In kindergarten, I didn’t know how to whistle. I was jealous of a classmate who considered himself some sort of virtuoso, always whistling his way home on the bus, so naturally I tried to learn. My virtuosic friend’s advice seemed useless if not patronizing: yes, I get that I’m supposed to purse my lips and blow; obviously I’m missing something hard-to-explain, because I’m not whistling. Later, during an especially boring “circle time”, I quietly brute-forced embouchures, which the teacher had no problem with… until suddenly, it clicked, and I was whistling! Quite loudly, in fact. The teacher warned me against being disruptive, but I was too exuberant to stop. Suddenly I knew how my friend felt. By my lights I was pretty good—I had only been missing that crucial piece—and I preferred to play with my newfound ability and accept whatever “time out” I earned for disrupting the sanctity of circle time.