A place I know well

In the main room on the ground floor there is pink carpet, rickety brown and silver risers, a baby grand piano, stacks of rarely used blue plastic chairs, a chalk board and a black music stand. No air conditioning, inadequate heating, and fluorescent lights (at least one of which is always on the fritz). It is San Francisco, after all. In the summer it tends to be empty. It sits there, waiting for those few days towards the end of July when about 25 alumnae meet. At the beginning of August, the room gets a nice surprise, 44 girls bond over their hard work. Then, another break. The stains from spilled vitamin water become more visible. The sweatshirts find a home in the corner. A couple of different groups come to practice. But all the time, the room waits. Come fall, the building is bustling. The upstairs rooms are full. Parents mill around, listening to their daughters sing (although that is discouraged). It’s only September, but the sounds of Christmas are already in the air. And so it continues. Come December, the room is packed. All 300 girls pile into it, surely a fire hazard. The risers are pushed back. The music stand is on a podium. The baby grand is pushed to the front of the room. The room becomes stuffy. The back door to the ally is pushed open. One of the administrators from upstairs stands in the doorway to make sure no one leaves without a parent. Then, a break. In springtime, beautiful music is heard throughout the hall. Now the 44 girls are comfortable with each other. The room is ready to allow overtones to be discernable. The pink carpet has become normal. The cracked white paint is no longer noticeable. Come May, it will all be over. Time for another break. Another period of silence. But those white walls and that pink carpeted floor—they have heard so much music come together over the last year, and are ready to hear the process start over.