The sound of old, rickety, and out-of-tune keys of my grandmother’s baby grand piano rings through my mind when I feel nostalgic. It was visibly worn as the dark lacquer spread across the semi-glossed wood had chipped, and the ivory keys were engraved with dust, dirt, and scratches. Each time I sat on the hard, dusty wood seat and opened the fallboard, an earthy, woody, and a note of spice smell would emit from the wood. My father constantly put my grandmother on a pedestal, not only because she was his mother but also because she was an incredible woman. She was simply a go-getter, a self-made realtor who worked night and day. She persistently tried to support my father’s love for music through a grade school choir and high school band and his passion through college and beyond. Even while poor, my grandparents were able to buy a baby grand piano that my father played as soon as his fingers could glide across it. My father cherished it dearly and played it every waking moment and chance he had. His cultivating love for music since birth is present in his values, and he encourages my siblings and me to pursue any passion for playing or listening to music. As I press those worn keys, I can’t help but imagine my grandmother’s resilience in each note, her abominable spirit that fought against all odds. Every stroke of the keys is a chord that connects me to the determination she instilled in our family.

– Shalah

Relationship:  Im/migrant who arrived as a child Im/migrant who arrived as a child