I was in grade three when I decided I wanted to take piano lessons. My oldest sister was already playing, and that was a good enough reason for me, I wanted to do what she was doing. My first piano teacher welcomed me with the kind of warmth that makes a beginner feel at ease. She kept lessons lighthearted, even when I stumbled through a passage or clearly hadn’t practiced enough that week. In her studio, mistakes weren’t moral failings; they were just part of the process.
My first recital (the only one I would ever do on piano) took place in the gymnasium of Donald Young Public School in Emo, Ontario. The fluorescent lights buzzed faintly overhead, rows of chairs faced the front. I don’t remember the piece I played, but I remember the weight of all those eyes. My hands felt heavy, my mind unsteady, and I couldn’t help comparing myself to the older students who seemed so confident, so accomplished. That performance anxiety stayed with me, shaping and continue to shape my relationship with classical music.
I stopped taking lessons not long after, only to return to them in high school. This time, I tried two different teachers, and while my skills grew, my approach to practicing still wavered. What didn’t waver was my love for band class. That was different, more collaborative, more energizing. It was music as a shared endeavor, where the joy of playing together outweighed the pressure to play flawlessly.
Alongside this structured, Western classical training was another kind of music entirely: the music of powwows. These were spaces where I felt at home, moving through crowds with a bannock burger in hand, watching children dance in handmade regalia, feeling the bass of the grandfather drums through my chest. Sometimes I danced; sometimes I camped out with friends or spent the day with family. The evenings were alive with competition specials and the quiet camaraderie of people who had known each other for a long time.
The powwow circle was not a stage, and the music was not a performance in the Western sense. It was participatory, relational, and embedded in community. You didn’t play for people, you played with them. The song belonged to the people who carried it, and everyone there was part of its life.
As a child and teenager, I didn’t consciously connect these two musical worlds. They were distinct, self-contained spaces in my mind. I could move from a Beethoven sonata to a powwow weekend without giving much thought to how different they were. Each had its own rules, its own expectations, and I adapted without question.
That separation lasted until I began my university studies. Enrolling in courses on music and Indigeneity, engaging in discussions with professors and peers about ethical research, cultural protocol, and colonial structures in music education. It's safe to say my perspective began to shift. I started to see not only the gap between these worlds, but also the historical and systemic forces that keeps them apart.
At the same time, I began to feel this quiet and persistent guilt. Guilt towards my studio and my practice. Here, I was surrounded by instruments from all over the world, yet we rarely discussed their origins, cultural meanings, or the responsibilities that come with playing them. This dissonance between my Indigenous worldview and the dominant culture of Western classical training VERY quickly became impossible to ignore.
Seeing other Indigenous musicians in classical spaces was both encouraging and challenging. On one hand, it was affirming to know I wasn’t alone; on the other, it underscored my own uncertainty about how to bridge these worlds for myself. I began to ask myself difficult questions: What does my bridge look like? How do I hold space for my teachings while continuing to learn within a system that doesn’t always make room for them? What does it mean to participate in a tradition that has, in many ways, excluded or appropriated the music of others?
I don’t yet have all the answers. In fact, I feel I'm just at the beginning and I suspect building this bridge will be lifelong effort. This is work that involves listening deeply, questioning assumptions, and resisting the urge to rush toward a “tidy” resolution.
Growing up between two musical worlds taught me adaptability, but adulthood has shown me that adaptability is only the starting point. The real task is learning how to connect them without erasing the uniqueness of either and to create a space where both can exist in conversation, not competition.
Sincerely,
anang binesi