Federation

Saturday was Flute Federation.  I love the title "Federation," with its Star Trek overtones.  It sounds so serious, and it is.  And intimidating, just like an interplanetary federal republic with a council of mostly aliens in freshly ironed jumpsuits.  If you think the Federation Council is serious, you should see the Flute Federation rules.  They are the most Talmudic thing I've ever encountered in my secular life.  Woe unto anyone who is caught using a photocopy, or hands the judges a piece of music without the measures numbered.  The rules stop just short of, "There shall be no more or less that three cubits between the flautist and the piano."

When Golda was younger, we both stressed way out over Federation.  It happens in April, but the angst begins in the fall when the pieces are chosen.  Every year Golda did well, until one year when there was a scheduling conflict.  Trying to contact the head honcho was like trying to get President Obama's cell number, but I did it, because a mom on a scheduling mission is no match for Fluteland Security.  I got Golda's time changed by promising to give up her firstborn to the Jean-Pierre Rampal Flute Conservatoire.

And then she got a migraine.  Well, heck if that was going to stop us!  If you have a migraine on Federation day, you bring a pair of sunglasses and a bucket.  We learned a lot that day, when Golda ended up with a score of "Excellent," four out of five.  The unthinkable had happened: It wasn't a perfect score.

We now realize that the bad score probably had more to do with our demeanor than her playing.  Even blind and nauseous, Golda played well, but I was there to hover, placing a garbage can next to the music stand just in case she lost her cookies.  I was a wreck and Golda was delirious.  If I have to be honest, I bet the judges took off that point because I was so freaked out.  I cast a blanket of anxiety over the room just with my furrowed brow and shallow breaths.

That's why, this time when we walked into the practice room and saw mothers with their faces pinched in anxious concern, I laughed.  Those mothers didn't know what I now know:  That if the judges take off a point, there is no rift in the universe.  There was one mother in particular, her eyes close-set and wild, who looked like she would shatter if I touched her, she was wound so tightly.  Eventually, she and her poor daughter left, and the rest of us realized that the three students in the room were all practicing the same piece.  Their mother/accompanist and I encouraged them to play it together, just for fun.  Just for fun, moments before performing before judges?  Inconceivable, right?!  Aren't you supposed to be insanely nervous at that crucial moment?

On the contrary, those scary judges just want someone to come in with the confidence and calm to put them at ease, so they can enjoy the music.  Like so many things in life, success depends on thinking about someone else and seeing things from their perspective.  Golda's incredible teacher, Cindy, prepared Golda mentally to know this, as well as preparing her musically. 

Golda played her two pieces very well, while I sagely waited outside the door.  With her "Superior" rating in hand, we went back to the practice room to pack up, where we encountered Pinchy-Face again.  Her daughter had just received a Superior on flute and was preparing for her piccolo performance.  The mom was doubly agitated and said to us, "She is going to warm up now, so you'll probably want to leave."  Yeah, we did!  We were ready to celebrate with a raspberry-chocolate confection at Backer's Bakery.

And guess what, Pinchy-Face?  We would have celebrated with a raspberry-chocolate confection at Backer's even if Golda had completely tanked.  You may go home with two Superior ratings, but in the wise words of Captain Picard, "It is possible to commit no errors and still lose."  We don't plan on doing that ever again!