From Barely Coping to Almost Hoping

June 15, 2018 by Esther Shim in Narrative, Community

(Disclaimer #1 My thoughts on depression, anxiety, and coping are based on my own experiences and observations. They are in no way clinical facts nor a suggestion on how to handle your own depression. Please reach out to counselors, therapists, friends, and family.)

(Disclaimer #2 I have no idea how this post is going to be organized. The perfectionist in me is super anxious about not having any idea how this will flow but if I wait to be organized, this will never be written. I thank you for your patience as you follow my many trains of thought)

I'm a sharer. I like to share. As an only child, I grew up wishing for someone, anyone to share with. Okay, so I know now that I wouldn't have been quite so good at sharing as I thought I would be when I was 9 but, when it comes down to it, I do get a great deal of satisfaction from sharing- whether it is time, resources, or just my opinion.

But sharing that I've struggled with the feeling that I wasn't needed in the world, or that I was never going to be good enough to make a difference, or that no one loved me is never something I wanted or intended to do. I have spent my entire life attempting to convince my community that I am confident and strong, that I am an imperative cog in the wheel, that I am mature enough to teach and guide children, that I am someone who can be a role model... yet the truth is that I feel that I've spent most of my life living like a fraud.

I didn't have what I considered a happy childhood. A lot of it was cultural. My parents never told me they loved me. This was completely normal for them growing up 50 years ago on the Korean peninsula but I heard my friends' parents tell them "I love you" all the time and I was convinced my parents just didn't love me. I knew that I was hit more frequently and harder than my peers. Again, this was the method with which my mother was raised but all I could see was that my friends weren't their parents' punching bag. I think that as a child of immigrants, I felt extra pressure to show that my parents were like other parents- I didn't need them to be perfect, I just didn't feel like my mom keeping me at home from a school orchestra concert due to a bad grade was a good reflection of a "normal" mom's reaction- and a "normal" mom was all I wanted.

So I didn't talk about this with anyone. Think about this for a second- by the time I had reached my twenties, I felt unloved and unwanted by my own parents but I didn't feel I could discuss this with anyone because admitting the shame of being such a disappointment that I was unwanted was worse than the black hole of depression I was digging myself into.

Through many therapy sessions and unofficial counseling with friends over many a bottle of wine, I've come to several realizations about my youth:

My parents, especially my mother, did the best they could with the experiences that they had.
I am a stronger person today as a result of the battles I faced growing up.
My upbringing was so much more privileged than so many other kids around the country and around the world.
Even though #3 is true, my frustrations with my childhood are still valid.

You would think that #1 would be the hardest to come to terms with but #4 is actually still the most challenging. See, I spent most of my life angry at my mom/parents and accepting that they did their best felt like I needed to forget about any resentment and not let my childhood affect me. The thing is, they're called your formative years for a reason. One can't NOT let the first 20 years of life affect the rest of the years that follow. I was raised to keep quiet, not emote, and not share anything more than necessary. But as I sit here writing an unsolicited post about my feelings on a platform for all to see, we can see just how submissive I turned out to be.

Now, this post isn't supposed to be about my childhood. I could do a whole series on the cultural struggles of raising children as immigrants, or being the child of immigrants. But right now, I need to set up how my years 1-21 affected the ones after. I think that this would be a good time to throw in that I have taken my parents to counselling sessions with me. I have sat them down to have conversations about times in my life where I felt undervalued and not accepted. For any readers who may have contact with my parents, I especially ask that you don't bring this up with them. It has been brought up. The funny thing is that many moments that I remember so clearly as signs of refusal from my mom are completely wiped from her memory. She doesn't remember hitting me or kicking me out. At all. And I've chosen to be okay with that. You see, the goal here isn't to exact revenge; I don't necessarily want my parents to feel bad. I just need to feel better. And my emotions, my happiness, is the only happiness over which I have complete control.

I recently had a conversation with a fellow musician in town whom I had run into before, although I couldn't place her precisely. She mentioned to me that she was pretty sure we had music-ed together before in a chamber music setting, which basically implied I should remember her. She remarked that it was probably around 5 or 6 years ago and I looked at her and joked, "well, I've blocked out about 4 years of my life there so it's probably my fault." She looked at me kindly and simply responded, "I'm sorry to hear that. You must have been really sad. Our minds do that to protect ourselves. I'm glad you're better now."

WHAT?!? I felt a physical blow to my chest. I spent the following rehearsal in shock. This woman, whom I don't even remember meeting during my depressed haze, had noticed something that I had hidden from my closest friends and even from myself. I had noted to people in my life how I had blocked out a good 4 years of my life many times but no one had connected it to my depression. If there was one event that made me want to improve my mental health, it was Danny's death (see previous post). But if there was one event that convinced me that I needed to share my story, it was her calm remarks to me that day.

Potential trigger warning. If reading about people's thoughts on taking their own life may be detrimental to you, please skip down past the next dividing line.

Growing up with a nurse as a mom meant that I was constantly being reminded the extent of what the human body can handle. When I complained about being thirsty, I was reminded of how long we can go without water. Same thing with food. If I felt sick, she would tell me to go make myself throw up. I knew in my dramatic teenage brain that if I wanted to make a statement, that it would have to be big. I never cut myself but I had seen my mom accidentally cut herself while cooking enough to know that, when the time came, which knife would cause the most damage. And I had read enough to know that wrists wouldn't get me anywhere. So I was going to go for the neck. I had a high pain tolerance and I knew that I would be able to take it.

So I wrote my letters. I didn't have a lot to write. Mostly teachers, grandparents, and a few friends. But when and where were still elusive to me. Here's the one thing you need to know about me: my compulsion to support, please, and not burden others is a driving force in my life. I will go very far out of my way to make sure that I've done what I feel is my duty in helping someone else. So I couldn't pick a place because I didn't want to leave a mess to be cleaned up. If I had been such a burden in life, how was it fair for me to be a burden in death? And I couldn't pick when because there was no time at which I didn't have a performance coming up. It would be so inconvenient for the people left behind if I wasn't there to fulfill my responsibility and I couldn't live (or die.. sorry, too soon?) knowing that if I just left the world, people would have to scramble to make up for the job(s) I had dropped.

If you have ever questioned my commitment to kids' orchestra programs, it is because they literally saved my life. I felt necessary there. I felt like I was making a difference and that I was both seen and appreciated. When I apologize to old orchestra friends now for having an ego or being a bit bossy back in high school about music, what I'm really saying is, "Thank you for giving me a chance to make something of myself in this world... thank you for giving me a reason to live."

So, I never followed through in taking my life.

I tried, instead, to blame my environment for my unhappiness and moved to Indiana for school. I assumed that if I just got away that all my troubles would be behind me. It took me another 3 years at school for me to hit rock bottom again. I blamed much of this on my violin professor. And, no, he wasn't free of blame, in fact, I do think he was in a position to help me but had no interest. I personally believe that if his relationship with me had been more positive, I could have finished out my time at school. But that's neither here nor there. I had a voice professor there who gave me the tough love I needed when she started seeing me slip. I remember her looking me dead in the eye one time and saying, "Esther, I know you can do better. Don't apologize, just do better." And I had an accompanist who always reminded me to go with my gut, ignore my violin professor and play my truth. So I had support. I had people who saw my struggle and yet, I couldn't get free of my demons. Finally, I concluded that I was making my own darkness.

People saw me as such a light and a joyous spirit. Performing in real life was no harder than performing on stage. All I had to do was smile brighter and laugh louder; no one knew that I was struggling to even get out of bed in the morning. I changed majors, changed friends, changed lifestyles, I even changed who I dated. And after 3 years, I realized that I was exhausted. I was on the verge of losing my scholarship from missing so many classes from simply not leaving my room. I was constantly hiding from my friends- I mean literally, I just wanted to be alone. And I had lost music. I lost my love of music. I can vividly recall which practice room I was sitting in when I gave up. I looked at my violin across the room and all I wanted was a match to light it all on fire.

So I returned home. I figured that I had already failed as much as a person could fail. To my surprise, my parents didn't constantly remind me of my shortcomings. In fact, they mostly left me alone. They unknowingly gave me a chance to sink even further into my dark hole.

I started going to therapy. My counselling sessions gave me a change to talk through everything. I went through my childhood, my relationships, my jobs, and what on earth my purpose was in life. I did most of the talking... it would have been less expensive for me to talk to myself and possibly just as effective. Then I brought my parents to a session with me. I'm not sure I've ever seen them so uncomfortable. Talking about emotions was simply not something that they were going to do. By the second group session, I realized that this was not going to be a joint healing or a group journey. I remember hearing my mom telling me she loved me for the first time. I remember that it made me so angry. The idea that my mother couldn't be bothered to tell me she loved me until a therapist advised that it would be helpful to me to hear her to say it. I mean I had heard those words more genuinely spoken by drunk frat boys I had known for 3 hours. I told her I never wanted to hear her say that again. I had finally heard the 3 words I had been dying to year for 21 years and when I heard them, I felt the exact opposite of warm and fuzzy. So I gave up on therapy.

And then I started teaching. You remember that one of the biggest driving forces in my life is a need to help others. That sounds like I'm tooting my own horn. "Look at me, I can't help but help others!" Except that was true. I made a friend who started advising me on everything from who to date to where to work. I realized later that I was her little project. I had found someone who was interested in making something of me and I spent 2 years following her vision of where I should be. She encouraged me to teach everyone I could, so I got every mentoring/teaching position in the community that would hire someone without a degree. Most of these commitments were associated with something that she was already doing. I didn't even have time to care for myself- I was so busy helping others. Then came a day when she dropped our friendship, completely out of the blue, no fight or explanation, and with it she took several of those teaching jobs.

For 2 days I spoke to no one. This was the worst breakup of my life. It wasn't even breaking up with a significant other. It was divorcing my life. The people I had come to admire and respect as mentors took her side. I realized at that point that I was truly, truly alone. A part of me felt a bit of déjà vu from 2 years prior when I had returned from school. But this time I knew how to get out of my funk: work. I remembered that if I had jobs lined up, obligations to show up for, that I would have to keep going- it was just how I was wired.

In case you are lost in time, we're sitting around mid 2013 at this point. I decided to get retail jobs, continue teaching, and attempt to perform more. I stopped looking for my life's purpose and looked instead for small victories. Over the next year, I started subbing with the Oregon Symphony and I took pride in the fact that I was up there without a degree or much experience. I had done that for myself! I was asked to tour with a singing group as a pianist and although I was not qualified for the job, I learned so much about myself during that time. And in the summer of 2014, I took a full time position at the violin shop where I had been working part time for years. I had all these people taking a chance on me; I didn't realize it then, but I was starting to slowly climb out of my little black hole.

I don't know if you noticed but I had taken on a lot at this point and you might also notice that I don't mention dropping anything. I kept filling my calendar because it kept me from thinking of the now. I was quickly on the path to making myself so necessary to so many people that I didn't realize that I was making myself less useful with each commitment. I started feeling overwhelmed and I became anxious about everything. I wasn't performing at 100% at my job, or my teaching, or my playing. I should have known better; I should have known to slow down. Luckily, I had people in my life who started calling me out on that. It didn't hurt that I had some health problems that were a physical manifestation of my anxiety.

I started paring down my obligations. I started examining my priorities and I found that I didn't want to lose any job I had involving kids. I had inadvertently made it my mission to make sure that I could let as many students as possible know that there was someone out there who cared about them. If there is one group of people that kept me afloat for the past 7 years, it is the young people in my life. From the kids I nannied, to the orchestras I coached, to the private students who tested my patience, these were the humans that kept me positive, truly positive. These were the ones who made me want to go on. So besides my full time work, I tried to focus a majority of my energy on the young people in my life. And any performing I did needed to be emotionally satisfying to me. I would no longer do things that didn't make me happy.

Sounds like I figured it all out, huh? I spent the next 2 years doing more of what I wanted but being no less busy than before when I was fighting my anxiety of being spread too thin. I mentioned yesterday that I had rescheduled a meeting with Danny 3 times in the month before he died. Work needed to be my priority and most of my friends understood that I would squeeze them in when I could, maybe once a year. The fat that I was trimming out of my life was quality time with friends.

Then Danny died. I am going to skip the details because I talked about this loss yesterday. It's safe to say that his death shifted the axis of my world. I realized that what I was doing wasn't enough. I needed to do more to prevent any more of my friends from feeling the way Danny had- the way I had.

I realized that putting my friendships last was putting myself last. We weren't in grade school anymore. They weren't friends with me because they had to be. These people who kept wanting to see me were people who cared about my well being. And if I cared about them, I needed to be present for their lives too.

So in the 2 years since Danny died, I have tried to keep a filter of love over everything I do and say. I make more time for my friends and I make more time for myself. Meals, shows, and trips alone are something that I constantly keep on my calendar and I'm strict about it! And I force myself to be spontaneous (I know that defeats the purpose but... baby steps). I take naps. I don't listen to anyone who tells me I'm at the wrong place in life. I still work a lot. I still stay busy, but I move just a little slower. I enjoy a few more moments every day. I tell people that I appreciate them and that I love them. Most importantly, I am happy being alone. Do you know how long it has taken me to be happy alone?

For an only child who had the well provided upbringing that I had, you would think that I would have learned how to be happy with myself years ago. But it's been 27 years and I'm just starting to get the hang of it. And I'm learning that sharing is the key. Truly sharing of myself for the right reasons is what will continue to save me... with just a few moments of selfishness thrown it.

Before I end my saga, I want to share a few things I do to keep myself going:

Schedule friend dates- For me this means I call a friend over a month in advance and say, "hey, in 5 weeks, I'm going to sit on your couch and we're going to do nothing." It doesn't matter that this is ridiculous. My close friends know that this is a matter of survival for me.
Volunteer- I take on a few things, whether it's teaching/mentoring or performing that are not paid so they are purely for the satisfaction of giving of myself without turning into work. I never feel more positive about the state of the world than after I've spent time giving without expecting anything in return.
Keep a non musical interest- Right now, I'm taking tap dancing... okay it's related to music but it's completely different. I just need something to remind me that I am not defined by music alone.
Let friends in and ask for help- I have a friend who is married and his wife knows that I might call at any time. I mean I try not to call in the middle of the night, and I honestly sometimes forget about the time difference but the point is, he, up til now, has known more of my darkness than anyone else. Even knowing that I can call at any time is something that calms me when the storms of life get crazy.
Let the darkness in- Keeping my worries, however illegitimate they may be, at bay isn't actually a way to handle my anxieties. I let myself have dark days. I let myself grieve and cry and get angry. I let myself because I know there are just as many reasons to smile. And I don't want to fake my smile any more. Without working through my depression, I can't feel true joy. So I let myself go down there, just for a visit. Then I remember that there are reasons to come back.
Share my story- Obviously, I'm doing this here so you know this but still I need to mention it because it's something I have chosen to do with the hope that letting people know what I've gone through will help me from having to go through it again.

I had no idea starting out how long or short this post would be. I didn't know what I would put in and what I would leave out. You might feel there are holes in the story and you are welcome to ask me directly if there is something you want to know. There were a few moments where I had to fight myself to leave in something that was relevant but might also invite judgement. There were also a few times I had to take out a detail that I passive aggressively wanted to leave in and realized it was time to move on. As I approach my 28th birthday, I realize that I am not "healed" by any means. Mental health is a journey and I'm always one crisis away from a breakdown. I'm not perfect. So thank you for being with me on this journey. Thank you for reading all my thoughts regardless of how beautiful or ugly they may be. Thank you for loving me enough to even open up this link to read.

I'm overwhelmed by the number of people who have contacted me in the past 48 hours. People sharing their own stories of depression, of coping, of dealing with death, of self acceptance. I can only hope that my vulnerability will continue to allow you to be more open about your own life. I wish that my story might inspire you to review the relationships you create daily. And I pray that we all remember the importance and responsibility we have to share love and joy in our little corner of the world.

The Art of Being Left Behind

June 14, 2018 by Esther Shim in Narrative

(My comments on grieving, depression, and suicide are based on my own experiences and observations. They are in no way clinical facts nor a suggestion on how to treat others.)

As a musician, I think it's safe to assume that I have attended more weddings and funerals than most people my age. Most of them have been some sort of Christian church service and most of them have had some of the music performed by me. However, the most unique funeral experience to date was neither- it was when my paternal grandma passed away in Korea. It has been over a decade but many parts of that trip are still quite vivid in my mind.

My parents and maternal family have a strong Protestant background, but my father's side of the family has deep roots in Confucian and Buddhist traditions. Between the religious differences and the culture shock, the whole week ended up being a surreal experience for me. I remember the 3 day wake, watching the body being cleaned and dressed, and the numerous bowing ceremonies but the climax of the funeral events for me was when we went to the cremation hall. I had never been to such a place before and I hope I never have a need to go again. The hall itself was a series of little booths where a family (and however many friends that could fit) would squeeze in and through a small window you could see that, indeed, that was the body/coffin that contained your loved one. Then they would cover the window for a few minutes while the actual burning process happened (I don't mean to be crass but what else would you call it?). Finally, they opened the window back up so you could watch the ashes being scooped into your to go container. The entire time there was this... odor? aroma? I don't know how to explain it but I will never forget it.

As horrifying as this was to 16 year old me, I was honestly in a fit of laughter during most of this procedure. The cubby to our right was occupied by a church group who were set on singing hymns at the top of their lungs the entire time their loved one was burning. In contrast, the booth to our left was overflowing with Buddhist monks who were chanting and ringing bells. Each group kept increasing in volume until the sound was so loud I forgot why I was there and was solely focused on trying not to laugh at the ridiculous competitive performances of grieving being displayed.

I remember comprehending in that moment how the whole debacle we were witnessing was in no way for the people on fire in the next room but rather for us people left behind. It was my first realization of how a death can impact the living and that it is up to us to choose how we let it impact us.

Even though I was sad about the passing of my grandma, her advanced stage diagnosis of pancreatic cancer had given us (surprisingly) a year to get used to the idea of her leaving us. Sure, it was heartbreaking to lose this incredibly strong matriarch but she had used her year to get her affairs in order and communicate her final thoughts. Although the loss was difficult, this processing period had definitely softened the blow.

Then this last week, I felt the exact opposite of ready to receive the news of passing of 2 well known people. I've never been one to feel attached to celebrities. I rarely get drawn into ridiculous tabloid stories as I'm checking out at the grocery store. In fact, I usually feel more connection to a certain video demanding that we stop bothering Britney Spears... you know the video I'm talking about...

But somehow, the passing of Kate Spade really hit a pocket of joy I had in my heart. I know she hasn't been a direct part of the brand for several years but her vision, her idea that a woman can wear color, express herself through fun accessories, and yet be a sophisticated individual who should be taken seriously- all without completely emptying out one's bank account was something that truly connected with me. So many people talked about the loss of her light, her joy, her individual sense of style and whimsy... and how she represented that for so many of us. She had provoked a desire for positivity in me which was always more prevalent when her name was written on something that I was carrying on my arm.

A few days later, the world was moved, yet again, by the loss of Anthony Bourdain. This man, who always talked about how he wasn't a journalist, taught us all about humanity through the lens of food, without even meaning to. He loved food, but even more than that, he respected the food- and the traditions they came from. As a foodie myself, his shows were a way that I could connect to places, cultures, and people that I could only dream of visiting. He reminded me to be more curious, more inquisitive, and more humble with every person I encountered.

I was still in bed when I saw the new about Bourdain, and I simply threw the covers over my head and cried. In a matter of days, I had cried over 2 people I had never met because they had somehow inspired me to be a better human being.

If I had to associate a word with suicide, my first reaction is frustration. Frustration that a human being felt so hopeless. Frustration that the same human felt so worthless. Frustration that the world and the community around us is such a negative place. Frustration that people attempt to take their own lives so frequently that we aren't outraged every time it happens. And mostly, frustration that I can't do anything about it... or can I?

I started this post by talking about my most unique incident with death. But if you were to ask me which death has meant the most to me, I would be quick to tell you about my friend Danny. This weekend will mark 2 years since Danny felt so much darkness in his life that he decided he couldn't go on. I would like to share a bit of our friendship and how his life, and his death, have impacted me. (some of my friends may have heard variations on a few of these sentiments when he passed. I'm sorry for the repetition but I feel the need to fill out the complete story.)

Danny and me after a youth orchestra concert in 2007

Danny's death hit me hard.

I met Danny almost fifteen years ago in our youth orchestra. The thing about youth orchestra is that those people become your family. If you've never been in an orchestra, it's comparable to a sport team or church where you're all working toward the same goal, usually over the course of several years, and you're all going through the same life changes at similar times. You learn, you grow, there's drama, and there's a whole lot of love. Between you and me, I had the biggest crush on this guy. I thought he was the bees' knees and he was. He was kind and respectful, he worked hard as a musician, and he always brought light to those around him. What wasn't there to love?

Well, I also remember his demons. I remember he would read a lot- he was raised in a religious household like myself and he would frequently be reading books at break pertaining to religious takes on different things, homosexuality being one of them. I admired the easy way he would start up conversations with those around us in regard to those topics. This may not seem like a big deal, but for a 16 year old, rather reserved boy, talking to other prone-to-judge teens, I think it's safe to say this was huge. He was always thoughtful yet confident in expressing his opinions and welcomed us to be the same. I remember us talking about his depression. I didn't get it then, not for lack of trying. I didn't even get that I, myself, was struggling with depression. I thought it was just weakness and, in some ways, I think I felt the same of him. I don't believe I ever judged him- but I simply didn't get it. And I remember when he first told me he was bi. It didn't seem like a big deal in the moment. I recall that my reaction was calm and without surprise. My teenage brain was only curious about what that would mean for my crush. But I also remember the gravity which he gave to that statement.

We tried to stay in touch when he graduated and went to school but when I graduated the following year and also left the state, we fell out of touch except for periodic conversations on facebook or through texts. I watched from afar as he succeeded in his academic endeavors, as his circle of friends grew, and as he became more confident in sharing his true self with the world. I admired that through it all, he never lost his kind heart and his generous spirit. I saw as he started to get back into music and I was delighted when he announced his return to the Portland area to teach. I knew he would be the perfect teacher. The month before his death is a time I reflect on frequently, mostly with guilt. He and I finally set a date to meet and catch up on the past 8 years. We ended up postponing that date 3 times. I don't remember who cancelled on whom, and which time, but as I am the one who is still here to feel guilty, I do.

I won't ever forget where I was when I asked a friend to borrow their computer so I could message him on facebook as I started venting to her that I was getting annoyed that we kept missing our meetings. I got online and went suddenly silent reading the words of grief and love from family and friends. He had passed just a few days prior.

I have spent a fair amount of time visiting his little spot at the cemetery. I think I lived out all my stages of grief there. I spent the first visit playing violin and having the chat that we were supposed to have months prior. Then, I spent a visit yelling at him. I was angry that he never gave me a chance to reconnect with him. I was angry that I didn't make more of an effort on my part. I have spent some visits talking to a higher power, any power that would turn back the clock. And I've even spent a visit or two just sitting there staring at his name, unable to emote, just being with him, trying to feel his light one more time.

The qualities that Danny reminds me of are actually a combination of what Kate Spade and Anthony Bourdain represent. Almost 5 years ago, Danny messaged me and asked, "how did you get good?" I remember I laughed. He was frank and to the point. It was humbling for me to be on the receiving end of that question. Initially it put a smile on my face but he followed that up with genuine questions that made me question many different parts of my musical journey. We discussed people we looked up to and why. The thing about talking to Danny was that he didn't shy away from the heavy stuff, yet he still managed to keep things positive.

In his final days, Danny witnessed the deadliest incident of violence against the queer community in U.S. history. After the Pulse Nightclub shootings, he expressed his heartbreak with the (inaccurate) acknowledgement that his eventual fate would probably end up being something similar. I will never be able to comprehend a world where a 27 year old with so many aspirations and a heart of gold can lose the will to live. And yet I see all too clearly the hate, judgement, and fear that causes this darkness all around me, every day. I have felt it myself. The thing is, I finally get it. And, now that I've worked through much of my grief, I can focus on the fact that I can, in fact, do something about the negativity in this world that daily influences people, including myself.

So tomorrow, I want to talk about me, my personal battle with my own darkness and what I have learned from Danny's story. But today, today is my day to remember a friend, someone who provoked my journey to improve my own mental health. Someone who inspires me daily to love harder, connect stronger, listen more carefully, and live better.

Danny took me to my first Itzhak Perlman concert. We went backstage and shook his hand and Itzhak signed Danny's program, "For Danny, practice slowly. Itzhak Perlman" After the memorial, Danny's dad gifted me this program for my music room/studio. It hangs at eye level above the spot where I put my case so I see it every time I take out and put away my violin. It is my constant reminder to me to not only practice slowly but live life slowly and in the moment. I also have a picture of this meeting with Perlman. When he saw the picture, Danny said, "He's huge in person!! I think that's how we think of whales: sure, they're big. but you don't realize HOW big until you get up close. But I'm not meaning to compare Perlman to a whale - it just seems like I am, but I'm not, trust me."

“If there ever comes a day when we can’t be together, keep me in your heart, I’ll stay there forever.”- Winnie the Pooh, or A. A. Milne

Rit... Ritard... Ritardando

June 13, 2018 by Esther Shim in Narrative, Community, Teaching

Last night I was faced with the task of asking a student of mine not to use the word retard in my studio. Why did this even come up? Well, I asked a beginning student if he knew what the rit. mark in his music meant. He didn't know so I explained that it was an abbreviation of ritard, which was a shortening of the word ritardando. He perked up and said he recognized ritard because his dad called him that sometimes.

These are one of those defining moments that I will look back on and wonder for the rest of my life if I said the right thing- if I reacted in the most effective way. I asked him when and why his dad said that and he proceeded to demonstrate how he sometimes likes to go limp and pretend not to understand what is happening. I quickly had to decide how to explain why both his and his dad's actions were inappropriate, in my opinion, while not insulting said dad or dad's parenting choices. Did I mention that this kid is 9 and that English is his second language?

I spent the next 5 minutes on a twisted verbal adventure which started with defining ritardando (it. a gradual decrease in tempo), connecting it to how calling someone slow can be used in a derogatory manner, and ending with an adamant request to never use that word in front of me- all while not making his dad out to be the bad guy.

As a teacher and mentor, I find that I'm frequently in the position of influencing young peoples' perspectives on how to deal with social situations. Most of us didn't have the type of connection with our parents in our formative years that allowed us to be comfortable enough to talk about these tricky relationship dealings... at least I know I didn't. I find that many of the young people in my life feel the same way and yet somehow feel completely comfortable talking to me. This includes private students, students I have worked with at high schools or camps, and the kids (young adults now) that I have nannied. I've had discussions about drug and alcohol use, death, body changes, peer pressure, mental health, parental problems, identity (sexual and otherwise), and life goals. To me, these conversations are not only an honor, but a responsibility that I have to make sure that I take the opportunity to share a lens of positivity and respect with the next generation.

My attitude toward mental health, whether it's the use of the word retard, or the feeling of depression and anxiety, or something more outwardly visible, is something that is constantly on my mind. It may be because I have struggled with severe anxiety, depression, and even thoughts on the best way to leave this world. I don't share this lightly and I don't share this for attention. I share this because throughout my entire life as a woman, as a person of color, as an artist, as a teacher, and as a human, I have worked to present myself in a way that shows my stability and sanity- usually by keeping my deepest concerns and doubts hidden away.

But here is the thing: I'm no less of a woman, or a teacher, or a human because of my personal struggles.

This blog itself was something I started a little over a year ago to try to cope with my demons. I have struggled to follow through and share my thoughts- largely due to my fear of judgement. But this week, the importance of which I will explain in tomorrow's post, is a time when I'm finally ready to put these thoughts out there. In the next few days I plan to write at least 2 more posts; I hope that they resonate with you in some way. If nothing else, I will have been vulnerable enough for you to get to know another part of me, and, more importantly, I will have loved myself enough to do so.

“Love yourself first and everything else falls into line. You really have to love yourself to get anything done in this world.” -Lucille Ball