Music to My Ears

I ran into the school doors and, breathless, scribbled my name on the sign in sheet. “Could anyone tell me where the music room is?” I asked, somewhat embarrassed that I did not know after two years of my children attending this school. “Down the hall to the end, make a right, second door on your left,” the secretary answered without looking up from her computer.

Mindful of the rule against running in the halls, I scurried my way to the music room, hoping that my daughter’s recital had not yet begun despite the fact that I was arriving ten minutes late. I had barely set foot in the school all year, but my 4^th grader begged me to please show up at this event and I caved. I figured I’d squeeze it in between errands to minimize my pain and make my youngest feel less than totally ignored. Our parental interest in school events had waned over the years, and as my third child, she was definitely getting the short end of the stick.

Wearing my workout clothes, a muddy pair of running shoes, and a visor to cover my bed head, I hoped the recital would be over quickly so I could get to the grocery store before lunchtime.

Finding the Music Room door just where the secretary predicted, I gingerly turned the knob until it clicked. As the opening widened, I could see that everyone in the room was looking back at me ÔÇô students standing on two rows of tiny risers and parents crammed against the wall in folding chairs.

“COME IN!!” the music teacher bellowed from her seat behind the keyboard. Startled, I scuttled into the room and took the first seat I could find, as the teacher continued her program.

“Again! From the top! Stand up straight! Hands at your sides!” she yelled at the group of about 20 boys and girls from Ms. Gamble’s 4^th grade class. As she pounded out the notes on the wobbling keyboard, the kids started singing at her head-bobbed cue.

“Be the best, best, best you can be, be, be!!!” they wailed, some with deadpan stiffness, and others with dramatic inflection. The song entailed a complicated BINGO-like start-stop game in succeeding verses and a few of the kids flubbed and shouted out “Best” or “Be” when they were supposed to be silent.

At the end of the song, the teacher’s deep voice boomed from behind the keyboard, “I give you a 2.5 out of 4! The only thing I accept in this classroom is a 4! Backs straight! AGAIN, from the top!” I found myself jerking out of a slouch and sitting in obedient attention, afraid to move. I was shocked at this teacher’s militant treatment of the submissive group of 4^th graders, and I tried to see in my peripheral vision if the other parents looked as concerned, but they all sat straight at attention not looking at each other.

As the kids made their second attempt, I was mystified by their cheerful obedience to this frightening little drill-sergeant of a music teacher. They belted the tune out in perfect order this time, each of them with their eyes locked on their dominant leader, only occasionally glancing to a parent out of sheer personal pride.

“Now THAT’S a 4! Like I always tell you boys and girls, you don’t have to BE the best, but you must DO your best every time!” The children beamed and looked sideways to their parents for appreciation.

“COME IN!” the teacher repeated, and I noticed a father in uniform sneaking in the back and taking a seat. He exchanged blown kisses with his daughter, who seemed to radiate with joy over seeing him there.

“Parents and students sing the chorus! I’m soloist!” and she proceeded to lead us all in a peppy rendition of “Grand Old Flag,” complete with choreographed hand movements. Through three repeats, she belted out verses in her sharp booming voice, with a rumbling vibrato akin to Ethel Merman, while we all fumbled to achieve perfection in the cramped little music room.

“Excellent! That’s the best you have done! I am so proud of you!” she roared at everyone. Swollen with satisfaction over getting my hand movements right on the last try, I realized that this teacher was highly effective. Despite her seeming reign of terror and intimidation, the kids knew it was all a shtick, and they loved her brawny leadership and relentless drive. They really wanted to please her, and she made them feel a strong sense of accomplishment and pride.

The teacher ordered the kids into new positions, and each of them approached her in rehearsed and controlled fashion to pick up their assigned recorder flute. In two neat rows they sat, gripping their little plastic instruments as they awaited her instruction. “Full! Half! Ready play! Half! Ready play! Full! Half! Ready play!” she snapped, as the kids whipped their recorders into position like a well-rehearsed drill team.

“I’m a task master and I make no apologies for it! Now, don’t hurt your parent’s ears!” she roared. The irony made me giggle. The kids blew a surprisingly soothing version of “Hot Crossed Buns” into the recorders with only an occasional rogue squeaky note.

Despite this teacher’s brawny sovereignty over that tight ship of a crowded classroom, I found myself being seized by tenderness and nearly tearing up. Why? I’ve heard “Hot Crossed Buns” a million times, and I’ve been to so many of these boring little school events. But as I sat there watching my youngest child working so hard to make me proud, I realized that these moments are fleeting and precious.

Feelings of guilt over my grubby outfit and my failure to bring a camera were interrupted when the teacher jumped from her seat and yelled, “You done good! I am very proud of you! BUCKET!!” The beaming students brought their instruments to her one by one, dropping them neatly into a blue bucket.

“When your name is called, come up and get your certificate and pencil! Parents: CLAP!” she ordered, and I was again seized by emotion watching my little girl so happy to receive a symbolic piece of paper and a 10 cent pencil with music notes painted on it.

“DISMISSED!” our leader yelled one last time, and as we exited the classroom in orderly fashion, I found my daughter and gave her a long squeeze. “Thank you for coming Mommy,” she muffled into my shirt. “You were wonderful, I wouldn’t have missed this for the world,” I answered, truthfully.