The Quality of Mercy

One minute it's a perfectly normal lesson.  We're playing a memory game with Music Symbol Cards, and the father is unable to let his daughter miss a move.  She is momentarily stumped on the Treble Clef, and he quips quietly, "Oh, you'll get into trouble for sure if you can't remember that one. Trouble."

"Treble clef," she says sheepishly.  Then, askance, "Daaaad."

"Sorry," he says, affably chastised.

She is nervous about the rules of this game: I call it Foursquare, and it works a little like the game my mom used to play with us in restaurants while waiting our food.  You draw a grid of dots and connect them into boxes; the one who completes the box gets to claim it. Here, the one who turns over the fourth card in a square block gets to keep all four.  Her eyes are glued to the cards, her little mind intent on keeping as many as possible for herself.

But then something changes.  First, she accuses me of letting her win.  I explain that we are far enough into the game that there's no way for me to avoid turning over a third card; her only crime is getting them right over and over.  "It's okay," I say.  "It's just a game."

She hesitates before turning over another third card instead of completing the waiting square.  She feigns innocence; her father gives life to her thoughts.  "You're having mercy on your teacher," he says.  "That's okay."

I graciously accept the hand: "It's nice of you to think of my feelings.  But really, it's okay for you to win.  You know all the cards.  You're doing great!"  Yet still, before each move, she pauses, smiles sweetly.  "I'll have mercy."  There is no guilt or coercion in her manner, only a heart much bigger than her small body can contain.

Her father watches, proud, and I wonder just what he has gone through to raise a child like this -- a child who chooses mercy over personal gain, who is sensitive to others' feelings and wants to encourage me more than she wants to win.  I imagine the lessons he has taught, painful and enjoyable, to this end.  How has he helped her to see that justice is a bitter victory, and that truly, mercy conquers all -- so that, unprompted, she wants to extend this grace to those around her?  What a blessing he has given to her, to me, to all of us!

Yes, dear one, please, have mercy.  Have mercy, as God has mercy, on me.

China Girl, China Mom

Last night I received an e-mail from a father who was going to talk seriously with his daughter, again, about whether she wanted to continue with piano lessons.  She had been putting up a fight at practice time, he reported, and he was tired of trying to force the issue.  If she didn't want to do the work, he declared, he certainly couldn't force her to.

Later that evening, on the recommendation of a very different father, I read this in the Wall Street Journal:
What Chinese parents understand is that nothing is fun until you're good at it. To get good at anything you have to work, and children on their own never want to work, which is why it is crucial to override their preferences. This often requires fortitude on the part of the parents because the child will resist; things are always hardest at the beginning, which is where Western parents tend to give up.

[later:]

Western parents worry a lot about their children's self-esteem. But as a parent, one of the worst things you can do for your child's self-esteem is to let them give up. On the flip side, there's nothing better for building confidence than learning you can do something you thought you couldn't.

That excerpt is probably the least controversial part of the article.  The author also claims that her daughters were "never" allowed to watch television or attend sleepovers and gives a horrifying account of a piano practice session that nearly tore the family apart but ended, unfathomably, in cuddles and laughter.  I certainly can't endorse the full gamut of her technique, which I think depends on a forceful personality and the cultural underpinnings that support and accompany it.  But I have to say, I admire the (courage?  foolishness?) it took to air those beliefs in a forum that has already crucified her for them, 3000+ negative comments strong.

What's in a Grade?

Our final project for my grad school course this semester sounds an awful lot like a teacher invented it.  It's called Problem Based Learning.  Basically, the students have to figure out what the problem is and how to solve it, and then solve it.  The teacher hangs around and answers questions if they have them, but doesn't volunteer anything except for the premise.

As I said, it sounds like a dream come true for a teacher, and it sure is applicable to real life, but I don't think it would ever work for the demographic I teach.  In fact, considering how many questions I have after assigning half a page of homework, I could probably guarantee myself a migraine.

In spite of myself, however, I'm starting to enjoy the project.  The premise, which is loosely based around the professor's other teaching job, is that an inner-city school is struggling to make state-mandated standards.  They have decided to create a yearlong tutoring program for the approximately 25% of the student body that has failed the last achievement tests, and they've given us $200,000 to plan and execute it.  My job is to write the budget: snacks, transportation costs, teacher salaries, materials, etc.  I've talked them into using Music Mind Games as an enrichment activity and to improve reading, math and test scores (all of which are proven to happen, by the way!)

So during class last week, I suddenly realized why the activity was so enjoyable, and so unrealistic, all at once.  We were coming up with the best strategies, the coolest ideas, the most enthusiastic instructors, in order to help these struggling students gain their footing and succeed.  And the one conspicuously-absent factor was GRADES.

As you may have read recently, grades are more controversial than ever: should teachers grade effort, achievement or both?  Presentation, content or both?  Are tougher grading scales, like the one we use, better or worse than the standard 10-point scale, or do they cause grade inflation?  Should we let a student volunteer for extra credit if she wants to bring her grade up, or deny it on the basis of fairness?  What if the parent calls, irate and demanding?  How much do we care, really, about the grades we assign?

I love teaching, but I hate assigning grades.  It seems so counterproductive to the work we're trying to accomplish: the betterment of human hearts and minds.  How does a number on a piece of paper help with that?

Manic Monday

So manic that I can't condense these separate thoughts into a cohesive entry, so enjoy:

  1. To file under Things I Never Thought I'd Say at School: "Thank you for showing us all your underwear.  Now please sit down and finish writing."  Technically, they were boxer shorts, but I was still a little shocked to see her hiking up her skirt to show them off to her classmates.  The perils of a single-gender school, however, are few compared to the benefits.  I recently read that single-sex classes were forbidden by law until NCLB, so in my view that makes the entire disastrous piece of legislation worth it; in seven years, schools offering them have grown from about 12 to more than 540. Think about it: if she's comfortable enough to show everyone her undergarments, she'll be comfortable enough to request help or clarification, volunteer an answer that sounds a little crazy, or maybe even disagree with the majority.  I am, however, working on getting the latter without the former.

  2. We have the day off from school tomorrow to attend the funeral of a longtime faculty member.  It struck me as such a fitting final tribute.  It's hard to say whether teachers or students are more excited by the prospect of an unexpected day off, but either way, we're blessed by the break, and by the opportunity to say goodbye.

  3. Overheard two students chatting between classes today.  One started singing a pop song, and the other joined in on a high soprano harmony, creating a lovely effect.  The first student stopped singing to snap playfully, "Why are you so great?  AT EVERYTHING?"  I think that may be the most perfect metaphor for high school I've ever heard.  Lord, have mercy on these girls, and on their fragile sense of self-worth!

Spell Choker

A couple of years ago, a student submitted a poem for publication in our school's literary magazine.  She had written it with misspellings, then allowed Spell Check to automatically choose replacements for her.  The result was one of the most brilliant satires in modern history: "How Spell Choker Ruined My High School Carrier."

My own Spell Check game is decidedly more toned-down, but it does provide endless amusement.  As I work on church bulletins, I enjoy seeing the program flail when faced with Orthodox proper nouns, usually Greek-rooted.  Here are some of my favorites. (Explanations follow for the Byzantine-challenged.)

  1. Theotokos: Textbooks

  2. Kathisma: Atheism (ouch) or Machismo

  3. Hypakoe: Hyperbole

  4. Paraklesis: Paralysis

  5. Kontakion: Contagion


Okay, maybe it's just sacrilegious and not funny at all to imagine the bulletin naming the Contagion for the Feast, or asking someone to chant the Second Machismo in Tone 4.  I did say it was my own game!

  1. Theotokos is the name given to Mary by the fifth-century Council of Ephesus, as a refutation of the heresy that Christ was not fully God while in her womb.

  2. A Kathisma is one of twenty divisions of the Psalter; different Kathisma are read each day of the week.  For instance, on Sunday, we read Kathisma 2 and 3, which constitutes Psalms 9 through 23.  Kathisma sometimes also refer to the hymns that precede the reading of Psalms.

  3. Commonly meaning "obedience," Hypakoe can also be translated as "hearing."  It's a hymn that celebrates some aspect of the Resurrection, corresponding with one of the eight musical tones.

  4. Paraklesis means "intercession" or "supplication." Ironically, the Paraklesis is a service in which we pray for healing, both spiritual and physical.

  5. A Kontakion is a type of hymn written for a specific feast or saint of the church year.  Its etymology is pretty fascinating: in ancient times, the hymns were written on very long scrolls and rolled around sticks for storage.  So Kontakion is a derivation of the word "kontos," meaning "oar."



Malaprops, Malaprops

Student: So this part is supposed to be softer?

Me: Well, the dynamics say to decrescendo, but try to think about the structure of the piece.  You know, where do you see the melody going?  At this level of playing, the artist is expected to make his or her own contraband to the music.

Student: <confused stare>

Me: Contribution. What did I just say?

Student: I think you said contraband.

Me: What is wrong with me this week?  I can't remember the right word to save my life!  Yesterday I told my class to use the profit of elimination on the SAT.  Profit of elimination?  That sounds like a hitman's cut.

Mom: Well, at least you don't constantly confuse metrosexual with transsexual.

Me: <horrified stare>

Mom: Yeah.  Especially when you're talking to a man about his satchel, and you meant it as a compliment.

Me: You win.

When Musicians Get Crabby

This will be hilarious to anyone who's ever despaired about the lack of complexity in pop music (some minorly offensive language starting around 4:00):



Three reasons Rob Parvonian is hilarious:

1) His name is Rob, so obviously he's cool.

2) He plays the same guitar game as my Rob: start with a standard rock progression and see how many pop songs you can sing to it.  Infinitely amusing.

3) He's Armenian.  Again, automatically cool.

Thanks, Lauren, for alerting me!

In Search of Sound

I've written before about how I rarely listen to music.  In fact, one of the only ways to get me to listen to something new is to take advantage of a captive-audience situation.  I might swap headphones, as I did one Thanksgiving weekend when I discovered the Fleet Foxes on my brother's iPod.  I might, gasp, turn on the radio and discover a renewed love for the blues.

But most often I have my husband to thank for expanding my musical horizons. A couple of months ago, one of Rob's students burned him a CD of Broken Bells, and he left it in the car.  At first it was mildly pleasant and rather underwhelming, but over time I've become addicted to the seamless transitions, the fanciful orchestration and the lyrics that are tantalizingly indecipherable, just out of reach.  If pressed, I might say they are a creative cross-pollination of the Beatles and Air, although I think musical analogies are rarely useful to anyone besides their creators.

It could be that the reason I listen to music so infrequently is the effect it has on me.  It changes my thoughts, muddles my mood.  I suddenly find myself thinking of a college friend or a beloved scene from childhood, and the memories are so fresh, as if newly minted; the strength of the sound's swell surprises me to tears or a rush of adrenaline, and, let's be honest -- these are not good emotions to experience behind the wheel of a car.  Still, it is invigorating, and it sure keeps me alert as I navigate to my next destination.

Now that Broken Bells is all but memorized, I think it's time for something new.  So?  What would you make me listen to, if given the chance?

Fully Dressed

During one of our games at the workshop last week, Michiko reminded us to smile and be relaxed even when we’re concentrating hard.  It was fun to look around the circle and watch the frowns and furrowed brows soften into expressions of happy interest.

It also reminded me of the time I was teaching a student the difference between piano and forte.  “Here are two letters: p and f.  The p stands for that instrument over there – what is it?”

“Piano.”

“Right, and we say it like this:” I dropped my voice to a whisper. “Piano.  What do you think it means?”

“Quiet?”

“Exactly right.  And its opposite is this one, the f. It stands for forte, and we say it like this: Forte!”  I did my best brash, confident forte voice.  “What do you think it means?”

“Um,” the student hesitated demurely. “Mad?”

I laughed, but more out of shame than amusement.  You would think that I would have learned, after that, to regulate my expressions around young children!

However, a year or so later, I was teaching the same game to a three-year-old boy, an only child with a very quiet disposition.  He was interested, engaged, excited.  We got to the last one, ff.  Exhilarated, I jumped up and shouted, “FORTISSIMO!”  He burst into tears.  His mom and I both burst out laughing, which was about the worst response we could have had, I'm sure.

The number of little things to remember while teaching is depressingly long; even with constant reminders, it's so difficult to keep them all in mind at once.  Someday, maybe I'll have it all down.  Or not.