{"id":1559,"date":"2020-11-25T22:37:15","date_gmt":"2020-11-25T22:37:15","guid":{"rendered":"http:\/\/thepetigrureview.com\/?page_id=1559"},"modified":"2020-11-25T22:37:15","modified_gmt":"2020-11-25T22:37:15","slug":"tickanen","status":"publish","type":"page","link":"https:\/\/thepetigrureview.com\/?page_id=1559","title":{"rendered":"Sara Tickanen"},"content":{"rendered":"\n
<\/div>\n\n\n\n
\"\"
Christmas 1902<\/em>, Chris Gavaler<\/figcaption><\/figure>\n\n\n\n
\n
<\/div>\n\n\n\n
\n
<\/div>\n\n\n\n
\n

KATIE<\/h2>\n\n\n\n

I didn\u2019t set out with the intention to teach music. Becoming a teacher was something that happened somewhat gradually. I was in the music store one day after a particularly trying tour with my high school orchestra, eyeing the cellos, when the owner drifted down to the aisle towards me.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cI\u2019ve seen you here before.\u201d She swept her long blonde hair over her shoulder. \u201cAre you in the market for a new instrument?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cI wish.\u201d I was certain in that that moment that I\u2019d never play again, having just completed a clinic at Marquette University that ended when someone from another school put their foot through my cello during lunch break\u2014a cello I had spent years of allowance and birthday money on.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cWell do you play?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The clinic story spilled out in a rush, ending with me crying on the bus home with my arms wrapped around the neck of my wounded cello, wondering how I would ever replace it.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

She said nothing in reply, just plucked a cello off the rack and placed it in my hands. It was a lovely red shade of wood, the pegs constructed in a way slightly different than any I had seen before. Following my eyes, she told me, \u201cThose are Canterbury pegs. For an extra fine tuning. And I\u2019m Jamie, by the way.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I knew I should shake her hand or something, but I was too entranced by the instrument I held to follow social niceties. \u201cIt\u2019s the most wonderful cello I\u2019ve ever seen,\u201d was my only response. After another minute I added, \u201cI can\u2019t afford it though.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cHave you ever taught?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I hadn\u2019t, not then. But she was in the market for a teacher, and I was in the market for an instrument. We needed each other, so I would find a way to make it work. And work I did. I had always been told I had a musical gift\u2014cello, piano, voice, guitar. I was seventeen, but I taught kids of all ages, from a fourteen-year-old just starting the cello to a ten-year-old who\u2019d played for years to a five-year-old who wanted to learn piano. All of them eager, all of them with enough money to afford lessons in a private shop.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

But I didn\u2019t teach voice until Katie. She was twelve then, with stringy brown hair and a voice that wasn\u2019t quite <\/em>there. But she reminded me of me, and I had the hopes of a fairly new teacher. So when she came up to me one night after a youth group I was leading, knowing I was a music teacher, and asked if she could have voice lessons, I couldn\u2019t decline. I knew she couldn\u2019t afford the shop prices, so I made her my private student with no intention of charging her.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The plan was that we would walk over to my apartment after youth group Monday nights for a lesson and have her mother pick her up from there. I had an organ that I stuffed into the large walk in closet next to my bedroom; there was just enough room for the organ, the bench, and a small shelf of music. I figured we could both fit on the bench and called it the perfect setup. She was quiet coming in for her first lesson, bending down outside my music room to pet one of the cats.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cThat\u2019s Tigger,\u201d I said as I opened the door.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cOh, like in Pooh.\u201d It was the most words she had strung together the entire evening.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cI named him when I was three,\u201d I excused my former-child self\u2019s behavior.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Katie followed me into the room, and we settled on the bench. Tigger came too and threw himself into her lap with the abandon of a cat long without pets. I checked her range, and then she flipped through my music books to find a song to sing so we could get a feel for her skill level.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cMaybe\u2026this one?\u201d She pointed to \u2018My Heart Will Go On,\u2019 which was the big hit song of the time. I played while she tried to sing, and eventually joined with her to give her a little boost. I could tell already that she\u2019d be a lot of work.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Before we could try the song with her on her own again, she interrupted me to ask, \u201cWhat happened to your arm?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I stopped playing and looked down. A crisscross of white scars marred the skin of my left arm. No one had ever commented on them before, outside my therapist when they\u2019d happened. I was surprised she\u2019d even noticed. And I didn\u2019t know how to explain them to a kid. \u201cI was\u2026sad.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I watched as Katie chewed on that thought for a moment. \u201cI\u2019ve been\u2026sad.\u201d She rolled up her sleeves and held arms out to me that were more marked up than mine. And where my arms held scars, her arms were fresh wounds.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Panic flooded me. What was I supposed to say? Did her mother know? Was I technically a mandated reporter? What was I supposed to do?<\/p>\n\n\n\n

When I said nothing, Katie hesitantly asked, \u201cWhy were you<\/em> sad?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I took a deep breath, choosing my words carefully. \u201cI\u2026my life was not what I wanted it to be. I was confused. Hurt.\u201d I didn\u2019t tell her that I\u2019d been in the hospital when it happened, that they couldn\u2019t cure me of my eating disorder, that I\u2019d found out I had to cure myself and I didn\u2019t want to back then. I didn\u2019t tell her the things I was getting over. She didn\u2019t need to know.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cMy dad died.\u201d Once she started talking, Katie didn\u2019t stop.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I ran my fingers across the scars on my own arms as she told me her story. Her dad had been epileptic, and one day on their way to the grocery store, he had a seizure behind the wheel. The car went off the road, down an incline, and smashed headfirst into a tree with Katie in the backseat. She told me how she\u2019d tried her hardest to wake him up, poked him and shook him by the shoulders, but his head was bleeding. He hadn\u2019t been wearing a seatbelt, and he never woke up again.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cSo,\u201d she finished, \u201cI guess\u2026I think it was my fault.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cHow so?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cWell, he was\u2026and I was\u2026\u201d She started to cry quietly. \u201cI was okay\u2026\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

It occurred to me in that moment that perhaps she hadn\u2019t wanted a voice lesson at all, that perhaps she had noticed my arm in youth group and wanted to talk to me alone. Maybe this was the only way she knew how. \u201cThat\u2019s good,\u201d I told her. \u201cYou know that, right? It\u2019s good that you were okay.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Katie sniffled as she stared at the cat, at the organ, into her lap, anywhere but at me. \u201cI\u2019d rather he was here than me. I wish I had died.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cI bet he\u2019d say just the same of you if he were the one still here.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Her brow wrinkled as she considered that.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cI bet he loved you.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cHe did. And I loved him. A lot.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I closed the sheet music. \u2018Katie? He wouldn\u2019t want you to hurt yourself.\u201d I laid my hand lightly on her arm, and she didn\u2019t pull away. \u201cNo matter what, I don\u2019t think he\u2019d want that.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cYou don\u2019t know him.\u201d She snatched her arm back, cradling it in her lap. \u201cYou didn\u2019t. Know him. You never will.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u2018But I know that a parent is supposed to love you, protect you. So he wouldn\u2019t want to see you hurt. Right?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Katie ignored me, instead pointing at my arm. \u201cHow did you stop?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I found I once again lacked an easy answer. \u201cBecause\u2026\u201d I paused, and then started again. \u201cBecause I realized that it\u2019s more important that I love myself than that I fit precisely into the world. I am important. I have a place. Even if I don\u2019t know what it is yet.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

She met my eyes, tears streaming down her cheeks, but she said nothing.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cIt didn\u2019t matter what had been done to me; it didn\u2019t matter what had happened in my past. I am not those things. I\u2019m just me. And if I don\u2019t love myself, who will? Does that make sense?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Katie nodded.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cI guess what I\u2019m trying to say is that your dad loved you, and he would want you to keep loving yourself, even though he isn\u2019t here. What happened wasn\u2019t your fault.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The only sound in the room was Tigger\u2019s purrs as he snuggled comfortably in Katie\u2019s arms.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cFor real. You couldn\u2019t have stopped what happened. And you shouldn\u2019t have to carry it. It doesn\u2019t make you a bad person. You are worthy of love; you deserve it. We all do.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Katie sat up, pulling down the sleeve of her sweatshirt and using it to wipe the tears and snot from her face. I ran to the bathroom and grabbed her a box of Kleenex to use instead. \u201cDo you love yourself?\u201d she asked. \u201cMore now than when you\u2026hurt yourself?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cI do,\u201d I whispered, and I realized that I really believed it. \u201cKnowing that it wasn\u2019t my fault was so, so important to me. To helping me stop. Because it\u2019s okay. To love yourself. To stop. It\u2019s okay to be\u2026okay. But you have to want it, I think. You have to want to stop. No matter what, your father wouldn\u2019t want this. He would want you to love yourself.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cHe would want me to love myself,\u201d she repeated hesitantly.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The doorbell rang. Katie pulled on her coat and left the music room to meet her mom.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I got a phone call the next day from her mom. After she left my house, Katie showed her mom her arms and tried to talk about what she was feeling. Every Monday after that, she came back to my house for lessons that were mostly talk. I asked her each week if she had cut anymore, and sometimes she had, but sometimes she hadn\u2019t. And I lived for those moments when she hadn\u2019t, those times when I knew that I was enough, that my words were enough.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

It was then I knew that I wanted to be a teacher for the rest of my life, because, for the first time, my pain had use. My pain wasn\u2019t about me anymore. And I wanted to use it to change the world.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

<\/p>\n\n\n\n

<\/p>\n\n\n\n

<\/p>\n\n\n\n

<\/p>\n\n\n\n

<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Sara Tickanen<\/strong> is a graduate of The New School, where she obtained an MFA in Creative Writing Nonfiction. She is currently working on a book about her life experiences with the help of her cat assistant, Sami. You can read more of Sara\u2019s work in Gravel,<\/em> Pithead Chapel<\/em>, The Rectangle<\/em>, Brain: Child<\/em>, and more, or follow her blog at https:\/\/girlinterrupted28.wordpress.com<\/a><\/p>

<\/p><\/blockquote>\n<\/div>\n\n\n\n

<\/div>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"","protected":false},"author":1,"featured_media":0,"parent":0,"menu_order":0,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"closed","template":"","meta":{"om_disable_all_campaigns":false,"_monsterinsights_skip_tracking":false,"_monsterinsights_sitenote_active":false,"_monsterinsights_sitenote_note":"","_monsterinsights_sitenote_category":0,"footnotes":""},"class_list":["post-1559","page","type-page","status-publish","hentry"],"aioseo_notices":[],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/thepetigrureview.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/pages\/1559","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/thepetigrureview.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/pages"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/thepetigrureview.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/types\/page"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/thepetigrureview.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/users\/1"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/thepetigrureview.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fcomments&post=1559"}],"version-history":[{"count":0,"href":"https:\/\/thepetigrureview.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/pages\/1559\/revisions"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/thepetigrureview.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fmedia&parent=1559"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}