Echoes of a Melody
by Vivian Wang
“You know what, I genuinely wish the school could just stop the music class, seriously. Who even likes Wang Wei? Her class is incredibly boring!”
“Yeah, me too! I was practically falling asleep last class, do you call it a MUSIC class? I think Miss Huang from class three is much nicer. Do you know that she played games with her students last class? How wonderful is...”
“Hey, you guys, shut up, she’s coming!”
With a loud yell from our class monitor, my classmates and I suddenly rushed back to our seats like a bunch of startled sardines fleeing from a large shark.
There she was, our music teacher Wang Wei—lumbering heavily and slowly as an elephant in a forest. She always wore red-frame square glasses, an outdated lenient floral dress, and carried a thick stack of teaching materials, sometimes clutching a melodica with her right hand.
The whole class fell silent as she walked to the podium slowly and confidently, putting her book down, opening it, turning to yet another page of boring and monotonous children’s songs.
“Today we are going to learn the song ‘Let’s Start Rowing the Oars.’”
Every student let out a collective groan, and I exchanged a helpless glance with my classmates. Other students were quietly murmuring to each other.
“You stop talking, right now! Do you want to learn the song or not?” she said with an angry and stern voice, scanning the room like a large hawk waiting to capture its prey.
The class was silent again. The last thing you want to do is to irritate Wang Wei.
...
Despite the whole class’s general hatred towards Wang Wei, I was certain that no one loathed her more than I did—she continuously embarrassed me in front of everyone.
“Ok, let’s find someone to take the lead for us. Why don’t you try, Vivian?”
“Vivian, can you sing the last line for us? Everybody listen and don’t make any noise.”
“Louder, Vivian, we can’t hear you!”
Being called on in nearly every music class, I couldn’t bear the scrutiny of the entire class. Although not daring to look at them, I could feel their stares, likely mocking my voice and finding my humiliation amusing.
Well, the disgrace didn’t end there. She once called me to her office, asking if I wanted to join the school choir.
“You have talent in singing, Vivian. I definitely think you’ll do a good job in the school choir. Do you want to join?”
I wanted to say no, but the fear towards her dominated my unwillingness, so I reluctantly said, “Yes.”
After that, the nightmare began. The choir practice was tedious and tiring; I could only stand in the room with my sore legs, looking through the window and watching other children playing games, talking, and laughing. I felt like a prisoner confined to a dark, stifling cell for years. I found numerous intelligent excuses to put off the practice—claiming sickness today, having after-school classes tomorrow, until one time she caught me playing basketball on the outside court when I’d lied to her that I had a stomachache.
“Vivian, why do you do this? Do you know that many students want to go to choir but couldn’t pass the selection? You should cherish this opportunity! Are you listening?” Her voice was filled with disappointment and indignation.
I vaguely fooled her by saying “yes” and “sorry,” but I was focusing elsewhere—that was a bad shot, he should have aimed lower.
...
It was a sunny day, and my classmates and I were chatting and enjoying snacks in front of the 7-11 convenience store next to our school. In the distance, we saw Wang Wei unlocking her ugly bicycle across the road.
“Hey, isn’t that Wang Wei?”
“Yeah, it is.”
“Well, since everyone hates her, why don’t we play a prank on her?”
Excitement immediately spread among us, and everyone had a thrilled expression on their faces.
“Let’s do it! What do you reckon?”
“Well, how about when I count to three, we shout at her together?”
“That’s a good idea!”
Then, when Monica counted to three, we shouted at her with all our might:
“Wang Wei, you big, ugly, fat pig!”
She turned back and looked in our direction, but we were sprinting away so fast like a criminal gang being chased by police. So I thought she didn’t recognize us.
...
I couldn’t believe the day at 7-11 was the last time I saw her.
She resigned. Nobody knew why she left.
A young and beautiful teacher replaced her. She was gentle and good-tempered: She never got angry, no matter how chaotic the class was, and she always played pop songs for us during the last ten minutes of class. Every student liked her.
No one ever asked me to sing in class, and no one urged me to go to choir practice. Another music teacher became the leader of the choir, and he said to me, “I wonder why Mrs. Wang selected you for this choir. I think your voice is ordinary.”
I still thought about our prank—Was it our humiliating joke that made her leave? Was it because students were always sleepy and unfocused in her class? Was it because no one listened to her when she played her favorite musical drama “Phantom of the Opera” with passion in class?
It still confuses me today.
As I grew up, I became more and more interested in singing. I learned different songs, attended the school singing club, and signed up for various singing competitions and performances both within and outside the school. I found immersing myself in the music profoundly attractive and fascinating.
Many people have complimented me for my voice, whether my parents, friends, or classmates. Whenever they say, “You have a good voice” or “You’re so talented” or “You sing really well,” I think of Wang Wei. I wonder where she is now, and what her life is like.
And, would she feel better if she knew that I now recognize her goodness in my third grade and began to pursue singing?
