The Rice And Wrongs: A Little Lesson On Being Thankful, Giving Back

Story by Dan Nguyen 

| Published Nov 25, 2008

Do you know what it’s like to live in constant fear? 

I do. 

I've lived more days in anguish than the days my dog has spent awaiting a painful poop after eating floss, which is numerous.

Even when I was little, I wouldn’t flush, fearing an evil witch would arise from the swirling depths of the toilet. 

I’d run up my stairs as fast as I could so that the devil couldn’t catch me from the chambers of hell.  I’d wet my own bed, not by accident, but because the torment of leaving my cradle to confront the darkness of my hallway leading to my bathroom was unbearable.

That’s right, I would stand on top my bed, wiener in hand, and pee a golden arch of pure pathetic failure, fully aware of its wrong doing.

The greatest shame came from having to play it off to my parents as if it was all just another developmental mishap.  Whether they believed me or not, I don’t know.

When I got a little older and matured a bit, my fears did the same.  Performing at baseball, football, and soccer games, talking to girls, excelling in grade-reports, parent-teacher conferences; they all scared the living shit out of me. 

Even piano lessons made me sweat. Not the recitals or prep-jazz band try-outs, but the lessons -- especially the lessons. 

Every Monday my grandma picked me up from school and two hours of shitting bricks ensued.  It was fear of the “hear-say.” 

That my piano teacher would listen to my lumbering fingers, and even if I had spent every waking hour practicing my scales, she would look at my grandmother and say, “He hasn’t been practicing much.”

My grandmother, would gently whisper words of advice.

“It would be greatly appreciated if you practiced a bit more this week,” she’d say. 

This was the only reason I took lessons. Her kind, gentle words peirced like knives into my heart, forcing me to play what I felt was a very “uncool” instrument. And as I grew older my grandmother stayed with me. 

My grandmother, a bohemian woman who was not related to me by blood, or even paper, whispered gentle words of advice, made my favorite foods and loved me with every part of her heart.

By college decision time, my fear turned into uncertainty. 

Uncertainty of my future, how much my parents would spend on my college education, who my friends would be, what my potential was.

Now in my third year of college, and pieces of my puzzle set in place forever my fear is greater than ever. It’s no longer the uncertainty that drives me mad. The fear I have now is much more than what I could ever say in this column.

I’m scared that as capable as I become, as influential and essential to society I turn out to be, I will not be able to give back what has been given to me.
 
The task at hand -- to give to those who have given to me -- will consume the rest of my days, and I know I will still fail miserably.

Before my grandmother passed away, her disease had taken her eyesight. She lived her last few years in fear of darkness and uncertainty, much like I had growing up. I had stopped taking piano lessons and no longer needed her gentle whispers forcing me to.

A few weeks before she finally left, I sat down next to her on a piano bench ready to play one of her favorite pieces. 

I couldn’t believe it, I was still scared. 

Here I was, a college student way past my adolescence, and I was scared shitless of making a musical mishap in front of my grandmother.

When I began to play my fingers tightened up, and the beautiful music I had hoped to play for my ailing grandmother was nothing more than mediocre. Yet, my grandma -- blind and tired -- moved to my music with her body, or her soul.

I can’t remember because as I traveled farther into my piano piece, I no longer cared about anything. I was no longer scared, or afraid of the uncertainty of whether or not my hands would strike the next correct note. 

I closed my eyes and joined my grandma in the unbearable dark. Together we enjoyed the stumbling of my less than perfect fingers.

I don’t know how she did it, but as the last note resonated, she saw my smile on my face. And she gently whispered “perfect.”

This Thanksgiving I am thankful for the gift of music. A gift given to me by my grandmother, and one I will enjoy for the rest of my life. 


Happy Holidays,


Dan Nguyen