5/25/2011

Seattle 157, or The Homeless Shelter Piano

One of the shelters I work at is called Chrysalis* . It houses a dozen young people from 18-21 years old. They are allowed to stay up to six months before finding other housing. It is the only shelter around that allows its residents to have drug problems; in the other shelters, people are kicked out for using drugs. Chrysalis philosophy argues that living on the streets is no way to kick a drug habit; one must first feel safe and stable before attempting something that hard.

In the corner of the Chrysalis dining room sits a bedraggled piano. It is an older upright, high as my shoulder, with no brand name in sight. Half the keys stick. It is so far out of tune it's nearly painful. Someone, years ago, took a permanent marker and wrote the names of each note on the keys, so it looks like a mouth full of alphabet. On top sits a giant houseplant and piles of forgotten papers.

But two days ago, on the evening shift, I heard someone playing. The music rolled, taking familiar tunes and spilling them into syncopated riffs. I heard the theme from "Fur Elise" turned into a river of jazz. Remembering how much it embarrassed me when my mother acknowledged my playing when I was young, I listened from behind the office door for maybe twenty minutes before sticking my head out. They player was one of the residents, often sent to his room for being intoxicated. He played with his eyes closed, occasionally squinting one open to examine a chord.

"That sounds beautiful," I called during a lull. He opened his eyes and spoke slowly.

"Yeah? You think so?"

"I know so," I said. "I really love hearing you play. Where'd you learn?"

He shrugged. "Taught myself. Played drums for awhile, learned how to read drum music, but everything else is just me."

I was stunned. I played piano for eleven years and took college-level music theory. The kid had talent - he had an innate sense for putting sounds together that made musical sense. I could hear the rudiments of composition in his work. Plus, it sounded damn good.

"You don't know how to read music?"

"No. Wanted to learn though."

"I'll teach you," I said immediately. His face brightened. "Really?"

"Yeah. Right now. You have time?"

"Hell yeah!"

I printed out a simple piece of music, and a sheet of staff paper from the internet. I labeled each note and asked him to label each note in the piece I'd given him. We completed one line together, and then I asked him to play it. Having the names of the notes written on the keys helped. He asked me how I learned to play without looking at my hands; I told him of an old piano teacher who used to keep a finger under my chin so I couldn't look down.

I figured if he was serious about learning, he might be willing to do some work on his own.

"Finish the rest of the piece," I told him. "I'll be back again in two days; show me what you've finished by then."

This morning, I walked in and he was waiting for me, homework in hand. "I looked up some stuff on the internet about chords," he said. "Can you show me how to do that?"

I looked at the piece of paper he'd painstakingly copied down. It was a list of formulas - major chords, minor chords, diminished, augmented, and sustained. I'd forgotten half these terms, but they came back quickly.

"Sure," I said. "Let's begin with the major scale." I gave him the formula for figuring out any major scale - whole-whole-half-whole-whole-whole-half. He followed my lead - A major, F major, B-flat major. It didn't take him more than a few tries to figure out each one. Once he'd done that, we worked on building chords. I was exhilarated.

But he was frustrated. "Look at this," he complained. He'd tried to play a scale, and four of the seven keys had stuck. "How am I supposed to play if they keep sticking?"

I didn't have an answer, but it was time for our lesson to end anyway. I told him to keep practicing, and working on the piece we'd done the first week. Once he was gone, I slipped into the office and started searching the internet for piano tuners in Seattle. I called the very first one I found, told her the story, and she said she just happened to have a free appointment the following morning and she'd be glad to come donate some of her skills and time to help us out.

"I can't promise I'll fix everything," she warned, "but I should be able to leave it in better shape than I found it."

I won't be there tomorrow when she arrives, but I can't wait for our next lesson - or to see his face when he sits down and realizes someone fixed the piano.

This kind of stuff doesn't just make my day - it makes my year. It is why I do this.