IS THIS CHILD A PRODIGY ?

Miami Herald, The (FL)
May 26, 1991
Author: MEG LAUGHLIN Herald Staff Writer

It is time, Bles and Andy Chavez have decided, for the world to know about Rehina, their baby daughter. Two years ago, when she was barely 3, it started. She would crawl up on the piano bench and play pieces like Flight of the Bumble Bee that took her sister Eyrra, 10, and brother Eurice, 11, weeks to master. By the time she was 4, she was composing. She would wake up and say she had dreamed a tune, then go to the piano and play it.

"This one is Butterfly Gold," she would tell her parents in a little soft voice. "This one is Mountain Rain."

They were sad, romantic pieces, like theme songs from the Fifties movies her parents had grown up on in the Philippines. The compositions would start off like Ferrante and Teicher, then turn into Henry Mancini: grand and sweeping arrangements that collapsed into simple, sweet melodies. She would play in a minor or major key. She would close her eyes and arrange as she went. She would get up from the dinner table and go to the piano to get a tune out of her head.

Her parents couldn't believe their ears. Where had this ability come from? How long would it last? Who could guide them?

One afternoon about a year ago when Rehina was going on 5, she went to her mother's choir practice at St. Patrick's and her mother got her to play for Father James Murphy. About a month later, after Sunday Mass, he swept Rehina up into his arms in front of the whole congregation and put her down in front of the piano.

She played a couple of her own compositions and everyone went wild. They rushed up to her oohing and ahhing. Some of the parishioners even put money in a collection plate and gave it to her. A gift from them, they told her parents, to honor a gift from God.

Was it possible, Bles and Andy Chavez began to ask each other, that this little child of theirs was -- they could hardly say it -- a PRODIGY?

But they did say it, and they did dare to think what it might mean, dreaming even more of how their lives might change for the better than they had in 1984 when they still lived in the Philippines and thought about coming to the States.

It was in 1984, before Rehina was born but after Ninoy Aquino had been assassinated. The entire Filipino economy was a mess. Andy could no longer afford oil for the machinery that turned the palay on his farm into salable rice, and everything was falling apart. They realized that, with Bles' training as a nurse, she could get a job over here. They could live in a house with wall-to-wall carpeting, like in the American movies they had seen growing up.

Bles got a job as a psychiatric nurse at Mount Sinai and came over first. Andy followed with the two toddlers, Eurice and Eyrra.

Goodbye, thatched huts and wandering pigs. Hello, big cars and kitchen appliances. Like Bles, Andy was amazed with how things were over here. Not at the electricity and the indoor plumbing everywhere -- he'd read about them -- but at the way people acted. They took large steps and moved fast and talked loud and made deals with lots of bravado. Over here, it seemed, people demanded to be heard; they had to take up space. The idea was not to find a spot and fit in, but to elbow your way into larger and larger spheres. Bles and Andy couldn't seem to get the knack of it.

Despite a university degree in political science from the Lyceum of the Philippines in Manila, Andy could only get clerical jobs. Maybe because he wasn't aggressive enough, he thought. Or physically smaller than a lot of people. Maybe because he didn't know anyone. Maybe because he looked Asian. But whatever the reason, he felt that most people over here couldn't see him for what he was. To this day, he says, when the family goes to Publix, someone asks him to bag groceries. He longs for the bayanihan -- the community respect that was a daily part of life back home.

"People need to know about Rehina," he says. "They will see what this little child of ours can do and be surprised. Maybe, they will see us differently."

For Bles, adjusting to life here has been easier. In the Philippines her role had been different from Andy's. It was up to her to be gentle and humble, pretty and graceful -- all characteristics that serve her well as a nurse at Mount Sinai. When patients or superiors get heavy-handed, she just smiles sweetly and promises to try harder.

Her only regret has been that she hasn't done what she loves most: painting, writing poetry, singing and playing the piano. When she lived in the Philippines, she thought people in the United States had time and money to pursue interests besides work and family. She dreamed of having a life in the arts, but living here has not been that way. Except for singing in the church choir, she has given up her dream.

"But when Rehina plays," she says, "I feel I have been given a second chance."

Bles' mother, Soledad, who lives with them in northeast Miami in their three-bedroom house, also came here with great hope but has had pause to think.

This is not to say that she doesn't appreciate what she has. She loves being with her family; she loves the kitchen, so white, so clean and modern, and the living room, so cheerful and suburban, with its bright blue wall-to-wall carpeting and framed pictures, but she too has frustrations. She left the Philippines just before she was eligible for a pension. All those years thinking about retiring, and now that she's retired, she worries about where she'll get money.

"I am waiting," she says, "for my little granddaughter to make us rich."

After all the attention Rehina had gotten at church for playing the piano, Bles and Andy decided it was time for her to start formal piano lessons. Bles looked through the yellow pages to find a piano teacher in the neighborhood and landed on Metropolitan Entertainment Music Studio. Bring the little tyke over, Anita Justiz, the owner, said. They always had space for another 4-year-old at $25 an hour.

But when Justiz heard Rehina play, she said this child was different. This child was a genius on the piano. They would give her lessons for free. Her talent was so great it would be honored without remuneration.

The Chavezes talked about this amazing offer. Should they be suspicious? . In the Philippines, this kind of deal came with a price, a puwede ba. But could it be that this wasn't true, here? Once again, their youngest child had amazed them. They could only wonder what would happen next.

Rehina had a solo in the school Christmas pageant at St. Patrick's this past year. Then she went to a talent competition in Fort Lauderdale with Justiz, the owner of the music school. She played the piano and won a big, flashy trophy that has Show Biz printed on it. But there was only one other little child competing, and they couldn't kid themselves that this was a big deal. They were starting to get restless. The new compositions in her book weren't enough. Nor were the drawings of little hands to show she was learning fingering. They needed something bigger.

On a late afternoon in mid-April, Rehina, 5, waits at the window in her best outfit -- peach stretch pants and a matching glitter T-shirt -- with a satin and lace bow in her hair. Her mother would not let her sleep in the car on the way home from school, as she usually does. No, she told Rehina, today you must be especially alert. You must play all the tunes and not be cranky. Someone from the newspaper is coming to see you.

Bles called The Miami Herald at Andy's suggestion. Every day, he goes out to the car during his lunch break from his clerk's job at Mount Sinai and reads the paper, sitting in the car with the windows rolled down, carrying on the kind of silent political dialogue with the reporters that he wishes the guys at work would carry on with him. He has developed a one-sided friendship with some of the reporters, he says. That's why he told Bles to call the paper about Rehina.

For the day the reporter is to come, Andy has taken off from work.

Soledad is warming sweet cakes with cheddar cheese, wrapped in paper to make them extra special.

The two older children have been told to play one piece on the piano, then start on their homework. Like good Filipino children, they are to be reserved and not clamor for attention, their father tells them.

Bahala na, Bles whispers when the doorbell rings. Whatever happens is God's will.

Rehina opens the door for the reporter. She says nothing and stares at the visitor while her mother talks. Rehina has always loved music, her mother says. And, so has she. As a child, when they couldn't afford a piano, she put water in bottles and hit them with a fork to play tunes.

"My daughter didn't want to be a nurse," says Rehina's grandmother, who comes in with the sweet cheese cakes wrapped in paper. "She wanted to do something artistic, but she had to make a living."

The father introduces himself and the two older children. The room is tense with expectation.

But, suddenly, there is music, a sad romantic song. Rehina is sitting at the piano, reaching from one end to the other, playing with great intent, while pumping away on the pedals, which have huge blocks on them to put them within reach. She plays three songs from Phantom of the Opera and a couple of her own compositions.

She is small for a 5-year-old, but her movements have a groundedness about them that make her seem sturdy. Also, she has an I-know-what-you're-up-to look that suggests wisdom. It is not that she is overly serious but rather that she seems to know exactly what she's doing and why, at every moment. In this way, she is like her father.

But, for the most part, she is a typical 5-year-old: Her favorite television program is Star Search. She watches it every Saturday night with her parents. Her favorite food is mommy's chicken, though she can single-handedly down a box of Pringles, as she later demonstrates. She thinks the most beautiful name in the world is Bernadette. She loves playing office when she gets to be boss, and her favorite things in school are the swings and puzzles.

Her kindergarten teacher at St. Patrick's, Mrs. Wise, says she's a smart little girl with great resolve. A shy child who has just recently started socializing and does it with such fervor that it's as if it never occurred to her that school could be about more than following directions.

But the reporter has not been invited over to see what is normal about Rehina, but what is extraordinary. What do you think, Bles and Andy Chavez ask, coaxing Rehina to play yet another piece. Hmmm, thinks the reporter. She is so little and so definite on the piano. This is delicious. But the pieces: Though pretty, they don't seem complex. Who knows? Someone else will have to judge. The reporter promises to come back in a few days with an expert.

Ruth Greenfield, well-known Miami pianist, composer and teacher, takes a Peter and the Wolf book, complete with arrangements for piano, and a Bugs Bunny plastic carrot full of candy corn to the Chavez house. While Rehina plays and Ruth sits next to her, Bles sits across the room with her hand over her mouth, tapping her foot and nodding along with the music. When her daughter finishes a few romantic pieces, Bles looks longingly at Ruth.

"She has a wonderful sense of the right sound," says Greenfield, "and an impressive muscular aptitude. She is all over the piano. The music is a real part of her whole body, isn't it?"

"But," asks Bles, faintly, "is she a PRODIGY?"

"I hesitate to use that word," says Greenfield.

Bles' face falls. This is obviously not what she wants to hear.

Ever since she was a teen-ager, the word prodigy has held special meaning for Bles. In high school in the Philippines, she read an article about Cecile Licad, a young girl who, like her, was very poor and loved music. The article said Imelda Marcos had bought Cecile a piano and was supporting her because she was a prodigy. From then on, Bles connected the word with a magical ability to have a future that she, herself, would never have.

But Ruth Greenfield has declined to call Rehina a prodigy. There is silence in the room. Bles, who has sad eyes anyway, suddenly seems too sad. Greenfield offers more: "It's remarkable how she uses the pedal. You never see that on a child this small."

Bles and Andy nod half-heartedly.

Soledad brings out pancit Canton, Filipino noodles, she has made for the occasion.

Eyrra and Eurice come in and play their pieces flawlessly and everyone applauds. Bles points to a lighted glass cabinet full of scholastic trophies that the two older children have won.

"Why, you're a wonderful family," says Ruth. "Every one of you."

But the atmosphere is subdued, as if everyone is trying to recover from something.

Then, Greenfield makes a suggestion: "Could we take Rehina," she asks, "to Loretta Dranoff's house right now?"

She explains that Dranoff is a concert pianist whose family sponsors an international piano competition, in fact the largest and most prestigious two-piano competition in the country. Rehina can watch Greenfield and Dranoff practice for a concert, and then Rehina can play and Dranoff will offer another opinion of Rehina's ability.

The Chavezes grab their car keys.

At Loretta Dranoff's house in North Miami on the bay, the sun is setting, casting pink shadows on the water. The two grand pianos in the living room reflect the colors of twilight, making everything more melodramatic. Bles and Andy Chavez sit on the edge of the sofa, not saying a word. Their tiny daughter climbs up behind the vast expanse of black and starts to play a Filipino folk song, as if she knows her parents need to hear something close to home to feel better.

They have come so far. They have done so well. But the struggle continues: for money, for respect, for friends, for a life outside of work. For a way to mark progress in this strange land. When Rehina finishes, they look at Loretta Dranoff and wait.

"She is unusual," Dranoff says. "Most little kids stay in one small area of the piano . . . . And what an ear for harmony. Her abilities are natural, the kind you cannot teach. I have only seen a handful of children that age with that kind of talent."

But is she a prodigy? It is the reporter who whispers the word this time.

"It is not a word I would use, at this stage," says Dranoff, "though she may develop into one in the next few years."

Loretta Dranoff goes on to explain. When she hears the word prodigy, she says, she thinks of an unfathomable ability to play like an adult at a young age.

"Rehina plays like a good 9- or 10-year-old, but not like an adult."

The Chavezes thank everyone. It has been helpful to hear from experts, they say. They have not gotten exactly what they wanted, they say later, but they have gotten enough to stay motivated. There is still time for Rehina to become a prodigy.

Every Saturday, Katherine Storr, 24, comes to the Chavez house to give Rehina a free lesson because she thinks the child is so talented. Storr graduated from the Royal College of Music in London, then studied with Konrad Wolfe for three years in New York before coming to Miami to study with Ivan Davis at the University of Miami. Like Rehina, she had a natural ability as a small child. But, unlike Rehina, she has spent 20 years trying to master the technical proficiency to turn the natural ability into something enduring.

"You have to be patient," she tells the family.

But this is not what Anita Justiz, the owner of the music school where Storr teaches, tells the family. Justiz talks about talent shows in L.A. and Dallas with big cash prizes. She mentions The Tonight Show. She says she can hook Rehina up with some big names in the business.

"I got to be honest," Justiz says. "I think it's what the parents want." But Bles and Andy say they are not so sure anymore. They talk it over a lot. Maybe not TV. Maybe just the paper. Maybe not L.A. The talent show in Dallas is as far as they want to go. It will have to be a step-by-step process. The question is how big should each step be. They are starting to worry about the delicate balance between encouragement and expecting too much.

They are smart to worry, says David Feldman, professor of developmental psychology at Tufts University and author of Nature's Gambit, a 10-year study of child prodigies (published by Teacher's College Press, due out in paperback in September). Such children are hard to come by and even harder to sustain, he says.

Prodigies -- children with abilities 10 years beyond their age in a certain field -- keep at it only if they have a sense of purpose beyond the attainment of fame or money. It could be religious, for the glory of God, says Feldman. It could be to make the world a better place. For things like beauty and justice. Or it could be for love. But it's never for TV appearances or cash prizes.

"In the case of the classical prodigy, who is the child of immigrants in a close-knit family," says Feldman, "it is sometimes enough for the child to give the family something to rally around."

The Chavezes are sitting around their dining room table talking about Rehina's future. Whether she's a prodigy or not, we'll go slowly, says Andy. Guide her with patience. We'll back her in whatever way we can, says Bles. It is the way of Filipino parents to keep a tight rein on the children, strongly disciplining and instructing, and Andy and Bles are continuing in this tradition. They like to think their children will have the opportunities and confidence that this country has given them but will still be Filipino.

They will know the customs of their heritage, their father says: About how everyone helps a sick neighbor plant rice back home, just to help out, not for money. About how 30 people move a house for the same purpose. Take all day to hoist it up and walk it a mile down the road. About how there is always a party afterward, a celebration of the job done. The children will grow up with the sense of duty and love of festivity that is part of their parents' past.

Take for instance, Bles offers, the Easter tradition in their little village. Just before daybreak on Easter, when the world is dark and still full of doom because of the Crucifixion, a little girl, dressed in an angel costume complete with wings, goes to the castilio, the pavilion in front of the cathedral. The townspeople are waiting there to hoist her up the center pole to the high palm ceiling above. When they get her up to the top, everyone watches and waits. She lingers a while, then suddenly slides down the center pole to the ground. When she lands, everyone cheers and jumps up and down. Her arrival marks the transition from struggle to celebration. No more suffering. Good times have arrived.

Who could have predicted that here in America, in this place of dreams made and dreams dashed, Andy and Bles Chavez would have a tiny daughter who would climb up on the piano bench and give them something to get excited about? Make them realize how tired they are of plodding along day-to-day and how much they want a transition.

When Rehina goes to the piano to play a lilting, curving melody, something besides music fills the room. Long after she has finished, hope hovers in the Chavez home, like an angel.

Edition: FINAL
Section: LIVING TODAY
Page: 1J
Copyright (c) 1991 The Miami Herald