I used to love April. I mean, really, really love it.
April means spring. And that means fresh cut lawns, rain showers, and best of all, my birthday (which means presents)! But then I became a music teacher and that all changed. Now April is little more than a blur: a day-to-day spectacle of preparing for the "next thing," whether it be a clinic, a concert, or a contest. But every now and then, take like, now, for instance, I stop and regain a little perspective about my favorite month of the year.
A month ago my students were rough around the edges musically. They were still trying to get stuff figured out. But they worked hard, forgot a bunch of stuff they learned while on spring break, came back, screwed their brains back in and got down to work. All of my string players attended early morning rehearsals, the Orchestra Leadership Team took charge of logistics like seating charts and moving chairs, and the Symphony kids continued the tradition of two-hour,"8th hour," rehearsals on Monday evenings. In short, they went above and beyond to make sure our tradition of excellence continued.
Except today that streak was broken. Or was it? Sure, the String Orchestra earned a Division II rating (in Kansas, they're rated from I to V, with I being "superior" and V being "you sure you should've played today?"), for the first time in thirteen years. But is that what's important? Thirteen years ago I might've said "yes!" But not today. Today the streak was kept alive. The more important streak, that is.
Just like the government's attempt at creating a "level playing field" by enforcing standardized testing as a way to "grade" all schools, music contests are a "snapshot" - a one-off look at how an orchestra (or band, or choir, or jazz band, insert musical ensemble here) plays at any given moment on a single day. However, what standardized testing and music contests fail to take into consideration is all of the preparation that went into it behind the scenes. Believe me, I'm a good enough teacher to make a "C" feel like you just won the Nobel Prize and an "A-" feel like the worse thing you've ever done. So I wanted to make sure that my students knew what the really, and I mean this, the REALLY important stuff about today's contest was.
I'm talking about kindness. I'm talking about politeness. I'm talking about 150 kids walking into a building and being quiet and respectful of the students, faculty, and volunteers running the contest. I'm talking about students holding open doors, saying "please" and "thank you" and meaning it. I'm talking about a whole lot of high school kids eating bag lunches in a little theatre and leaving it cleaner than they found it. I'm talking about kids, some of whom have ADD, ADHD, IEPs, whatever you want to call it, who concentrated so hard that they were twitching in their seats. I'm talking about parent volunteers who took time away from work to deliver those meals, to run kids between venues (because they're so darn talented they just had to be in choir and band, too), and to be there and support their amazing children.
THAT'S WHAT I'M TALKING ABOUT!
The most important streak, that streak of keeping our humanity along with our musicality, was kept alive today and I couldn't be more proud of the people who kept it going.
So, April, you just go ahead and bring it. I've got about 150 people standing behind me who will kick your butt right back into that happy place you used to be. I'm tired of being tired. I'm going to celebrate my students today. It was the best "2" I've ever seen a bunch of kids earn. And, April, you just can't take that away from me.
But can I still have the birthday presents?
