An Example of a Weakness: In Music, Carol Cannot Be Anything She Wants to Be

My mother stands at the sink, her back to me, and says, "You can't be in the band."

"What?" Somehow I've made it to her side. "But Susan Weber is going to play the clarinet."

My mother scrubs a pot, her eyes fixed on the gray dishwater, her forearms slick with spent suds. I can see the constriction in her throat and hear the resulting harshness in her voice. "You got a low score on a musical aptitude test."

I remember that test. Our class had listened to a short series of tones and then been asked to choose which one had changed the second time around: A, B, C, or D? Not even understanding what the word tone meant, I had guessed at every answer. "So?"

"Only one kid got a lower score than you did, Carol, out of both fifth grade classes. So they don't want you in band."

"You mean I can't get a clarinet?"

Mom shakes her head, pressing her lips together.

Trying to take it in, I leave the kitchen, picturing a line of forty-some fifth graders placed in order of musical ability. Because I'm standing next to last in that line, I won't be beside my best friend when she starts band next month?

I don't remember Susan proudly carrying her shiny new instrument into our classroom. I don't remember being left behind, one of the few souls remaining after the mass exodus to the band room. But I do remember this: Mr. Wagner, my first man teacher, contacted my mother and suggested that she provide me with an alternative activity, something that not all fifth graders could do. And thus it was that for the next couple of years my mother took me to Mt Solo Stables on Saturday morning for horseback riding lessons, where Cathy McRae became my buddy in the arena.

No, I never became an Olympic equestrian. And whenever I tell musical people that I was banned from learning an instrument in elementary school, they are appalled. To be sure, no one should be prohibited from making music. And yet, now that I'm familiar with aptitude assessments and not only approve of them but even advocate their use, I don't want to ignore the information they provide.

In my case, I believe my fifth grade test yielded an accurate prediction of my ability. I received an equally low score two decades later on a Tonal Memory aptitude test at Johnson O'Connor. I've also done poorly in any number of informal "tests." Nearly everyone who has ever heard me sing has asked me to stop. Even sweet little Rusty, a severely disabled boy I once babysat, didn't want me to sing "Rubber Ducky" when he took his bath. Shortly after I'd start to croon, his palms would hit the surface of the water, drenching me with spray as he yelled "Pops!" (his version of "Stop!")

Five decades after receiving a rude lesson about one of my weaknesses, here are my thoughts on the matter:

1) Although I myself had been unaware that my musical ability was in the low range, my weakness was obvious to others. If I had been allowed to play the clarinet, I'm confident that my performance would have earned scowls and scorn from my fellow students, which would have been even more excruciating to me than being excluded from band.

2) The school should never have asked my mother to do its dirty work. Instead, an educator should have talked with me privately and explained that even though there were plenty of things I could do well, remembering tones was not one of them. It certainly wasn't my fault, but my low tonal memory would make it painfully slow and laborious for me to learn to play music.

3) My lack of ability limited my options. Although I'd still love to be a singer, it would have been kamikaze crazy for me to pursue a career in music. Of course I could learn and improve, work hard and persevere, but it would take an unrealistic level of outside support for me to succeed. At an early age, I had discovered that no, I could not do whatever I wanted to do.

4) I later learned to play the recorder but lacked the motivation to continue making music with that or any other instrument. Eventually, I came to appreciate that not being musical was a blessing in disguise, in that it gave me more time for a preferred endeavor, one for which I possessed significantly greater talent and passion: reading.