lot in ten months. Composure had become her default state, and she held her chin high through the harried question and answer sessions at the end of each presentation.
Again, she must have said something right, because she was invited to speak to the entire fifth-grade class during their last hour of the academic day. Taking a quick break in the deserted teacher’s lounge, Sam went over her notes. What a day—from the sternest of principals to the mix of teachers… Now, she was past the gatekeepers. She could finally talk to the kids she wanted to work with.
And she couldn’t be more pleased with the way the session turned out. Her goal was to convince the kids to participate in Musicall on a long-term basis. Ordinarily, that would mean adding music classes to the daytime curriculum, offering after-school sessions one day a week during the school year, and promoting two-week camp sessions during the summer. With only a month of funding, though, and the school year reaching a fever pitch as teachers tried to complete their agendas, Sam had thrown all her energy into the after-school program. She would offer classes on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays, weaving together the activities so that each day built on skills mastered the meeting before.
Now, at the end of a long academic day, she gave the kids a taste of the program. Starting with clapping exercises, she taught them the difference between whole notes, half notes, and quarter notes. She tossed in whole rests and half rests. Then, she divided the room into sections and set them to perform a song. The first two attempts dissolved into cacophony and laughter, but by the third try, they had the rhythms down well.
Sam couldn’t keep her eyes off a little girl in the front row of the “quarter note” section. The child had frizzy blond hair, and freckles splashed across her face. Her arms were scrawny, and Sam could make out scabs on both her elbows. The girl’s jeans were ripped out at the knees. She was a fighter.
But she was determined, too. Even when Sam set the group a more complicated task, spicing the rhythm with alternating half rests and quarter notes, Blond Girl settled in with a tight smile. She nodded her head as she counted time, fiercely determined to complete the entire song.
Sam could have been looking through a time machine. Sure, the hair was different. And Sam’s headstrong ways never translated into torn and dirty clothing.
But Sam knew the look of a child who would sink her teeth into battle to get what she wanted. Sam had been desperate for her first piano lessons, pledging everything her parents required. Her first four sessions at the keyboard had cost her three months of table-setting, table-clearing, and dishwashing, without help from anyone. But Sam had been driven. She had succeeded.
Another child caught her attention, a big boy sitting off to the side, as if he wanted to disappear in the shadows at the edge of the auditorium. His hands were meaty, and his cheeks jiggled as he clapped.
But Sam saw herself in that child as well. She recognized the shining joy in his eyes as he mastered a particularly tricky rhythm. She saw the way the boy took a deep breath, how he relaxed as she applauded her appreciation at the group’s effort. Sam understood that rush of success, that feeling that once, just once, she had accomplished what an adult asked of her, perfectly, without any excuses. She had followed the rules, and she had succeeded, and she had made her music teacher proud.
Laughing, Sam called out, “All right! One more pattern, and then we’ll call it a day. But if you come to Musicall on Monday, I’ll teach you a lot more!” She started the kids on an especially challenging clapping pattern, drawing on African rhythms to drive the music into their lungs, their bones, their brains.
The school bell rang just as the room settled into its final, exultant silence. “Excellent!” Sam called out. “Pick up a flyer for
Again, she must have said something right, because she was invited to speak to the entire fifth-grade class during their last hour of the academic day. Taking a quick break in the deserted teacher’s lounge, Sam went over her notes. What a day—from the sternest of principals to the mix of teachers… Now, she was past the gatekeepers. She could finally talk to the kids she wanted to work with.
And she couldn’t be more pleased with the way the session turned out. Her goal was to convince the kids to participate in Musicall on a long-term basis. Ordinarily, that would mean adding music classes to the daytime curriculum, offering after-school sessions one day a week during the school year, and promoting two-week camp sessions during the summer. With only a month of funding, though, and the school year reaching a fever pitch as teachers tried to complete their agendas, Sam had thrown all her energy into the after-school program. She would offer classes on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays, weaving together the activities so that each day built on skills mastered the meeting before.
Now, at the end of a long academic day, she gave the kids a taste of the program. Starting with clapping exercises, she taught them the difference between whole notes, half notes, and quarter notes. She tossed in whole rests and half rests. Then, she divided the room into sections and set them to perform a song. The first two attempts dissolved into cacophony and laughter, but by the third try, they had the rhythms down well.
Sam couldn’t keep her eyes off a little girl in the front row of the “quarter note” section. The child had frizzy blond hair, and freckles splashed across her face. Her arms were scrawny, and Sam could make out scabs on both her elbows. The girl’s jeans were ripped out at the knees. She was a fighter.
But she was determined, too. Even when Sam set the group a more complicated task, spicing the rhythm with alternating half rests and quarter notes, Blond Girl settled in with a tight smile. She nodded her head as she counted time, fiercely determined to complete the entire song.
Sam could have been looking through a time machine. Sure, the hair was different. And Sam’s headstrong ways never translated into torn and dirty clothing.
But Sam knew the look of a child who would sink her teeth into battle to get what she wanted. Sam had been desperate for her first piano lessons, pledging everything her parents required. Her first four sessions at the keyboard had cost her three months of table-setting, table-clearing, and dishwashing, without help from anyone. But Sam had been driven. She had succeeded.
Another child caught her attention, a big boy sitting off to the side, as if he wanted to disappear in the shadows at the edge of the auditorium. His hands were meaty, and his cheeks jiggled as he clapped.
But Sam saw herself in that child as well. She recognized the shining joy in his eyes as he mastered a particularly tricky rhythm. She saw the way the boy took a deep breath, how he relaxed as she applauded her appreciation at the group’s effort. Sam understood that rush of success, that feeling that once, just once, she had accomplished what an adult asked of her, perfectly, without any excuses. She had followed the rules, and she had succeeded, and she had made her music teacher proud.
Laughing, Sam called out, “All right! One more pattern, and then we’ll call it a day. But if you come to Musicall on Monday, I’ll teach you a lot more!” She started the kids on an especially challenging clapping pattern, drawing on African rhythms to drive the music into their lungs, their bones, their brains.
The school bell rang just as the room settled into its final, exultant silence. “Excellent!” Sam called out. “Pick up a flyer for
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