Flutes


From Mom, 2006.

That version of us doesn’t exist anymore.




2025.10.11

We fought so often back then because I hated playing the flute. I never chose the instrument. I happened to learn it once, in kindergarten - some class activity, I think. After that, I had to play it ever since. I had to be good at it. I had to practice every day.

There was a specific attitude expected of me when I picked up the flute - I had to be willing,  motivated, patient. I had to play the same passage over and over again until I was perfect. She wanted me to be perfect, in everything.

The flutes were made of bamboo, light and hollow, easy to crack. She broke more than one of them beating me. I went to school with a Band-Aid on my face looking stupid. I think I’ve tucked it away so deep in my memory that it feels like it happened to someone else. When I eventually started playing Western flutes, I remember thinking: these are sturdier and way more expensive — she wouldn’t dare to break them.

Somehow, I ended up joining school bands and performing in concerts. There were moments I had fun, but mostly, I hated it. I wished I’d played the violin or the cello instead. They look and sound much cooler to me.

...

They don’t bother me as much anymore. I can’t remember the last time I played them. There’s definitely a bit of masochism — and nostalgia — that keeps me from throwing them away. But maybe it’s also because they’re light and easy to store. They don’t take up much space anyway.