I played the clarinet and saxophone in high school, and I took an adult piano class in my twenties. Now, I’m putzing on the ukulele, taking occasional weekly classes with my son Liam’s guitar instructor. The clarinet and saxophone are instruments in which both hands work in harmonious partnership to create music. I find that not to be the case with the piano or the ukulele.
The right hand on the piano was easy for me to learn: Oftentimes it’s the melody; it’s written in treble clef, the same clef as the woodwinds I played in high school. The left hand plays notes written in the base clef, a foreign language to me. With any piece I work on, I write in the notes on the music. I slow the pace to a turtle trot until my fingers basically memorize the positions and then I rely less on reading that lower bass clef line for the notes but rather for the rhythm.
As for the ukulele, the dichotomy of hand movements is the challenge. I can read the music, but the notes aren’t laid out on the fret board as systematically as those down the line on a piano keyboard. The fingers on my left hand scramble to compress the right strings to create chords throughout a piece, and the fingers on my right hand are left to find a strumming rhythm that changes depending on the genre. My hands must move simultaneously, but in different ways. Reggae and rock music both have chord changes written over the measures, but there is no indication of what the strumming pattern is—that is an intuitive element.
As my ukulele instructor gives me directions to “feel” the beat, I remind him that at my core I’m a concert clarinetist posing as a uke player; as a high school concert clarinetist, I read every note on the treble clef and obeyed commandments for loudness and speed. When I try to understand the meaning of “imposter syndrome,” it’s clear in my statements about how I address the uke: I do not say “I play the uke”; rather “I take uke lessons.” To say that I play would be a false pretense. During lessons, I practice hard and listen well; on my own, I know a few songs that I pump out over and over.
The challenge of multi-tasking on the ukulele is akin to the freestyle swim stroke. I can dog paddle or back stroke my way across a pool, but matching breath to movement? The thought of doing the freestyle, turning the head and grabbing a breath while moving? Inconceivable. I’ve been watching swimmers do this in the Olympics; surely, I would inhale water into a lung and choke. Sometimes I wonder if I should take lessons: Do I want to know how to do this, or is the doggy paddle good enough?
Last week I read Bonnie Tsui’s book, Why We Swim. Tsui is an open water, cold water, river and ocean swimmer. In talking with three women about the book, they said they all experienced a renewed interest in swimming while reading the book. After 45 minutes I finally fessed up with the question, “Did anyone else have huge anxiety while reading this book, especially when she talks about swimming in the currents of a river?” My great-grandfather drowned when his boat went over a dam; consequently, the feeling of water moving so promptly in one direction is unsettling to me. However, I enjoy the rocking nature of friendly ocean waves; I jump and paddle through them as they roll in. That’s how I started “ocean swimming” when I was sixteen, and at 55, this is still the only way I swim in the ocean when I’m at the beach.
While I don’t swim by coordinating a stroke with a breath, I did scuba dive when I was younger. These two activities are mutually exclusive to me. To have mask, fins, snorkel, two air hoses, a tank of air, and a buddy is liberating in the water. I’ve reached depths of 100 feet while chasing fish in the Caribbean. I’ve felt the to-and-fro pull of underwater currents, and while seeing fish and plants move, I accepted that movement and mimicked their calm in going with the flow of the water. Being able to see underwater and breathe underwater takes away surface unknowns, like currents in rivers and timing breaths with strokes. Scuba diving is like playing the clarinet: all parts are dedicated to one, but the freestyle stroke on the surface is more of a piano or ukulele feat.
A few years ago, I was at the pool with a friend, and she was going to jump off of the diving board. I told her that I had never done that. She convinced me that it was a wonderful experience. With a lifeguard nearby, I tried it. The only time I had previously jumped into water was when I was fully suited up in scuba gear, with an inflated buoyancy vest so that I would pop to the surface upon entry. I remember jumping off the board, touching the bottom, then just hanging out for a bit. I had expected to pop up like a fishing bobber. I didn’t like the feeling; I paddled up to the surface. I was glad I had done it, but I have not felt compelled to do it again. Unnecessary.
For now, I choose to derive pleasure of the freestyle by watching the Olympians—for I am a clarinetist.