Zhemin Shao

Give a moment of grace to the brave soul who struggles on the common room piano. 

Pay no mind to a misplayed note or stochastic rhythm. Do not let them disturb your walk to the dining hall. 

In between getting lost in basements and figuring out how to open doors, one of Yale’s quirks that stood out to me was its abundance of public pianos. They can be spotted in the more well-furnished dining halls and in every common room. In the Hopper common room, I even found two: placed back to back in anticipation of their next duet.

My problem with Yale’s pianos is that they don’t get played. I was sitting in the Silliman common room a few weeks ago, doing my anthropology readings and waiting for the dining hall to open. It was dead quiet. Everyone was engrossed in their work — headphones in and marooned on isolated couches. 

Two people entered the room, and the silence was interrupted by their announcement: “We apologize for the disturbance. We’ve been asked to tune the piano. It’s going to be noisy in here for an hour or so.” 

One sat down on the piano bench, and the other at a table nearby. They began to ring out the notes one by one, repeating each a few times before moving on to the next. Most common room inhabitants were polite enough to stay for a minute or two before they got up to flee. 

So, yeah. No one wants to listen to a piano get tuned. But this was the first time I had heard any notes at all from one of Yale’s common room Steinways. In the weeks since, I’ve been on the lookout for the common room piano players. One night, when the notes of a concerto floated up through the floorboards of the Saybrook library, I dashed down the stairs to see who was there. By the time I opened the door to the common room, the bench was empty. 

I’ve been lucky enough to hear one or two pop renditions during my walks to lunch. Some of my more musically-inclined friends have humored me when I begged hard enough. And there was one night in JE when we took a break from studying to drink cider and dance to someone’s music. But most of the time, the pianos sit still and silent in the corners — mere decorations for passersby.

Before my high school days, I too was a pursuer of the fine arts. I practically grew up in a classical ballet studio. I was training for 20 hours a week at my peak. Miss Pam, my instructor, was a Royal Ballet School trainee and ex-professional dancer. She imbued us with good technique, all else be damned. I learned how to not rush the arms of the port de bras and to time a turn such that you looked suspended, floating in the air for a split second before landing. I waltzed across the floor and launched myself into daring jetés. The music ruled you, and you had to rule the technique. 

We rehearsed for hours on end with our old studio speakers until it was time for the real deal. For our last week of rehearsals and final performances on the community college stage, we were graced with a real pit orchestra. Live music creates a relationship between the dancer and the orchestra. The dancer is at the whim of the musicians, but the conductor may take cues from what happens onstage. These were my first tastes of rhythm and music — of watching and listening and being watched. 

I left dancing behind when I was 13, along with other arts-y childhood phases: trumpet, guitar and yes, even piano. I wanted the time to do other things, and the arts faded into hindsight. 

My residential college dean was the first person who explained how Yale is the school of “and.” A capella and rugby and orchestra and debate; whatever your heart desires, you can pursue it here. I resisted this ethos of the liberal arts. It felt too idealistic, too impractical. And yet, something about those silent common room pianos still nagged at me. It’s not like we’re lacking in talent — I’ve met many trained musicians in these halls. Maybe they prefer to have their trials and tribulations in private. I wouldn’t know. 

My time here has just begun. I applied to Yale without knowing anything about this place, something I am usually too scared (or embarrassed) to admit. But there’s something to be said for the idea that nobody knows what Yale is really like until they’re here. 

I hope that my time at Yale does embody the “and” in the sense of the coordinating conjunction: linking together all of our passions and interests. But I also want to use “and” as a response to a question; use “and” as artillery against the pressure to perform in a place where most everyone is the best at what they do. As in, I don’t know anything about playing the piano — yes, AND? Here we have these beautiful instruments at our disposal. It would be a shame not to use them. 

In this school of “and,” it’s easy to get caught up in how good Yalies are at what they do. But I also want this place to embrace my not-so-perfect exploration. For the first time in five years, I took a ballet class again. I stumbled through it — yes, AND? I’ll be back again next week. When I think no one is listening, I might attempt a quick tune on the piano, too.