Chopsticks: Friend or Foe?

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By Eunice Nam

Now, reading such a title, especially coming from a Korean-Canadian writer, you are probably assuming that the following piece is going to be about food and the use of chopsticks (those wooden/ivory/metal utensils commonly used by us Asian folk).
Well, if you were of such an assumption, you would be wrong. For the chopsticks I am referring to require an even greater necessity of skill and dexterity than even those two long aforementioned eating sticks. (Although, interestingly enough, these chopsticks are made of ivory as well.)
I am talking about the dreaded “pianitis” disease.
Now, if you are as yet unaware of this horrible disease that afflicts Korean parents (and other Asian parents, especially of Chinese descent), but causes undue suffering to their unsuspecting children in the process, I feel it is my duty to enlighten you. You see, I am a victim – and proud survivor – of this sad illness.
Here is the official definition, according to the Nam Dictionary of Semi-Fictionalized Terms:

pianitis (pē-ăn-nī’tĭs) n. disease that afflicts primarily parents of Asian descent (in particular Korean and Chinese parents) that causes them to believe that their child is the next Mozart, even if the child quite blatantly does not possess, not even remotely, such a skill and never will; usually causes undue suffering to said child and to neighbours within hearing vicinity of child’s “talent”; there is no known cure.

This awful illness afflicts one in three Korean families (according to informal, unofficial polling done by this writer) and usually affects all the children in a family.
Such was the case in my family. My brother, sister and I all had to suffer under my parents’ pianitis, which would tend to flare up whenever they would see some Hee-Sung Lee* or other Korean piano virtuoso on PBS. They would inevitably turn to us, their pianitis causing their eyes to glaze over, and say, “That could be you – if only you practised more”.
Now, when dealing with parents with this disease, logic and rational arguments are ineffectual. For when they hear your terrible rendition of “The Wonderful Thing About Tiggers” and still believe that just a bit more practise will turn you into the next child prodigy, it is obvious that the disease is already in its full-blown stage.
I will forever be haunted by my piano teacher’s endless tirade of, “Child, did you practise?!” and the incessant sound of the metronome in my fitful dreams. (For the record, no, I hadn’t practised, unless humming is considered practise.)
It took my parents many years to recover from their pianitis. What cured them, you ask? Was it the knowledge that having a happy child was more important than seeing their child on a PBS special? Was it the threats from the neighbours to start drum lessons? Was it my piano teacher’s unfortunate breakdown with a sledgehammer, where she smashed her piano while incessantly chanting, “Did you practise?!  Did you practise?!”
No, it was none of these things.
It was something called “violinitis”.

*Name changed to protect identity from vengeful Korean children.

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