I still have my recorder, circa 1975. And I can still play it, badly. It’s just another page in my personal nerd file.
Recorder lessons were new that year in my Catholic grade school, offered by an overzealous and underpaid music teacher who favored folk songs and skiffle bands. At that age I thought I wanted to be a music teacher when I grew up, so I sought a variety of melodious experience. I’d ditched piano lessons by then, believing I’d mastered the ivories well enough, and grabbed this opportunity to widen my musical horizons. I was intrigued by this plastic wind instrument, and not recognizing the nerdiness with which it would brand me, I signed up.
No one else did.
But the overzealous and underpaid music teacher gave me lessons anyway. I even played my recorder at a school concert.
Playing the recorder may or may not be my nerdiest accomplishment as a youngster. My early life is filled with competing examples. For instance, I was a student safety patrol. And student council secretary. Twice. And yearbook co-editor. I went to science camp. And student council camp. And so on.
I could say, “That was then.” However, I’m still a nerd now. But I’ve confessed enough for one day.