Shaped Notes By tex norman
He moved into my room. I felt the pressure
change, as if he were an angry thunder
storm, about to rain down hail upon
my head. He was a churning cloud of pent
up charges looking for a place to strike.
I remember that, that day, my room was hot.
My sweating made my church clothes cling to me
so tight that taking off my pants was like
the peeling of banana skins — no lie!
I still had on my church shirt as he rolled
into my room, but, down below, my legs
were bare.
“I’m going to teach you how to read
music, like the kind we sing in church,”
he said, but it was like a speech that he’d
prepared himself to say. This was rehearsed.
“You know son,” said my father, “singing is
Biblically commanded by God’s Word,
but only singing, never instruments.”
“I thought that angels played on harps up there?”
I said.
“Yes, I guess that’s so,” my father said,
“but, I’m sure you know, or you should know,
we speak when the Bible speaks and we
are silent on all subjects where the Bible
is silent. The New Testament of Jesus
Christ says seven times that we should sing,
but never mentions using instruments.
Since singing without instruments is hard,
that’s why we have developed these shaped notes.
Once you learn the shapes and learn the scale,
you can, without piano, learn new tunes.”
There was a tiny blackboard in my room.
My father drew five horizontal lines,
a treble clef, and then he drew shaped notes
and put them on the lines or spaces there.
He pointed to the first shape singing do,”
and then to ray and mi et cetera,
but I was five years old and didn’t care.
My room was hot like mama’s oven, but
without the smell of risen, dying yeast,
and I’d endured a morning spent in church.
All I wanted was to lay down on
the slightly cooler hardwood floor and draw.
He quized me on the shaped notes, but I failed.
“Pay attention, boy!” my father said.
“You’ll please the Lord if you can learn shaped notes,
but boy you’ve got to listen when I talk.”
Worry crawled around inside my shirt.
The fear inside my stomach seemed to rise.
I thought I might vomit up those fears.
Again my father’s finger pointed out
each note. He sang and talked the lesson, only
louder, like a sudden thunder’s slap.
My father pointed to a diamond shape.
“Which note is this note? Do you have a clue?”
My father answered for me, “No you don’t!
Because you do not listen when I speak.
I’m trying to help you. You don’t even care.
I could make you famous, if you just
open up your stupid ears and hear!
But do you listen? You don’t even try.
You’re just a stupid, brainless, sinful boy
who doesn’t care enough about his dad
to listen when his daddy teaches stuff.”
My fingers trembled like the leaves before
a storm, yet I felt rooted to the floor.
“You don’t listen. You don’t even care,”
my father said, “I take my time to spend
with you, yet you don’t have the courtesy
to listen to your father when he talks.”
Then like a thunder bolt he shouted out,
“DO YOU?” Let me hear you say it, NOW!
Let me hear you now say to me ‘no dad.’
Say it right now. Say it to my face.”
I looked down to my toes and said, “No dad.”
“I thought I said to say it to my face?
Can you see daddy’s face down on that floor?
Look me in the eye and say, ‘no dad.’”
I looked him in the eyes and said, “No dad.”
I said it soft, because I didn’t want
to say the words at all.
“What was that?
Did you say something to your daddy, son?
Well, how do you expect your dad to hear
you mumble like a moron? Tell me that.
Now look me in the eye and say real loud,
‘No dad, I never listen when you talk.”
I forced my face to face his face and said
the words he said I had to say. My father
moved in close. Our noses almost touched.
“I can’t HEEAAR you, boy,” my father yelled.
“No dad, I never listen when you talk,”
I yelled.
“The Bible says to love and honor
dads. But you don’t love or honor me.”
“I do!” I said.
“You don’t! Don’t lie to me.
When you lie, it only makes things worse.”
My eyes wandered towards the door.
“Don’t look over there,” my father said.
“Look at me. Look me in the eye
and tell me you don’t love and honor me.”
I didn’t want to say it, but I did.
“I hope someday you’ll know what it is like
to have a kid that will not show respect.”
“I do too love and honor you,” I said.
“Don’t lie to me!” he shouted. “Don’t you lie.”
“I’m not,” I said. “I really, really do.”
“If you cared the way you claim to care
then you should know the shape and name of do.
After all, I taught it to you twice.
So show me that you love me. Point to do.”
I had to guess, because I didn’t know.
“That’s WRONG, you stupid knot-head. Wrong, wrong, wrong!”
Unbuckling his belt, in one swift move,
the leather slipping through the loops, is free.
“I’m going to teach you not to lie,” he said.
“Next time, you’ll pay attention when I talk.”
He looped the belt and swung it at my thighs.
I tried to step away. He grabbed my arm
and pulled me up toward heaven, ‘til my toes
were all of me that touched the earth. And then
he rained down lashes on my legs.
It wasn’t like my father wound down
but more like he was winding himself up.
I must’ve cried and surely I cried out.
I don’t remember that. What I recall,
what I remember, is my mama at
the door. Her voice is shrill with panic as
she’s screaming to my father,
“Dick,” she yells,
“you’re going to kill him. Stop it! Stop it, Dick.”
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