Pachyderms

Last week, ten-year-old Tommy was playing a little piece in his beginning method book called “Pachyderm Caravan.”

“What’s a pachyderm anyway?” he asked me.

“Look,” I said and pointed at the page, “it says here that a pachyderm is an elephant.”

Long pause.

“Why don’t they just say elephant?” Tommy asked.

“I don’t know.”

Longer pause. And then a big sigh.

“Miss Amy, why is this even in a piano book?”

I laughed. Hard.

The kid had a point. Sometimes—many times—we are just too clever for our own good. We are tempted to seek out bling and pizzazz; we get distracted by thinking we need fancy websites and cool logos, and give too much merit to complicated titles and designs. We are so easily drawn in by flashing lights and glitter, mistaking glamour and glitz for substance and significance. But as I am reminded every single day, the kids aren’t fooled. They know an elephant when they see one.

Which reminds me of an incident from my own childhood. As I remember it, the story goes like this:

It was my first day of kindergarten. I was wearing a new yellow-checkered jumpsuit that my grandmother had made for my first day of school. It was special, because in a household where I wore a lot of hand-me-downs, this was something that was designed just for me. In case anyone had any doubt about this, Grandma had appliquéd my name on the pockets: A-M-Y in big letters. Now, while I had already broken two rather serious fashion rules—a blond should never wear yellow and jumpsuits don't look good on anyone—that day I thought I looked pretty snazzy indeed.        

Unlike so many of today's children who start preschool while in the womb, I had never really attended preschool. In spite of this, or maybe because of this, I was very excited about kindergarten because my favorite book was a children's story called "Peter Goes to School." The ragged and torn copy still sits on my bookshelf at home. To this day, I can call my father and recite the first line, "Today is a very special day..." to which he will respond, "because today is the day that Peter goes to school." So while I didn't have much actual experience with school outside of storybooks, dressed in my bright yellow jumpsuit with my name stitched on the pocket, I was excited and ready to go.       

My parents took me into the classroom and we met my teacher, Mrs. Croft, who asked if I would like to go over to the bulletin board and find my nametag and put it on. One can immediately see the problem, I am sure, but in her defense, this was a teaching moment for Mrs. Croft. She was trying to find out, without directly asking me, if I could read, if I could identify my name without her assistance. As a teacher, I respect this, but as a five-year-old I was having none of it. "No," I solemnly told her, "I don't need a nametag. See, my name is on my jumpsuit."    

This poor woman was just trying to get through the first day of school unharmed, and here was a smart-mouthed, tow-headed kid who clearly was going to question her every move. But from my perspective, there was no issue at all; it would be stupid to wear a nametag when my name was clearly visible. I wasn't about to fall for this nonsense.      

My husband claims that this story illustrates everything you need to know about me;  namely, that I have no patience for Mickey Mouse. (Or pachyderms, for that matter.) These days I may have a pedagogical interest in getting Tommy to play the pieces out of his method books, but deep down I understand his disgust all too well. Sometimes the Emperor has no clothes.

In our neighborhood there is a wonderful bakery called “Ihatov.” It is owned by a young Japanese couple who bravely opened it during the first months of the pandemic. Almost immediately, the place began getting both local and national attention, receiving a James Beard award and a mention in the New York Times. The bakery is in a small building right on Central Avenue, or Route 66, which runs through the middle of Albuquerque. The place has floor-to-ceiling windows, a cozy fireplace, a fantastic patio and a super friendly staff of young people. But the shop has no logo, no fancy marketing team. The blocky black and white sign outside simply reads, “Ihatov. Bread and Coffee.”

Every time we visit, Matt comments, “This place needs a graphic designer.” I take in the line out the door waiting to buy sourdough baguettes and buttermilk biscuits. The patio is full of dogs and their people drinking cappuccinos and eating muffins. “Hmmm…looks like they’re doing just fine without one.”

It does give one pause.

I once heard a conductor say that all musical instruction could be boiled down to four words: Louder, softer, shorter or longer. This might be simplicity to an extreme, but in a world where convoluted musical imagery—play this “like a mountain” or “like a warm bath”—can leave me a bit cold—if not actually weirded out—the directness is refreshing. It is like playing Bach without the pedal. It feels naked and exposed, but oh! The clarity soothes the soul.

Lately I have found myself wondering just how much of the time we blindly accept as good or at least necessary the nametags handed to us and the hyped-up narratives our cultural marketing teams write on our behalf. I wonder about our reluctance to state things simply—Bread and Coffee—and to shy away from calling out those naked Emperors in our midst. Surrounded by “music educators,” I feel like the only “piano teacher” left. In a caravan of pachyderms, it is easy to overlook the lone elephant.

Mostly, I wonder what this says about our relationship with the truth and how we write the stories of our lives. Because here’s the thing: in one way or another, we are all out there selling our bread and coffee. We may prefer fancy descriptions and labels to describe our work and place in the world, but bread and coffee is mostly where it’s at. I practice the piano. I teach others to practice the piano. I write about practicing and teaching the piano. Bread and Coffee.

Of course, this line of thinking can be spun out exponentially, which in an election year is dangerous indeed. But the inverse thinking could also be applied: what if we refused to be confused by the redundancy of nametags and the exotic nature of large mammals and called an elephant an elephant? It wouldn’t be a bad thing to repeatedly ask ourselves and each other, “Wait! Why is this even here?”

The austere season of Lent is upon us, a time of self-examination and reflection, a period to set aside the bling and embrace a bit of spareness within our crowded lives. My heart quickens every time I see the folks standing in line at Ihatov for their bread and coffee, and not just because I’m afraid they might be out of my favorite loaf. It reassures me that in one small corner of the universe, we aren’t being sold anything but the real thing. No fancy fonts, no clever graphics, no colorful characters, no pachyderms. Just bread. And coffee.