Teach the person, not the music
My first job as a teacher was in 2008. A local music school in New Orleans had the very wise idea to develop relationships with area elementary and high schools, and then place their teachers there, adjacent to the after-school program. As a business model, it was brilliant: no overhead for renting a studio or a piano, parents didn’t have to drive kids to or from lessons, and kids got to stay in a familiar setting. For an independent teacher like myself, I loved being on my own. No one supervised me directly at the school, which for me meant that I felt I could be myself, without anyone peering over my shoulder. Nowadays, I have a very different view of unsupervised teaching of private lessons, but at the time, it felt like freedom.
I was given a few instructions, ones which largely remained the same as I moved from one music school to another over the years. Be prompt, upbeat and friendly. Greet the child and get right to work. Teach with the goal of a winter or spring recital in mind. That was about it.
My first real indication that lessons would be a bit more complicated than that was a sweet little redhead, about 7 years old. Let’s call her Becca. Becca was bright, friendly, and funny. She seemed to look forward to lessons with me. Within a couple of weeks however, I noticed that Becca often smelled strongly of urine. Not just a light odor, either, but rather a heavy scent that indicated that she had been completely wet and possibly remained that way for a long period of time. Of course the smell was distracting during our lesson time, but more than that I was concerned for her. It’s unusual for a 7-year-old girl to deal with incontinence, and the smell and wetness could only be having a negative impact on her socially.
Her babysitter was the person who picked her up from school. A young blond man in his 20s, he struck me as someone who likely cared a great deal for Becca once upon a time, but at this point came across as impatient and distracted. I tried to learn from him what was going on with her, but lessons are not scheduled with time for that sort of conversation. The typical schedule is 30-minute lessons, back to back, with no break for the restroom or for eating, much less for communicating with parents or caregivers. It was that way then, it remains that way now. I made little headway with him; he told me that Becca had a medical issue that caused the incontinence, and that she refused to wear diapers as her doctor and mother had ordered. The end.
When I spoke to my boss at the music school, she was confused as to why I was concerned. Was the child non-compliant? Did she play as I asked her to? Was she learning anything new during lessons? While I assured her that the basics of music education were being met, I struggled to make her understand that this child was not well. A child arriving ashamed and in tears - and smelling of urine to boot - didn’t bode well for a productive lesson, or for a young teacher to feel confident or equipped to handle the situation.
My supervisor’s advice? Put newspaper down on the piano bench before Becca’s lesson. Problem solved.
The rage I felt. The absolute rage.
Even at 24, wet behind the ears and green in every way, my very soul rattled with the shortsightedness of such a response. The advice I was given was to treat this sweet little girl as though she were a dog. I was charged with dehumanizing her, then charged with educating her in the uniquely human task of learning to make music. What. The. Hell.
Through all of this, I spoke to Becca’s mom once. A tall, imposing woman who never took her large black sunglasses off as we spoke, she didn’t exactly give me hope for her daughter’s future, in or out of music lessons. She was cold, detached. While I believe her mom must have cared a great deal, she was incapable of making herself vulnerable enough to me to show it. Eventually Becca stopped taking lessons. I don’t know what became of her.
I had 21 students that first year, each and every one of them in their own context, with their own challenges and gifts. Every one of them, in my mind, underserved by this mandate to “get to work and teach the music”. Until recently, every music school I’ve taught at told me the same line: get them seated, say hello, get to work, don’t waste time with needless chitchat. Needing a paycheck as much as the next person, I agreed, on the face of it, to this approach. But the truth is, I never complied. I couldn’t. How could I possibly look at a 10 year old boy who has tears in his eyes because his parents are getting divorced, and tell him, “shake it off kid, it’s time for piano lessons”? Or the 6 year old whose family just moved from China, her English and her confidence an absolute wreck? What about the teenaged singer who confides in me that he’s gay, and I’m the only one who knows it? Should I tell him to suck it up and get back to work on The Vagabond? (The irony, I know.)
These days my work is slow. I make no firm promises of what musical goals will be achieved, and I take my time. Really the main difference these days is that I don’t pretend to my employer, myself, or anyone else that I’ll be putting the music first. For me, the mandate is clear: rapport and connection, relationship and trust, first. When students feel safe, the learning happens automatically. We are innately curious creatures, and young people in particular are keenly aware of that. If they trust me and the environment that I create and hold for them, we will learn together. I will definitely learn right alongside them, that’s for sure.
What I won’t do? I will not dehumanize. I will not compartmentalize. And I will not stay silent when I’m concerned for the health and well-being of my students. Sometimes that means I have awkward and challenging conversations with them and their caregivers. And that’s ok, I’m equipped for that. What I’m not equipped for is to allow another little Becca to slip through my fingers, never knowing what I could’ve or should’ve done for her, not just as her teacher, but as an adult entrusted to care for her wellbeing.
Person first. Everything else, second.
