My Chopin Moment

Picture this: a teenager, a Chopin Nocturne CD, and an audacity only a high schooler can muster. That was me. My piano teacher Mrs. C. had suggested an “easier” piece that would give me a better shot of placing first at the annual SYMF competition. A safe, predictable choice that wouldn’t require hours of practice or strain my fingers. But then I heard Chopin’s Nocturne No. 8. It was lush, romantic, and complicated as Helsinki. Naturally, I had to play that one.

Mrs. C. was annoyed. She told me, in her gentle-yet-condescending way, that my “middling technique” might not survive the difficulty level of this nocturne. Also, I was a nervous performer. Shaky hands, sweaty palms, and a tendency to play like a speed demon under pressure. But I was determined, fueled by teenage rebellion and the kind of confidence you only have before real adulthood kicks in.

Cut to the competition day: my heart was racing, and I was convinced I might faint on the spot. When my name was called, I approached the piano like a soldier marching into battle, fully aware I might not make it out unscathed. Playing the nocturne felt like an out-of-body experience; some moments soared, others fell apart like Johnny and Winona’s relationship.

The judges deliberated for what felt like hours, and then the results came in: I placed second. First place? Left unclaimed. Apparently, no one was good enough to deserve it, which, honestly, felt like the judges were channeling their inner Chopin—dramatic, exacting, and just a little too proud of their high standards.

Now in my 40s, I still play that nocturne. It’s not about validation anymore. No judges, no nervous teacher pacing outside. Just me, Chopin, and a piano. And while I may not hit every note perfectly, the joy is in the playing. Sorry, not sorry, Mrs. C.

-Jill Song