It was the moment of truth. There I stood, in front of two music teachers, one hundred students, and nearly five hundred other people---the parents, grandparents, brothers, and sisters of those students. Five months of hard work had come down to this: the end of my first concert as a teacher. All I remember at the end of that moment was the crowd's reaction and the sound of my own breathing as I exhaled sharply.
Of course, the above statement makes no sense without some kind of background information. I took a one-semester computer course at my high school at the beginning of my senior year, knowing that I would be stuck in a study hall during second semester. The idea did not appeal to me in the slightest. It seemed like a waste of a perfectly useful hour to me. I approached my counselor and academic advisor about the idea of being a teacher's aide.
Let me clarify that point: at my high school, some students were assigned to a study hall class but actually reported to a teacher's classroom and helped where they were needed. So I approached my counselor about this idea, and she said it would be fine. That is, until I threw a new wrinkle into the mix: I asked her if I could leave the high school and work at T.S. Hill Middle School, which is directly behind the high school.
It was an unprecedented request. No one had asked to leave school for a teacher's aide position before. My counselor promised to check with our principal to see if he would okay the idea. We likened the job to that of a cadet teacher position, and we didn't see how he could say no, as cadet teachers left school all the time to teach their classes. Still, I tried not to get my hopes up.
Meanwhile, I checked with my band directors to see if they would be okay with the idea of having an assistant at the middle school. They were, to put it mildly, ecstatic, although they had bigger plans for me than I had anticipated. I expected to be an office assistant---running errands and making copies. As it turned out, I was completely off track.
The period in question: sixth hour, from 1:18 p.m. to 2:12 p.m. At the middle school that time is the sixth grade beginning brass class---ergo, the trumpet class, which, claimed my instructors, I was perfectly suited to teach. Both of them knew that I planned to become a music teacher after I graduated, and one of them came up with the idea to give me a little teaching experience before I ever got to college.
I was, frankly, thrilled at the idea. In addition, as fate would have it, my principal had no problem with it, and he approved my leaving school each day to go to the middle school.
Thus began my teaching career. On my first day, I went into the band room, and my teacher said, "There're the trumpets. Take them to the practice room. They're all yours."
I laughed nervously and said, "On day one? Don't I at least get to meet them first, evaluate them, and see what they've got? You know, what I need to teach and what I don't need to bother with?"
He replied "Why, no…you were at their Christmas concert last month! You heard them play then! That was your evaluation time. Start teaching."
I sighed and said, "If you say so."
For the next four months, I was technically the music teacher aide. I was actually the sixth grade trumpet teacher. Every day, except Fridays, I worked with the trumpet students. There were eight trumpets, each with their own distinctive quirks. The section leader was all talent but little common sense; he had an intense rivalry with the next in line, a hilarious kid who always had us rolling with laughter. My third chair student could play notes on his trumpet that I hadn't even dreamed of until my freshman year of high school…but he couldn't read music to save his life. Following that was my frustration, the fourth-chair kid. He practiced just enough to keep his scores up. He was my problem child of the year, and I got to practice discipline techniques quite often with him. My fifth-chair girl could find notes on the staff better and faster than any of the other students. She was probably the best theory student in the class. After her came my sixth-chair student, the twin brother (fraternal) of my section leader. Both brothers had talents for the trumpet. The section leader was the better player of the two, but his brother had more fun with it. In seventh chair came my absolute favorite student from that class. She was a sweetheart who tried to play well. She wanted it badly, but she got braces halfway through the year, and it threw off her embouchure training. The same goes for my last contestant, the twin sister (paternal) of my fifth-chair girl. She wanted to play the trumpet well more than anything, and it broke my heart. I would look at my problem child, then at the last two girls, and say, "God, why do you give the talent to this kid, who couldn't care less, when these girls have been trying so hard to do this and would do anything to get better?"
All the kids worked hard through those four months to prepare for the big payoff: the Spring Concert. We selected five songs to play. One of them was a song that the seventh grade band had played at their winter concert called Wyndham Marziale. It was a difficult piece, and the seventh graders had bungled it rather badly. My two supervisors and I had been bragging on the sixth graders for a few months, and at this point the pride of the entire beginning band class was on the line as we entered this concert, which would feature the sixth and seventh grade bands. The sixth grade band would go first. We knew exactly which band would sound better, and we were proud of it.
We split up the songs between the three of us: the primary band director would conduct three of them, our assistant director would conduct one, and I would conduct one. I had been dropping subtle hints that I wanted something to do at the concert other than stand around and not look pretty, so they graciously gave me a song to direct, a jazzy song called Bluesville.
As the concert began, I was particularly pleased that my kids played Wyndham Marziale, the seventh-grade-level song that the seventh grade band had massacred so badly, so well. They took that music and played it as if they had written it themselves. It was beautiful, to say the least. I was also intrigued by the look that was on every one of the seventh graders' faces: sheer and utter disbelief. It was like that all night.
Finally it was time for my song, Bluesville. I was introduced at the concert as "The third band director" by our assistant director. He also included a rather funny line, something about me begging to direct a song…I never begged. I hinted.
So as my song began, I stepped onto the podium and took the baton. I raised it, began counting the students off, and took a deep breath. I was so nervous, and at least fifty what ifs went through my head. I waited for a second, and I think I was actually stalling, trying to get in one or two more gulps of air. All I could think was, "You're all alone up here. This is your band. This is your song, and this is your responsibility." As I prepared to start, somewhere, in the back of my head, I heard someone saying, "Go for it! You can do it!" I would learn later that my sister had whispered that to herself as I raised the baton. Apparently, she had noticed my delaying tactics and was willing me to, as she told me later, "Start already!" She and I have a tendency to make connections like that. We're weird.
I started the song, and we were off. I don't remember much from that moment, but suffice it to say that I was in heaven. Those kids played so well, and they had pride in what they were doing. It actually meant something to them, and that made me feel great. As the song went on, I remember cueing the various instruments when I was supposed to. I remember the music, I remember sweating, but I don't remember breathing. I took a deep breath at the beginning of the song and let it out at the end. This was my first concert as a teacher, and I had a lot of pride in these kids. They had worked their tails off getting ready for this, and now all the hard work was paying off.
At the end of Bluesville is a quarter note followed by a caesura, then one final note. We reached the caesura, and I stopped the band. I waited. I wanted to build up the anticipation of the final note.
The audience, of course, thought the song was over and started clapping, which was when I brought down the baton for the final note. The applause thundered throughout the room as I let out my breath and stepped off the podium.
The concert continued, with my kids doing an absolutely outstanding job. I couldn't have been more proud. When our portion of the performance ended, the band received a standing ovation. My first concert, and we get a standing ovation. It was, to put it simply, sweet.
After the sixth graders played, the seventh graders were up. I had nothing to do with the seventh grade band, so I sat down with my kids to watch.
The seventh grade concert, to put it mildly, was lousy. I found out later that they had watched the sixth graders, and then they all had the feeling of, "We have to follow that?" I couldn't help but feel more pride, and think, "My kids ran circles around you guys! Boo-yah!"
After the concert ended I took my students aside and told them how proud I was, and what a great job they had done. Then I was besieged by parents telling me how great the concert was, saying that we must all be great teachers to have produced such a fine group, and things like that. However, I think the best reaction I got that night had to be the look on my little sister's face. She was beaming with pride, and that made me feel great. I have lost count of how many times I've been at an event and watched her excel at something, then felt that exact same feeling. Now she was giving it to me, and I felt great. I had been promising her for months that this was going to be the finest sixth grade band that she would ever hear, and I had just made good on my promise. She ran down to me, gave me a big hug, and said, "I'm so proud of you…you did such a great job with those kids." While I appreciated her comments, I could only take one-third of the credit for what she had just heard. It had been nothing short of a team effort.
I feel incredibly fortunate and blessed to have been granted the privilege to teach those students. It was the single most rewarding time of my life. Though my position paid no money, the knowledge and experience I gained will last me a lifetime.