sang another little song. Hungarian, two voices, some tricky rhythms, but comfortably doable. Only this time I knew - I just knew - that she was lulling me into a false feeling of peace. And sure enough, she pounced with one more repetition of the African song she'd sung at the start, and lots and lots and lots more repetitions and improvisations. Which she accompanied on her djembe, of course. How else? No piano for this woman. When people started to clap along, she told them they were being "too Western" and to clap only on the second and fourth beats. She also told us to "Loosen up! Have fun! Look like like you have fun!" Eh - no. It was not fun. It was torture. I tried to sing along now, quietly, making up some of my own variations, but somehow they all ended up sounding like what the teacher had just sung.

Then the lesson was finished and everyone left the room. I was packing up, in a daze, when the teacher asked me what I thought. I teared up and while I wiped my eyes, I told her

I think I'm "too Western." I don't like improvising while people listen. I felt self-conscious. I didn't come here to play djembe. I came here to learn music theory and to read music better. I don't feel comfortable playing this strange instrument in front of the class. I like my lessons traditional, and calm, and a lot less intrusive. I'm overwhelmed. It made me cry. I couldn't breathe. I was trembling and shaking. I hated it. I can't imagine I'll ever like it.

Also, I think this is exactly what I need and I will come back next week if you don't mind.

Whereas the second year class was slap bang in the middle of my comfort zone, the class I ended up with was so far from my comfort zone, it was "over the hill and far far away" (Babes' words). I can't imagine I'll ever like it. I was told by the teacher to "just stop thinking and let go." I'll try, I will.

Don't you just hate it when you go looking for what you think you want, and then you get ambushed by what you hoped you didn't need, but you really totally do? I hate that.

Thursday nights, I will be improvising African songs and beating a djembe, all the while trying desperately to let go and stop thinking. And I will hate it. Until I don't. (I hope.)