I, Ukulelist

"Tropical Depression" by Patti Liszkay
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​I, UKULELIST

​...Continued from yesterday:   
           If a piano player is a pianist, a guitar player a guitarist, a saxophone player a saxophonist, etc., does it follow linguistically that a ukulele player is a ukulelist? I suppose the question of whether a ukulele player is a ukulelist is as discussion-worthy as the question of why I wanted to become one.       
       My journey to becoming a ukulelist (if it wasn't a word before I'm officially christening it) began sometime last year when we were planning this year's trip to Hawaii. After having  visited the Hawaiian islands several times previously, I felt a yearning this time to immerse myself in the Hawaiian culture beyond what one can absorb as a one-week tourist. Which would be a challenge, considering that I was going to be a one-week tourist. Well, two-week tourist, actually, but as the first of those weeks I'd be spending with my visiting children and grandchildren, that left only the second week open to cultural pursuits; provided. of course, that my mate Tom was not adverse to being abandoned while I pursued culture.
         "Nah, I don't mind," said Tom, ever the good sport. "I'll find something to do while you're pursuing the culture."

      Being a linguaphile, and language being one of the primary means of expressing culture, my first idea was to learn Hawaiian. Or as much Hawaiian as one could learn in a week. I was thinking about something along the lines of the immersive Spanish language school I attended for a week in León, Nicaragua, where I spent three hours a day one-on-one with my wonderful teacher, Zorayda, while she immersed me in Spanish language and Nicaraguan culture. 
       My teacher, Zorayda, in our classroom in León. (Sadly, I didn't realize when I snapped this picture what a bad spot I'd picked for lighting).

     Alas, in my internet search I didn't come across any immersive Hawaiian classes in Honolulu. Immersive English classes, yes, immersive Hawaiian classes, no. 
     But then, the more I thought about it, the less sense it made to take a week of immersive Hawaiian, anyway. Once I left the island and returned to Columbus, Ohio, when would I have a chance to practice my Hawaiian with another human? 
       Then I came up with the idea of learning ukulele, the instrument of the Hawaiian islands. I figured that if I could find a teacher in Honolulu who would be willing to jump-start me with a lesson every day for a week, then mayhaps I could figure the rest out for myself or with the help of the internet and practice on my own.   
          I found online the names of a few music schools in Honolulu that taught ukulele. But that was as far as I got. I guess I just didn't know where or how to start  trying to arrange what I had in mind.
          Anyway, I put the idea of immersive Hawaiian lessons, immersive ukulele lessons, or immersive anything on the back burner.
​           But then after we arrived in Honolulu, every time we we walked into downtown Waikiki we'd pass by the Kamehameha Ukulele store.       

      And every time we passed the store I'd think about taking ukulele lessons and wonder if there was someone at that store who might be able and willing give me a few.
      Finally, after a a week of wondering, I decided to go to the Kamehameha Ukulele store and ask, long shot though I knew it to be. 
        And so on Easter Sunday evening (see previous post) Tom and I walked the several blocks from the Hale Koa to the Kamehameha Ukulele. Inside the store was a young sales clerk plucking away on  one of the ukuleles for a customer. I listened to him play for a few moments and thought, that kid knows how to play the ukulele.
          I waited until the sales clerk had finished with his previous customer,  then I approached him and told him what I was seeking. I learned that his name was Ron, that he was a college student studying language education, that Kamehameha Ukulele was his evening job, that he'd taught some ukulele, and that - glory hallelujah! - he'd be willing to give me an immersive ukulele lesson every day starting the following day, Monday through Friday, for the next week.
            Ron, my ukulele teacher, at Kamehameha Ukulele.

      We arranged that I would meet Ron every day at 4 pm outside of the Kamehameha for a 45-minute lesson before his shift at the store began at 5 pm.
       Ron turned out to be a top-notch teacher. The first day he taught me the basics, how to hold the instrument, how to strum and pluck, finger numbers, string names, some scale work, etc. He gave me a chord sheet and taught me how to strum my first song, "Happy Birthday to You." 
         He had brought an extra ukulele for me to use and offered to let me take it with me back to my hotel to practice on. I turned down Ron's generous offer but told him that I'd seen ukuleles for sale at the ABC store, that ubiquitous chain of everything-you-need-and-don't-need stores that one finds on every block in Honolulu.

      "Buy the fifty-dollar one," Ron advised me. So I did.
      Each day for five days Ron immersed me for forty-five minutes in beginner ukulele technique,

...and every night I went back to my hotel room and practiced.

     Starting ukulele was hard. Harder than I thought it was going to be. And I feel a bit sheepish saying that, being a piano teacher and knowing how much effort and work goes into learning an instrument, and all the years of faithful practice that are required to become proficient. Still, it was hard, trying to scrunch my hands onto that small neck and figure out where the notes and chords were, musical units that are laid out so clearly on a keyboard. 

        But now I was the student, the beginner, struggling to build new muscle patterns in my hands and forge new neural pathways in my brain so that my hands and brain might eventually sync and create something that might be called music on this little four-stringed box.

      Towards the end of the week I decided that, challenging as it was, I was going to keep learning and practicing  and becoming a ukulelist, and I wanted to do it on a better instrument than my $50 ABC Store model. I had Ron pick out one from the Kamehameha inventory that would be a good size and fit for me. 

     My Kamehameha ukulele:

   "Now return your old one to the ABC Store," Ron advised me. 
    "You think they'll take it back after I already played it for days?"
    "Sure," said Ron. "They'll take anything back."
     And so I took my old new ukulele back to the ABC Store. They took it back.
     Epilogue:
     Since my return home from Honolulu I've been practicing every day, usually 20 minutes twice a day. 

 My teacher said not to practice more than twenty minutes at a time, as I might otherwise hurt my hand. So I try to listen to my teacher and keep my practices at twenty minutes. But sometimes I can't resist throwing a few more minutes on, even if I pay with aching fingers. And sometimes I pick up my ukulele throughout the day and practice strumming or plucking for a few minutes. Just because, though I'm not even any good yet, somehow playing my ukulele cheers me up, makes me forget my troubles and get happy. 
        Anyway, after a month of practicing, here's what I've conquered. Baby steps.