Tough Love

There are many times when my parents are impossibly demanding. They lay out expectations that seem unachievable and are often angry at my failure to live up to those expectations. For me, however, when I see my violin, I am reminded that under all this toughness is my parents’ desire to do everything humanly possible to ensure that my future is successful. My violin is the embodiment of this desire. I have come to realize that their willingness to make sacrifices for my future sometimes appears in the guise of unrelentingly and unrealistically high expectations.  

It was August, on the eve of eighth grade, and I was preparing for my first violin audition with a youth orchestra. The weather was unseasonably dry, and the heat overwhelming. Numerous fans ran in unison, filling my house with a loud whirring sound, but doing little to abate the onslaught of heat. I was miserable. Sweat streamed down my forehead, dripping onto my violin like raindrops. My hands were cramped from constantly playing, and my legs strained from standing so long. I had only been practicing for ninety minutes, but it felt as if I had been playing an eternity. To make matters worse, escape was not possible. My steely-eyed, ever-present mother made sure that I stayed on task, eyeing me like a prison guard, carefully watching my every move and providing “feedback” when she deemed it necessary. Sometimes she poked me in the back like a rancher with a cattle prod to ensure I stood straight and held my violin with a proper and dignified posture. All this felt degrading, but the most humiliating "feedback” she offered was counting aloud.  

“One, Two and, one two and,” she yelled, as if I were in another county, although she was right beside me. At this point I cracked.  

“You don’t even play violin. You only play piano!”, I snapped, before trying to make my getaway. My mom, Cossack-like in her resolve to defeat my volition, would have none of it and quickly blocked my escape route with her body.  

“You will finish practicing”, she stated bluntly and with tyrannical authority, unphased by my response. I knew at this point that there was no hope of fleeing this merciless captor. For the next hour I played, while the hard metal strings of the violin viciously assaulted the tips of my delicate fingers, my mother all the while berated me from her vantage as an ever-vigilant sentinel. By the time she was finally satisfied with the quality of my playing, I was utterly exhausted. Calluses that would make sandpaper jealous coated the tips of my fingers, and my tired legs strained like coconut trees in a typhoon. And yet, by the end of this practice session, I was aware of one thing: amid all my pain and suffering, my violin prowess had improved significantly.  

In all her autocracy, my mother was able to whip me into shape for my auditions. As a result of her dedication, I was accepted into my desired orchestra. She tortured, tormented and tongue-lashed me relentlessly, full-well knowing that I would not be grateful in the present. But her seemingly draconian supervision did, in fact, produce stellar results. My mother's dedication to helping me with violin, regardless of whether I understood or appreciated her methods, or whether she knew my blood was boiling, taught me two invaluable lessons. If I dedicate myself to a challenging task untiringly, I will find success. Additionally, and this is perhaps the most indispensable lesson I learned: my mother was motivated by her unconditional love for me and her desire to help me achieve all that I am capable of and more. Putting up with my mother was indeed tough, but the outcome was indeed wondrous. When reflecting on my mother’s efforts, I realize I will forever be grateful in the long run. Love comes in many forms, and sometimes the harshest of insults are the greatest acts of love. My mother is a sheep in wolf’s clothing and now, looking at my violin, I am reminded that I should be forever thankful for her unending devotion and unconditional love.