My Number One Musician

     Two years. That's how long my son, Tim, prepared for his first drum major audition.  Between honor classes, band rehearsals, and trombone lessons, he was unable to fit his conducting lessons in during the week, so we trekked  to them on Sunday evenings after church.

     He practiced conducting everywhere--in the car (he wasn't driving), in church,  in class, in the grocery store. He concentrated so deeply on the music in his head or on his MP3 player, he often became oblivious to everything around him. No doubt, Tim was committed, and his conducting instructor told me he was more than prepared. He was good. By the time he auditioned, he was confident and ready. I just knew he would at least achieve the assistant position.

    He didn't. He wasn't chosen for any position. Not drum major, not assistant, not even section leader. It seemed as if he had gambled everything, and lost it all. As we read the announcement,  I watched him process the news, heart-sick for him. He didn't speak, and he turned his cell phone off for a while to avoid messages. "You are still  the same conductor you were yesterday and the day before, son,"  his father told him. "Nothing changes that, and we are still very proud of you."  Tim could only nod.

   More people  rallied to support him:  friends, cousins, former and current teachers, and grandparents. The musicians mattered the most, especially my sister, Linda, a band director.  She posted a message on Facebook that read, "You are still my # 1." This small comment seemed to snatch a bit of his personality out of the disappointment.  It took a few weeks and a few trips for coffee at Starbucks, but she eventually persuaded Tim to give himself some time, and then to get back to his goal.

     Tim "rested" for three months during which time I mourned his loss with him. I missed his practice-in-motion jaunts through Wal-Mart and the stares from strangers. They had become a part of our routine. Not once in that time did he practice salutes, listen to drum and bugle corps music, or raise his arms to conduct so much as a hymn. However, his attitude remained positive. For the rest of the year, he maintained his GPA, continued to tutor younger musicians at the middle school, and practiced his trombone. He embraced the role granted him with an integrity and grace I have seen in few others, myself included.

     When the time came for the 2011 - 2012  audition, I was more than nervous for him. The continuous conducting had resumed mid-year, but he had refused further lessons, choosing to consult his band directors and practice alone. After the audition, he told me he had performed well, and that he would accept "whatever the judges say."

      Of course I was thrilled when he was named drum major. He won with a significant lead musically, but more than that, he had reached a goal he could have easily abandoned. He didn't give up and grow bitter; he moved forward, developing a self-respect  that exceeds the fleeting reward of titles. Of all his accomplishments in music and elsewhere, perhaps this one will serve him best.

   

   

Prayer From a Witness

Just before impact--

She screamed for Your help, Jesus.

Then she and her unborn son crashed into

An unholy entanglement of human flesh and metal.

Her survivors are left with tears

And a sorrow that taunts their faith.

I won’t ask why it happened

Although  my heart aches, and aches, and aches.

Lord …what I do want to know is

--Even though it is none of my business--

How did You answer her plea?

Did You appear in the chaotic terror

Of her death and say, “Come!” ?

What did you say to her?

Getting Some Sun

     "You need to go outside and get some sun," Mama would say. But I didn't much care for the outside, preferring instead  the indoor protection from the hot Georgia summers and the mind-crazing gnats. Summer days at home always included books and daydreams. I read year round, but vacation from school provided me time to lavishly enter into the worlds authors created. One summer, reading a book set in England, I drank hot tea and read the dialogue with a feigned British accent. Another summer, my sister found me with tissue in hand, crying because Jo in Bleak House had "just" died.  I would read and pretend all day, and even  imagined my own stories, hiding my efforts from my family as if they were national secrets.

     Then and now, I most appreciate stories that are believable. That is, characters presented in such a way that they contend with my emotions and intellect, my humanity. My biggest summer reading disappointment was a romance series that I started and abandoned before my senior year of high school. I soon discovered that this particular author wrote formulaic romance novels that were sadly predictable. The stories began, progressed, and ended the same way: boy meets girl, awkwardness, scenery, sex scene, argument, another girl, make up, sex scene, happiness.  Boring! Even as a young woman, I had figured out that relationships are complicated and betrayal costs more than a  princely, apologetic embrace. 

      I learned then to look for authors who invite me into a world realistically, which all good stories will do no matter the genre.  I dismiss the  "happily ever after" stories because I know how living is messier than that. Even in good stories involving the supernatural, the fleshing out of the plot mandates qualities I recognize. Heroes are permanently scarred, poverty in spirit isn't easily overcome, ignorance destroys communities, and abuse shades a person's happiness for a lifetime. Jo dies, remember? 

      A 40-year-old student put this into perspective at the completion of a Contemporary Literature class I facilitated. Before the class, she was "addicted" to "cheap romance novels." I suspected a sitcom mentality and worried for a while, but at the end of the course she said, "I will never read a book the same way again. You showed me characters who were real."  That is the goal, y'all.  Excellent writers converse with their readers as if to say, "Come with me, and let's work on this together: I'll show you what happens and who is involved. You think about why and what if. " Readers so engaged will be tempted to pray characters through their conflicts. Missing the sunshine in favor of a quiet reading room will seem a frivolous requirement. Besides, nowadays, anyone can spray some sun on. 

Old Man's Tale

It began with a blue

wind last November.

Winter fussed, throwing sleet

that chilled joy and froze words

mid-throat.

Spring found us numb, frostbit;

barren as the fig tree

in Luke's gospel.

Book Talk: The Leaf Catcher

The Leaf Catcher is an epic poem written by Dax Michael Tucker available in hard copy and on Kindle. Mr. Tucker  is visible on Facebook and Twitter, and he also pens a blog I find insightful.

I wrote the following about The Leaf Catcher:

The poem draws the reader in with an age-old tale of good versus evil, but also of spirit over circumstance. The Leaf Catcher enjoys a humble but fulfilling life with his wife and children that is challenged by a prince seeking superficial pleasure. The prince's manipulation brings him to a more sadistic motive easily couched in fear-fed plausibility. The emotional upheaval this leads to in the Leaf Catcher and that of his family is beautifully rendered, especially at the moment of deepest despair.

The reader will see several themes played out as the poem progresses. Among them, the power of familial influence, freedom of the spirit in spite of circumstance and physical condition, and a mirrored epiphany of the magnitude of choice. Magic is presented as a means to right outward wounds, leaving inward physical damage intact almost as a remembrance of truths gained, like Jacob's limp in Hebrew text.

I highly recommend this story as a part of any collection. The poem can be read in one sitting, but go back over its nuggets of wisdom and ruminate over them. Five star bravo reading.


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Please Don't Judge Me

     During the first weeks of class, Lisa always arrived late and chose to sit in the back of the small classroom. The first assignment, a narrative essay, perplexed Lisa, who did not understand why I preferred a student's honest effort over a plagiarized article from the Internet.
     One afternoon after class, Lisa asked me if she could write about her tiny daughter, born prematurely a year earlier. I encouraged her and watched her smile broaden as she pulled pictures from her purse to illustrate how far her daughter’s health had progressed. She promised to map out a narrative and bring it to the next class.
     As Lisa came back class after class during the quarter, I learned more about her. Specifically, I came to understand that she didn't have a “traditional” job, yet her job consumed much of her time. When I finally asked her about her work, her eyes fell downward. “I’ll tell you," she said, "but please don't judge me.” After several promises that I wouldn't judge her and that she really didn't have to disclose anything she was uncomfortable with, she confessed that she was a professional dancer who had never taken everything off, just most. The confessions that followed, accompanied by deep sobs, came from a place within her best defined as agonizing desperation that suddenly flared as if sprayed with an accelerant.
     “I can't earn enough money to care for my daughter doing anything else,” she said. “I can't take her to a regular daycare cause nobody will take her on. I have to pay for a decent place for us to live, or the state will take her from me. She has to have more surgery before too long, and her daddy is worthless, so please don't judge me. I like coming to school, but truth is I can't dance much longer. My body doesn't look as good as it once did, especially since my baby. I have to find another way to earn money, and I don't want to do it on my back.”
     Stunned, I nervously hugged her, thanked her for trusting me, and then we worked on her narrative. I hope she left class assured that I respected her desire to care and provide for her daughter. On the way out of class, with her back to me, she said simply, “Thank you for not judging me.” I left class altered.
      Since meeting Lisa, I have met many more students with similar realities: broken lives caused by addictions, criminal behavior, unhealthy relationships, unruly children, deaths of loved ones, and most profoundly, severe poverty. In addition to these problems, many students are often handicapped by severe academic deficiencies. Some students who enroll are so angry and mistrusting of “school,” and “teachers,” that the first thing I must attain is a measure of their trust. I make it my goal to see them each day with Lisa’s plea in my heart-- "Please don't judge me." I have discovered that what they are really asking of me is to see them worthy enough to be educated—worthy enough to be a student no matter what preceded, or accompanies, this new status. Isn't that what any student wants?

Education Scandal Is Nothing New

With the scandal in Atlanta so recently in the news, I thought about some of the stories I have heard, similar to my own, about teachers who have suffered in the hands of the testing machine.  On this blog, I will occasionally share  stories of teachers who left school systems "poorly." Names of people and schools have been changed to protect anyone involved, directly or indirectly. Because the first story is so close to my own, I named the teacher Ms. Stokley.

Ms. Stokley

  

     Nothing in education surprises me anymore, most especially what happened in Atlanta. My last year of grade school teaching was at the prestigious St. Cassian School, which sits in the most affluent neighborhood in my city.  The school offers the very best of  benefits including catered lunches and a state-of-the-art computer lab. Most of the students were from wealthy and influential families.  When I arrived in 2002, another English teacher warned me, "You will think they are gems until you start breathing coal dust." She left me with that. I wish I had  gone with her. The 8th grade class not only out-witted me, they cost me my career. 

   Most kids in the 8^th grade English class were headstrong, and worse, arrogant. They could care less about present and past participles, favoring instead Spring Formal and the next St Cassian School social event. Homework seemed to be optional. If they bothered with it at all, it was taken from David, the only hopeful scholar in the group, and copied word for word. I kept warning them that the zeros for homework would count. Their incredulous glares spoke their opinion and intention, but I didn’t begin to realize what these kids were capable of until one of them, Sam, asked to see me after class one Monday. 

     “Ms. Stokley,” he said, “You don’t seem to understand how we learn.”

     “Don’t I?” I asked, wondering who he had heard this from.

     “No. You give all these stupid assignments, busy work, which you seem to lose or never grade, but we don’t know anything new.”

     “You are speaking for all of your classmates?” I asked.

     “Yeah, I am. I’m the only one not afraid.”

     “Afraid? Your classmates are afraid of me?”

      Laughing, he said, “No, not of you. Of consequences. Of  failing English 8 when you get angry, which happens all the time.”

     “I’m not angry all the time, Sam. The assignments you deem so stupid will help you review for the high school entrance exam. You are planning to go to St Albert’s next year, right?”

     Walking to the door, he said, “You don’t seem to get what I’m saying to you, Ms. Stokley.”

    I didn’t “get it.” He was a 14 year old, after all. Not until a month later, when I was called to the vice principal’s office, did I understand the warning. The VP, Mrs. Elliot, new to the post, was  degreed in early childhood education. Her poor understanding of teenagers led to what happened. 

     “Ms. Stokley, I have concerns that you hold biases against some of the students in the 8^th grade class.”

    “I disagree,” I said. “The 8^th grade class is a very intelligent group who spends their time avoiding assignments. I don’t dislike any of them, but I do expect them to complete assignments. Has there been a complaint?”

     “Yes. Sam came to see me. He said that he hasn’t been given back any of his homework assignments, and that you don’t seem to care if he passes or fails. Most troubling, he said that he is intimidated by you because you get angry all the time. He’s scared to ask for help when he doesn’t understand a grammar concept.”

    God help me, I chuckled. What an ingenious plan, I thought. “Forgive me, Mrs. Elliot. I believe Sam is very capable of any assignment I give him. His test score on the standardized test is one of the lowest in the class, so he needs to spend more time with English, but he is a very intelligent, capable student.”

     Well, I have to say, Ms. Stokley. Your laughter seems to prove his concerns. I am appalled by it. This is a serious matter. Do you have a problem with his race?”

     “Oh, please don’t misunderstand. I am not laughing at him. I am impressed by his maneuvering. He couldn’t persuade me to excuse him from the work, so he came to you to force my hand.”

     “He says he did the work.”

     “No, ma’am. He didn’t. He never does.”

     “Perhaps you have misplaced it.”

     “No ma’am. I haven’t. He never gave it to me.”

     “Everyone, including you, can make mistakes.”

     “But I haven’t in this case. He never gave it to me.”

     Mrs. Elliot lowered her head slightly. “Ms. Stokley, I think the error is yours, and I have written a citation for your employee file. Your behavior is prejudiced and unprofessional. This explains why 30% of our 8^th graders failed their entrance exam to St. Albert’s.

     I protested. “I have been teaching this group for three months, and you are holding me responsible for their entire education?”

     “Just what have you been teaching them? All of the students who failed the test were A students until they reached your class.”

     “I follow the curriculum guide to the letter. It’s true that I have to spend a little more time on some concepts.”

     “You couldn’t be. You produced failing grades.”

     Stunned, I left Mrs. Elliot’s office without signing my citation. She had effectively called me a liar. I kept teaching the 8^th grade class as best as I could, but it was the most miserable year in my career. The students refused to give any effort, and attempts to contact their parents failed. At the end of the year, I was summoned back to the office, this time with the principal, Mrs. Mitchell.

    “Well, Ms. Stokley, as you know we are in the middle of offering contracts for next year. I have decided not to offer you a contract based on your prejudiced views and inaccurate record keeping, both of which have irreparably damaged some in our student population. In short, you are being fired.”

    Quietly, she let that sink in and added, “You have the option of resigning. If you choose to resign, I will remove the citation from your record.  No other school needs to know about it.

     Fighting tears, I said, “You have accused me of something I am not guilty of, Mrs. Mitchell. An accusation like that will end my career. You know that I am under the alternative route to licensure. If I don’t teach in the same school system for another year, I lose more than just a job.”
     “That’s very unfortunate. Perhaps you can go to the public school system. Did you bring your laptop?”

     She couldn’t have heard me.  I will not teach at all, anywhere! I wanted to scream. Instead, I answered, “Yes, ma’am.

     “Good. I have a list of names who have reported you. You will change the 0s to 100s now. It will make the remaining of the year go smoothly.”

     Thinking she meant to fire me immediately if I didn’t comply, I changed the grades, reducing myself to a liar, which I learned didn’t matter in the eyes of the Church as long as the dishonesty fell to their favor.

     In October of the next academic year, I found a job at a career college teaching medical assistants how to write well enough to maintain their jobs. For a number of years, I tried to return to grade school. I even enlisted the aid of my senator, to no avail.

    The scandal in Atlanta doesn’t surprise me at all, but before anyone starts burning teachers at the stake, consider everyone involved. High stakes testing makes sinners of everyone.