03.29.07
turns out
It’s not about magic at all. It’s about practice. I know this. I’ve known this. Religion, paganism, all of that, is not about magic. It’s about practice. That is the one thing that unites, the one things that validates.
03.28.07
exploration 9
“Sit up.”
Begrudgingly, he sits up. It lasts a rare moment.
“Sit up,” I repeat. And he does.
Again, it collapses as soon as I turn my back.
“Zane. Sit up.” I move behind him, placing a gentle hand on his back to get him to hold his trombone in the position that he needs to demonstrate to me. It is essential—fundamental—that he show me he can sit up and continue to do it. Otherwise, there is not good sound. There will not be good playing.
“My back hurts.” His pleas and excuses are more numerous than miscounted rhythms and fractured notes.
“Wah!” I say, moving back to the front of the class. “I don’t care that your back hurts, you need to sit up. Zane.”
He has fallen back in his chair, slumped backwards, tucking his elbows, collapsing the airway between lungs and mouth. My eyes, if I could have seen them, were probably brimming with a combination of rage and ennui with this child. “The Look” as they say. I move in front of him, staring him down.
“Zane, you will sit up like everyone else.”
“But my back hurts.”
“Sorry for you! Do it!”
“But my back hurts! I hurt it yesterday.”
“Just go to REACH.” I now turn my attention to the rest of the class who look on in disdain and boredom. They are used to this spectacle. They have seen this behavior every day for almost a year. They know where this is going.
“Gah! This is so unfair!”
“Just go. Pack up your things and go, Zane. Now.” I ignore him and try to regain the class. It is difficult.
Twenty minutes later, I’m sitting in the office with Zane and the head band director, discussing how rules work. Again.
“I’m sorry, Zane, you have to go by the same rules as everyone else. You have to sit up, and you need to do what I ask of you.”
“You’re just being mean.”
The head director is nicer about it than I am, but she gets the point across better.
“Zane, I’m sorry if you hurt your back. Did you go to a doctor? Do you have a note?”
There is a canny pause.
“No.”
“Okay, well, I’m gonna go ahead and write you an office referral and you go to your next class, okay. I don’t want you to be late.” She sets about scribbling on triplicate forms.
“This is so unfair.” And he storms out of the office.
Forty-five minutes later, I’m talking to his next teacher, Ms. Trias. Apparently, Zane did not go to class. He went to his mother, who substitute teaches at the school. This is the standard routine: teacher gets onto him, he goes and tells his mother what happened in some exaggerated terms, fakes a little illness or something, and gets to go home. Today was little exception. Except that the mother came to talk to the band director about it and received an earful about how she can’t keep protecting him like this, and that Zane needs to take responsibility for his own actions.
Subsequently, the director decided that this student needs to be in her class from now on. Fine by me, I think. Little shit.
The day goes on. Life goes on. Something about the afternoon class with the baritones is better than normal. Maybe it’s that Jonathon has figured out the secret (even if surface level) of practicing, of discipline. If you want results, you have to work for them. He wants to go to Mr. Gatti’s, so he practices. His small excited tirade makes me smile. It cows the other kid.
And maybe, in that class, it’s that I get to handle these kids very informally, yet cover so little at a time. They are far behind their peers, and it bothers me. I want them to do well. I want them to do more. Jonathon is finally trying to take his baritone home more often. Ed does not. Still does not. He goes on to show me the next day that he doesn’t need to practice to get results. It makes me angry, but I keep my cool.
And there is something about the concert band at the end of the day that puts things in perspective. The kids that don’t do this because they have to. The kids who really want to be here, but have so many things in their way that they can’t move faster, or won’t. The kids with no sense of purpose. The kids who only want to have fun.
It is refreshing, if not frustrating, to see their raw enthusiasm or disgust at any given moment. It is unbridled. They don’t hold back.
To think about it, these kids are not unalike. The baritones have needs and wants and they react wildly to them. Zane even reacts in the methods that have produced for him in the past.
“Ed,” I say, “It’s okay that you aren’t getting it, but you have to practice at home.”
“I haven’t had to practice anything else so far, and I’ve done okay.”
“Well, this thing right here is harder, so you might have to practice.”
And the next day, he gets it. He figures out the puzzle without anything other than minimal effort. Damn him.
Today, we found out that the twin sister of a student at school had been shot and killed last night. My first thoughts were shock. I couldn’t believe it. That’s a mere two degrees away, as far as I’m concerned. These students, though I’m not really their teacher, are my students. My shock quickly turns to anger, and I begin to feel betrayed that someone has infiltrated the safety of the band hall.
This is where you go to get away from the world; to lose yourself in the music and not come back. This is the safe haven, the ollie-ollie-ocksenfree. And someone has shot a hole in it. I don’t know who to blame, but I don’t try find anyone.
In fact, I find myself crying. Simply mourning that poor girl who died. I’d only recognized her the day before. She was the sister of the girl who played clarinet in the symphonic band. She looked just like her. I mourn for her and her sister, together. I mourn for their family, for the band. I mourn for these children. I mourn for the kids that I don’t know what’s wrong with their lives—the ones with secrets. I mourn for those who have not been exposed to this sort of tragedy before, in hopes that they will survive the idea of such pain or hate or causality.
In a way, I cry for myself, because I feel like I’ve had a hole punched in my defenses, and it’s not fair. My whole life in music, I’ve looked at it as a safe house. My run-away spot. I’ve required that a group of 170 people be a part of a ploy I have to remain secure in the bonds of something that I love terribly. It is a ploy I will never regret, and will never regret asking others to take part.
But it is in my lack of regret that I feel I understand Zane a little. Maybe making himself throw up in front of his mother has worked for years. Maybe it will continue to work, and maybe she’ll keep giving in. If that’s so, then I can’t blame him. He’s only getting what he wants. That’s what we all try to get every day.
Yet my teacher brain kicks in, and realizes that he still argues with me in class. I can’t simply forgive that, now can I?
03.27.07
xbox: the tasting
It began with sounds that mimicked machine gun fire, cartoonishly spliced into some soundtrack, some filter. Then, the wracking tremors and shaking of the whole console, the deep whirring, the full-throated grunting from the machine. My attention was fully attached to deciphering these sounds to determine the problem. And as I tried to save my precious training progress, I found myself stuck between the reality of the game and the meta-mechanical functions of the program, frozen in time by a glitch, an anomaly.
This is pain, this is shuddering. My precious disc is beginning to show signs of the same munchings that J’s console delivered to him. I don’t want to lose this one. I don’t want to fight the separation anxieties. I don’t want to search in my heart for the replacement. Will a simply toothpaste rub fix these damages? Will turning the console on its side ease its tempers? What brought on this belly-aching?
My entertainment needs, my desire to feel relaxed and challenged simultaneously are being threatened by an unknown beast. This terrorist is invisible. This monster is hiding in a brand new closet.
03.24.07
the makings of childhood
I bumbled around on the playgroud last night. I bumbled around, nearly hurting myself, jumping from tall things, making diving rolls under wide rope nets, trying to avoid a state of “it.”
This morning, I wake up stiff, feeling older yet more vivacious than in days before. A wonderful way to wrap up the week.
Do yourself a favor this spring. Go outside.
And in my search of a revisited childhood, I have to consider the other things that have come to be part of this state in the recent decade. Many times, it seems, the kids in today’s society are so bogged down with extracurricular activies that they have no time to still be kids. Sure, the idea is that if we give them plenty to do, they will stay out of trouble. The problem with this comes from those kids who naturally aren’t interested in doing anything with a given focus. Those that want to do soccer, football, band, dance team, or city league volleyball are already doing them, and aren’t going to get in that sort of trouble anyway.
Also, add to this any sort of cultural pressure that arises that might dissuade someone from joining a club or team, but instead encourages them to help take care of the home, or take care of the family, or better still, nothing at all. At least the kid is passing school, they might say, which is sometimes not true either.
I’m not going very far with this. Basically, I think that the wrong kids are being overworked. The “good ones” need to relax a little so they don’t burn out. The “not good ones” need to wake up and do something so they don’t get in trouble, or wake up in twenty years and realize they haven’t done anything with themselves.
In the meantime, they should all go swing on something.
03.22.07
rain
Today it rained. It rained in sudden cascades that distracted everyone under its umbrella to the point that classes rushed to window and children cheered, even though it meant no recess. Even teachers rushed outside. It beat down hard and fast, breaking away blocks of dirt that had caked in the corners of curbs and sidewalks, layered thick from months before. It towered against the city, flooding at least one house that I know of, and bringing with it the force of washing.
Attentions where shattered, brains were battered, people broke their holds on tears. It was a flood within a flood, a great tidal push. And it felt good. Though I frantically called my roommate to have him close the windows, I knew it didn’t matter. If the pure rain wanted inside, let it. Let it wash things, make things clean.
I believe in rain. I believe in the power of rushing water over concrete and stone. Over skin. I believe that the spring rains are the best because they are cold, revitalizing, and the green reaches out from deep within the trunks of trees, from deep within the soil itself, grabbing every drop that it can muster to hold. All the green comes out to play in a crisp spring rain. The air turns to an wrapping shawl so barely perceived it only tickles the windshields and the tips of fingers as they touch things. Everything, even the dirty exhaust from the gas-burning autos, smells cleaner, brighter, better.
So, as the first gusts of water crashed down over the school, silence befell us, and we broke our molds to go view the dark curtains of hydration that were. And when I stepped outside, though I was not wet, I felt ready for the growing season. I felt clear.
03.21.07
oestara
There I sat, in my car, dodging orange cones on my way to buy a soda at the local convenience store, listening to political commentary on NPR, half awake, half dead, half trying to get a hold of myself as the day has come to a close, and there it was.
The large mass of white, the column of cloud. It was a wall and a podium for the new season. The turn of the wheel stepped forth onto its bulking shoulders, rested a warm growing hand on either side of the masthead and uttered an initiation: “Today, the green will burst forth from the Earth, and all faces will be happy at the sight. Let the wind blow hard to sweep away the dust and mud of a wet and toady winter. Raise your eyes to me and sing a song that will engender me, make me whole. I am King!”
And the white poured down into a funnel, pure as the snow it banished, wisping away into nothing while the shadow of the clouds underbelly faded to the dark blue of oncoming rain. The sky was pure, pale in a youthful glow, and the sun seemed only to bow to the glad tidings that were arising from the west and south.
It was almost as if I could hear the laughing of children as I tried to keep my balance while pumping gas. A playful push and a spinning game that reminded me of why I love this time of year.
The King has returned, young though he is. Today is a beautiful day, and it is the first day of spring. Happy Oestara!
03.15.07
water song 21107
It was death I used to sing for.
Long and lazy, like I was in no hurry at all.
A langourious song about all the upset hung on me.
Me, a coat rack for shames and do-wrongs
It was time for reprieve
I sung to relieve.
It was death I cried for many a day,
And night was the tortured time,
when my brain would not let me by without
making a dream on the toll-road.
I drifted long and low, ready to wake,
afraid of the dark,
Willing only to have it so unlit when it was ink on a page.
Only ready when it was a ticket to anywhere but here.
And I sang and sang for a train to arrive
I would have died every morn
And every page, I would have torn.
No release, no exit
and nothing to keep me occupied.
No body to hold or even push,
And not a soul to hear my tune.
I would holler deep for a rain to wash me.
And it never came to me.
No clouds gathered at my door,
Not a storm, nor gray, came.
Not from outside my house
and not from my block.
I prayed to gods I didn’t keep
Prayed and prayed, weeped and weeped
So in vital attempt to fix my plight
I threw on all the faucets
And plugged each drain with oily rags,
And waited to drown.
Water lapping al my neck,
I started to see my fault
And I let that tap water cleanse me down.
Had to have my own water to be refreshed.
Had to make my own rainstorm
Every hand I had was scrubbing.
Now every heart I have is loving.
Letter to Beta Delta
Dear Beta Delta Chapter of Kappa Kappa Psi at Sam Houston State University:
First, I must say there is nothing better than sharing fried foods over somewhat innuendous conversation and wonderfully delightful kids’ jokes. And to boot, I have discovered that I like fried pickles. Who knew?! And though we weren’t able to have a margarita at 10pm, and though we weren’t able to really enjoy the bar we were sitting in (out of respect for each other and for the fraternity), I had a great time that night.
And the next day, when I totally felt like I was winging it through the workshop sessions, where I talked on and on about a subject I knew little to nothing about. The same subject I said I’d get out of your way, its your workshop. Yeah, thanks for being there to make that happen. I had a great time doing it, and I felt like I really knew something that someone else needed to hear.
You guys provided me with a great opportunity to shine as an officer in the fraternity, whether you realize it or not. Paula, Mandi, you in particular were amazing.
Thanks for the hotel room, thanks for the rides back and forth from the airport. Erin, I swear I’ve seen you before, though I can’t place it. Chase, thanks for letting me sleep in your car. Thanks to both of you for giving up your gas to me.
To say you all rock would be trite and understating. Instead, I will say:
AEA,
D.
03.13.07
Col. Bonner
I am afraid of this man..jpg)
This is Col. Alan Bonner (Ret.), the Executive Director for Kappa Kappa Psi and Tau Beta Sigma. He was once the director of the Air Force Band. He has been a clinician for the band where I teach, and he’s generally a nice guy, very approachable. I’ve worked the KKY/TBS booth with him at TMEA.
He has also corrected me that there is no airport in Stillwater, OK. And he’s given word to me not to speak poorly of Donald Grantham, as Mr. Grantham was in his trumpet section at one time.
For these last two reasons that I am terrified of him. I find myself talking too fast, mumbling, mushing words together. Generally, I look like a mess when I talk to him. And here’s the kicker: I want him to be my boss. I want to be the National Chapter Field Representative, so that means I have to go through an interview process with him. I’d actually have to face this beast and be honest, clearly spoken, and not feel like I’m about to fall apart like the Scarecrow.
Lucky for me, he’s a lot nicer than even I am giving him credit for. I’ve had lunch with him, in a group though, and he’s very pleasant, and very down to earth. He’s kind. And look at those cheeks! Totally pinchable!
Here’s to Col. Bonner. May this fear really be deep respect, as I suspect it is.
