When I was in the lower grades of elementary school, there was physical punishment at the piano class I attended.
The teacher would physically punish a "bad kid" who could hardly be said to have any talent—hitting them on the hands or face, or snapping them with her fingers in ways that wouldn't leave many marks. But perhaps things escalated, or perhaps she wanted to make accomplices of us to shift the blame, because she started telling us students to physically punish the child as well.
Looking back now, since we were the ones paying tuition, we should have reported it to the adjacent office or told our parents to put a stop to it. But bound by the authority of the word "teacher," we too cried while hitting the child.
Perhaps because that child was still at an age where they couldn't yet distinguish between school and extracurricular lessons, they seemed unable to resist.
About a month had passed when, on that day too, the teacher flew into a rage over a minor mistake in playing, and first hit the child on the head. Then, telling us, "Take turns snapping their wrist," she held the child from behind in a full nelson, grabbed their wrists, and pushed them forward.
Reluctantly, saying "I'm sorry," we too snapped the child's wrist. The teacher would get angry if we didn't put force into it, so we couldn't hold back. Finally, the teacher hit the child on the head one more time, and that should have been the end of it. But for reasons unknown, the teacher gave the child a violent shove.
My memory of what happened after this is a blank. All I can recall in fragments are bloodstains scattered across the classroom, our crying voices, adults who looked like police officers, the sound of sirens, people from the office, our parents and the child's parents, and the unmoving white legs of that child.
After a while, our class got a new teacher. Apparently, she was a very distinguished teacher who had instructed many talented pianists in the past. The faces in the class changed, too. Most of the children who had been in the room at that time quit, and I think there were only myself and maybe one other familiar face left.
The child who was shoved that day is no longer there. Since we went to different schools, I don't know what happened to them after that. I've even forgotten their name, and honestly, I don't even know if that child is still alive. If they had passed away, it should have been a big news story, so I want to believe they are okay.
Even though I was just a child, I continue to blame myself for failing to stop the abuse.
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