Bumblebees (912 words)

“Whether you think you can or think you can’t, you’re right.” These words are attributed to Henry Ford, the automaker.

My dad had another way of putting it. “Bumblebees can’t fly,” he always said. “Their wings are too small and their bodies are too big. The laws of physics are clear… they can’t fly,” he said. “But they don’t know that. So, they fly anyway. If you think you can do something, you can.”

Never say can’t is what he meant. Where there’s a will there’s a way. It was that sort of thing.

A Classical Pianist

Benjamin, my older son, wanted to be a scientist but gave it up to pursue a career in the performing arts instead. Among other pieces, he plays Rimsky-Korsakov’s “The Flight of the Bumblebee.” I think he does that for a reason.

Benjamin also does as he pleases. After playing the piano for nearly 12 years, he suddenly gave it up along with his piano scholarship to pursue life as an animator in Japan. No kidding. 

It didn’t matter much what advice he was given to the contrary, nor who gave him the advice. He didn’t listen to me, his father. He paid little attention to his teachers. His friends proved unreliable confidants. Instead, he listened to the little voice inside that said, “You can do what you put your mind to.” After all, it was his life and he was determined to do as he pleased. This is not the same as only trying to please himself. He was going to follow his dream, perhaps fly like a bumblebee.

A Japanese Animator

Benjamin taught himself animating and in the end successfully passed interviews, screenings, portfolio submissions and tests to get accepted as a ‘tweener’ (the person who draws all the pictures that hold key animation ideas together) for a large Japanese animation company – the one of Kill Bill fame.

He worked hard – Japanese hard – from 7:30am to 10:00pm, including long train ride commutes. Still, in the late evenings after he came home he practiced at the piano. Not because he was told to, but because he wanted to.

Sometimes he called me long distance, “Papa, I’m sorry. I only practiced two hours today.” More often than not I had to tell him to take a break. He never had to be told to practice.

A Sometimes Pianist

Benjamin decided to participate in a state-wide (they are called prefectures in Japan) piano competition in western Japan. He planned to do it just for the fun of it. Perhaps he would add the results of the competition to his resume, if they were satisfactory. The other contestants chose a Beethoven piece – Moonlight Serenade, or a Mozart concerto – something light-hearted that everyone would recognize, or a Chopin etude – even non-classical music enthusiasts could hum along or tap their feet. Benjamin, however, chose to perform an extremely difficult Bach Toccata – two melodies going on at the same time but played out of synche. 

He played it flawlessly.

An All-the-time Hard Worker

Benjamin is not a genius. One of his teachers defined for me that a genius musician or even an exceptionally talented piano player could learn a new piece in a relatively short time, usually within four to six hours of continual effort. Benjamin must spend four to six hours each day for four to six days, or more, to keep up with those ‘geniuses.’ Calling someone talented is often an excuse for not making the sacrifices that are necessary to excel. Benjamin does not commit himself to a schedule; rather he commits himself to learning, no matter the sacrifices he must make. His ‘talent’ is to work hard. But then, a father would think that about his son, wouldn’t he?

Benjamin won the prefecture-wide competition; took first place in the open division. His competitors came from all over Japan, including other young men and women who had graduated from music schools, did nothing but prepare for the competition and so on. 

There were congratulatory remarks flying everywhere and his normal stern disciplined countenance turned briefly upside-down into a smile. Someone even thought to call his teacher, Kosugi-san, a renowned pianist throughout Japan, and congratulate Kosugi-san on a job well done by one of his pupils. Kosugi-san responded, “There is no need to congratulate me. Benjamin never listens to me. He only does as he pleases.” 

Always a Bumblebee

The boy was a boy. Now a young man. Perhaps he had listened more than was thought. But, in the end, he still did what he thought was best.

Someone overheard one of the judges remark, “I would never play that piece in a competition.”

“Why?” another judge countered.

“That piece is far too difficult.”

“Yeah, and…?”

The judge continued, “I would play something easier so I would have a better chance of winning. I can’t believe that young man chose such a difficult piece.”

“You’re right. But the boy still played it and in this setting, and perfectly.”

Did You Hear What They Said?

“Benji, did you hear what those judges were saying about you?” his mother asked.

“Un,” was his reply, in Japanese. The grunt is a one syllable version of the English equivalent “Uh-huh” and means the same thing.

Later in the evening, Benji telephoned me internationally to let me know about the competition. After recounting the above he concluded by telling me, “Papa, I didn’t know I wasn’t supposed to be able to play such a difficult piece in a competition. I thought I should play something I like, something I could put all of my effort into.”

“Yep, Benjamin, you should do what you want,” I said.

Benjamin responded, “Papa, I guess I was a bumblebee that night.”

Yeah, Benjamin. I think you were.

Today? Benjamin makes his living as a composer and music director. He is also writing, drawing and creating the musical for a unique space opera. 

Oh. Don't even think about telling him he can't do it.