Failure of a Child (Alice)

I unpacked my trumpet and practiced as usual during lunch. To be honest, I was nervous about my audition to the Minecraft Youth Orchestra. I spent my lunch time polishing my piece. My tongue seems to never do what I want it to. My fingers were fine and the notes came out. However, it needed to be perfect. I wanted to honor my family. I come from a line of talented, important people such as military leaders, famous singers, and world-renowned blacksmiths. My father used to be a child prodigy, but his lack of other aptitudes led to him, as he says, "ending up in a dead end." My mother used to be a block artist, but chronic pain ended her career. She still drafts block art on paper, though. Melanie is a singer and and academic superstar. I'm pretty sure she would be touring by now if it weren't for school.

Why couldn't I have been born into a less talented family line? I am an Alder by blood with nothing to show for it. The name means "brave" and "noble", but it should mean "perfect". Most of my ancestors found their talents at a young age. Well, here I am, thirteen years old, and so far talentless. However, work ethic is a viable substitute for talent, isn't it? This is why I practice so often. I started to feel sick halfway through the slow passage. My head felt like it was vibrating. Apparently, I was noticed, so I stopped. It was my music teacher, Miss Netherfield.
         "Eat something."
         "Huh?" I was not expecting that response.
         "Alice, you need to eat. You look about ready to faint." It was true. As touching as her concern was, I needed to practice. "Get something in your body. You can't run without fuel." She handed me a package wrapped in foil. It was warm. I opened it to reveal a fried bologna sandwich with melted cheese. It smelled absolutely delicious, the savory aromas wafting everywhere. I dug into it like a starving wolf. Having skipped breakfast this morning, I never realized how hungry I was. I polished the sandwich off in a matter of minutes.
          On her good days, Mom would make fried bologna sandwiches for us if we did well on things according to her standards. I only remembered tasting it once when I got an A on a math test, the only A in my academic record thus far. After that, even if I managed to come close to an A, my mom told me that she wouldn't waste her spoons on a failure of a child. Yes, "failure of a child". She said those exact words. Whenever I tell anyone about it, they all say that it's the pain talking. However, why does she never say the same thing to Melanie? Sure, she gets frustrated, but she never called Melanie a failure of a child. Tears stung my eyes at the thought.
           "Alice, are you okay?" Miss Netherfield looked at me as if she felt my pain. Something told me she did.
           "Okay? I'm a failure. Don't you see that?" I was sobbing now. Why did my mom have to hate me? I don't get why everyone uses her illness to justify the way she treats me. It sounds selfish because it is. I am a seventh grader balancing school, work, and supporting my family as the youngest child and NO ONE CARES, but my mom can draft block art while laying in bed all day and  basically have the world at her disposal. Why don't you do better? You know you could if you worked hard enough. she often says to me, but DON'T YOU KNOW HOW HARD I'M WORKING????? Just because my grades don't show it doesn't mean I don't work hard. "I'm not talented like the rest of my family and my mom hates me. She always calls me a 'failure of a child' and a 'waste of spoons'. I get that it must be hard to have chronic pain and I must be horribly selfish for saying this, but I don't think she realizes just how hard I work on a daily basis."
            "You are not a failure by any stretch of the world. I know what it's like to have to count my spoons, but I would never consider you, Alex, Nathan, Carmen, or my sixth graders a waste of spoons no matter how little perceived progress any of my students make. You can play all of your major scales, some of them in two octaves, which you wouldn't have even dreamed of before." That was true. "You are the most hardworking student at Mindcrack and it may seem that no one sees it, but many people do. I see it. Mr. Lowell definitely sees it. Kyle sees it. It would be safe to say that the entire high school band sees it. I can't begin to describe how awful it must be to be dismissed and belittled by your own mother. Even if you will never be considered 'talented', whatever that means, know that working hard and doing the right thing are infinitely more important." She reached out wiped the tears from my eyes with a tenderness I have never experienced. "And remember that this is also hard for your mom. I think I know what she's doing to you." She handed me an article about emotional projection. I read it carefully.

I never really thought to look at things through her eyes. Was she just as frustrated as me? Could it be that she called me a failure of a child because she felt like a failure of a mother? As much as I thought she had failed me, I couldn't help but mull over this newfound knowledge.