Five Happy Thoughts

Boy, what a week.  It began with, literally, hundreds of essays to grade; having lost so many days from the beginning of the year, I had no choice but to push everything to the last day possible (and even asked for an extension so I could finish marking them over the weekend and still get a little sleep.)  A deep breath and then we launched right into the second quarter: new lesson plans, new texts, new questions.

I laid down the law about absences and trips out of the classroom, both of which students have more control over than they’d like to admit.  (One student asked me first thing if she could use the bathroom; I asked her to wait. Once I’d outlined the new policy limiting everyone to four trips per quarter, it turned out she didn’t have to go after all.)  Discussing these things is awfully tedious for everyone, but when they’re not addressed, loads of tiny interruptions add up to a vaguely chaotic feeling in the classroom, and ultimately it distracts everyone from our real goal: teaching and learning about English and life.

But there were so many bits of happiness sprinkled throughout all this drudgery.  Here are the highlights:

  • ONE father called to thank me for tutoring his daughter, who has several rather severe learning disabilities. We’d been studying techniques for test-taking on the SAT, and when her newest scores came in, the guidance counselors were simply shocked she had done so well.  She was accepted to her school of choice within a day, where she’ll be able to play field hockey (her sport of choice) and get an education with the supports she needs.  “I have two more kids,” he said at the end of the conversation, “so you’ll be hearing from me soon.”
  • TWO former students flew at me for hugs and gushing greetings.  “Mrs. LOWE!  How ARE you?  I haven’t seen you in so long!”  A third thanked me for all my help preparing her for the SAT; it was even more of a gift to see how much she’d matured in the intervening years, from an awkward and slightly-sullen teenager into a glowing, self-possessed young woman.
  • THREE students who were struggling took the time to complete an extra-credit assignment (seeing a play and comparing it with the written work we’d studied in class.)  They enjoyed the experience and their grades rose along with their confidence.  
  • FOUR pianists are progressing by leaps and bounds because they get to work together.  It’s amazing to see how much more they learn from each other than from me.
  • FIVE minutes after the bell rang, I dashed into class (my first tardiness of the year; I was blindsided by a schedule change and sabotaged by an uncooperative copier.)  When I entered the classroom, breathless and on edge, every student was sitting in her desk with her book open.  “Oh, hello, Mrs. Lowe,” one called out.  “We’ve just been discussing what we think of Hester Prynne.”

So, you see, it wasn’t all bad.  It rarely is.

 

Joyful

Yesterday was tough, disappointing and tiring. It was also exciting, cathartic and joyful.

I'm choosing to focus on the joyful part. When I saw how my hardworking student and her mother had prepared the refreshments table for her recital, my heart was lifted. They'll never know how much.

Something about that ritual, the one I've performed countless times for students whose names and faces are now blurred by time -- the one I can perform by heart, including the speech at the beginning, the silly story punctuated by repertoire and the encore bow at the end -- never fails to help me face the trials I am called to bear with renewed strength. And even with joy.

Starting Over

“Once I finally learned how to teach piano the right way,” said the instructor who trained my mom, “I had to fire all my students and start over.”  She was obviously (and humorously) misdirected in this remark, but expressed clearly the familiar frustration of trying to teach a new system to an old and complacent student.

For other reasons, though, her words have an uncanny resonance to me at this moment. My studio is half the size it was at the beginning of the year, which was half of what it was when I began teaching from home, which was half again what it was when I used to travel to students’ houses.  Over the years my students have lost interest, moved away and succumbed to the seductive allure of home lessons; they’ve been replaced, but never in the same numbers.  I suppose I could start advertising, but I prefer word-of-mouth referrals because they ensure the parents know what they’re in for before they ever show up for the first lesson.

So here I am, with half a dozen kids and what could be viewed as an opportunity.  With twenty or forty students, cancellations are commonplace and overhauls to the schedule nearly impossible.  With six, I decided, I can try something I’ve wanted to do for years: group lessons.

I started small.  Two groups of three: one for beginners, one for advanced.  I told the families that for our end-of-year event, we’d replace the last lesson in June with a group class.  I dreaded the scheduling, but it actually wasn’t so bad, and I was even able to put the groups back to back for two solid hours of games and performance.

Surprisingly, though I’ve had lots of classroom and private teaching experience, this new hybrid format made me a little nervous.  I wrote out a schedule of games, reminders and stalling techniques in case I ran out of things to do.  And then I unlocked my front door and waited.

They came with parents and grandparents and anticipation.  They sat on the rug, pointed and spoke and clapped rhythms, worked cooperatively and let their personalities shine through.  The slower, more methodical boy accepted help from his bouncy, lightning-fast friend.  They both stared wide-eyed at the girl who played the last piece of the volume they had just started.  The preteens fell into joking and jabbing each other as if they’d always been friends.  They complimented each other and talked seriously about improvements for the future. When they left, smiling for a few parting photos, I wondered why in the world I hadn’t done this a long time ago.

Oh, yeah – because I couldn’t have done it then.  I can, however, do it now.  And I’m already scheming about how to make it a permanent part of our plans for the future.

Letting Go

Even before Amanda opened her mouth, I knew it was bad news.  The way her hair hung down, covering her face, and the way her sneaker toes scuffed together nervously on my rug, crushing each loop into oblivion.

I unpacked my psychologist's hat.  "How are you doing?"  I said it searchingly, honestly, leaning toward her eyes, which leaned in the other direction.

"Okay.  I have some bad news.  I'm going to stop lessons."

Besides my dilated pupils, I think my surprise and dismay were well-hidden.  I teased the story out of her.  She had started playing clarinet a couple of years ago and liked the camaraderie of band class.  Middle school was already highly stressful, and in a few months she'd graduate to a whole new level of pressure.  She never had time to practice as much as she'd like, and she felt guilty about it.

And the clincher: she'd auditioned for high school band the previous week, and the director had complimented her on her playing and asked if she took private lessons.  Not for clarinet, she said.  For piano.  Well, he said, piano won't do you much good in a marching band.

So she was here to say goodbye, she finished miserably.  She'd stay through the month (two more lessons) but after that, it was time to move on.  Her mother's voice broke as she said how much they both would miss me.

Still, I was calm.  I focused on her, told her I was proud of her accomplishments and progress.  She was so much more confident than the skittish girl who'd first darkened my doorway, uttering only a handful of words per lesson.  And she played beautifully, and she would always play beautifully, even if only for herself.

The comfort of routine beckoned, and we moved on to studying what would now be her last piece.  Drill the chromatic scale.  Soften the phrase endings.  Duet the new section, alternating hands.  A game.  A bow.  Out the door and on with the evening.

When my last lesson ended, I had just enough time to change and dash out the door to yoga class.  Late, I waited an eternity until the warmup was complete and I could enter the room.  It was not much of a challenge; having endured several sessions of Vinyasa last summer, I hardly broke a sweat in Level 1, though the stretches felt good.

At the last, we lay on our backs, breathing deeply.  The instructor dimmed the lights and led us through a relaxation exercise, but I could feel tension, still, a wadded-up ball in the center of my chest.  I wondered idly if it would be rude to get up and leave early.

Then I heard a voice: "Let it go."  It was the instructor, of course, but it could have been God.  Maybe it was God.  "Let it go.  If you hold on, it will only hurt you.  Let it go."

The ball exploded.  Tears ran down my face.  I allowed myself to grieve the loss of this lovely child who was all grown up, who didn't need me any longer, who wanted to spend her time and energy elsewhere.  My insecurities flowed through me: this is the third one this month.  No one wants to study piano in a recession.  Maybe I should shut down my studio and teach at school full-time.  Maybe I should look for another career.  Is it too late to find something I'm really good at?  Why did it have to be Amanda?  Why my best student?  Why today?  Why ever?

The thoughts swelled through me and then burst gently free, clinging to my hair and wet face before drifting  heavenward with the words of the meditation I had long ceased to hear.  The tears, too, flowed away, down to the earth.  I remained in the middle, empty but free.

Nothing was solved -- nothing ever is, really -- but it felt so good to let go.

How to Study for a Test

I have an embarrassing secret to share with the world.  I love tests.

I really do.  Something about sitting down and pouring out your knowledge onto a piece of paper, with the expectation of impressing your instructor and probably learning something yourself, is extremely attractive to me.  This probably has a lot to do with the fact that I've always tested extremely well.  I do procrastinate, but my memory is excellent (thank you, Suzuki!) and I enjoy organizing the information into clusters that I can easily wrap my mind around.

Grad school, unfortunately, is not heavy on tests.  Most professors shun them as "high-stakes" assessments (the other type of assessment is "authentic assessment;" honestly, which sounds better to you?) and instead assign papers, presentations or [terrible, horrible, no-good, very bad] group projects.  More than halfway through the program, I've only had one test so far, and it was open-book and taken online -- so basically, I didn't consider it a test at all.

So when I started Educational Psychology this semester and I read on the syllabus that there would be an exam, I'll admit, I was a little excited.  Whoopee!  Something to study for!  (This is where you all shake your heads in disbelief at my geekery.)

The format of the exam was very simple: Eighty-five terms, plus the possible threat of additional terms as relevant to the class material.  Twenty-five on the exam, to be defined in two (or fewer) sentences.  I relished pulling out and dusting off the old-fashioned studying methods I relied on through grade school and college; and while I haven't received the results yet, but I'm pretty confident it went well.  So, here's my advice:

Start early. Yes, I'm a procrastinator, but I also take good notes, both during class and while reading.  In a sense, that's "studying," because it's making definite decisions about what's important and relevant.

Define your terms. In this case, the exam was terms, which made it even simpler, but even for a Math or Philosophy test, the terms are key.  Even broader concepts should be distilled down to a bulleted list or outline; you have to have a structure for the knowledge, or it will never stick.

Read them aloud. If you're a strong aural learner, record yourself (this is also a good way to study -- you can simply play the recording while you're driving, doing housework or involved in a one-sided conversation.

Quiz yourself. Make flashcards, ask someone else to quiz you, or pause your recording after the name of each term.  You can't know whether you really know it unless you test yourself, and this is where most students fall short; they think reading over the material is enough.  Quizzing exposes the holes in your knowledge so that you can address each one until you know it well.

Cluster. This can be a good way to take a break from quizzing, which should be your main focus; group ideas, people and events that are related.  Graphic organizers can be very helpful here: flow charts, webs and outlines all help make visual connections between ideas.

Repeat. Until you feel so comfortable that you can joke around with your friends in the minutes before the test.

Self-Diagnosis

This is the first year I've ever seen real overlap in my two teaching jobs: private piano and classroom English.  It helps that several of my piano students are nearing the age level of my classes, and at the same time they're musically mature enough to be able to handle larger questions of interpretation and approach, rather than just pitch and rhythm fixes.

Most rewarding has been my use of self-diagnosis as a tool for improvement.  It's amazing how true it is that most people already know what they need to do; they just need someone to affirm that.  Whenever I meet with students (mostly in Creative Writing, but occasionally in literature classes as well) I try to let them do most of the talking, because it ensures they're really taking in the information; they leave empowered, and with many of the same ideas I would have given them in the first place.

So, this year, I've been trying to use this method of critique with my piano students.  When a student plays for me, I'll always lead with a compliment or two (as specific as possible, so he knows I was really listening.)  Then I'll ask him one or more of the following:

  • What's your favorite part of this piece?

  • What one thing do you most want to work on?

  • If you were me, what would you say to you?

  • What do you think the composer of this piece wanted to convey through it?

  • What's the main emotion or idea you want to leave your audience with?

  • Can you visualize an image that will help you better perform this piece?


There are others, too; these are just the ones that come to mind.  The great thing is that there are only two possible outcomes:

  1. The student says exactly what I was thinking.  At first, this made me feel a little insecure (why does he need me if he can tell this on his own?) but now I just take it as further confirmation of my thoughts, and I remember that he probably wouldn't have thought of it if I hadn't asked!

  2. The student says something completely different than what I was thinking.  I actually like this scenario even better, because it gives me the opportunity to learn something from him.  Often, it changes my view of the piece, adding layers of complexity that are useful to both me and the students who will play it in the future.

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.

One More Time

An interesting phenomenon I've observed over my years of piano instruction: "One more time" is about the worst thing you can say to a student.  She might play it perfectly three times, and as soon as you say, "Okay, once more," I guarantee you she'll tank and make all kinds of errors she's never made before.

I have tested this theory numerous times, and it always works, even on my most composed kids.  I think those magic words -- one time, just one -- somehow make your brain shut off.  Woo-hoo!  One more time, and then we get to have ice cream!  (Well, Music Mind Games is pretty close to ice cream, and that's usually the carrot that's dangling in front of them, to use a very badly mixed metaphor.)

So, although I haven't nailed down the psychology of it just yet, I'm learning to say, "Again, please," until it's correct, and then to just stop asking.  However, you'd be surprised (or maybe you wouldn't) how hard it is to strike a certain phrase from your vocabulary.  The more you dwell on not saying it, the more likely you are to say it in spite of yourself!

Candid Camera

Yesterday one of my students' moms began photographing the lesson about halfway through.  This is not entirely unusual, and actually I was just glad she was using her phone to document the lesson instead of texting or talking on it.

I noticed something, though.  I was sitting up straighter, lest she should catch me from a bad angle.  I was smiling almost continuously in an effort to ensure a positive expression in the photos.  And somehow, those two things helped improve my attitude; I was patient and engaged instead of clipped and distant.  I was doing it for the wrong reasons, but getting the right results.

Similarly, the first time I recorded myself in the classroom and watched it back, I was appalled by how brusque and clipped my speech sounded, and how businesslike and strict I was with the students.  I haven't had the courage to repeat the exercise, though I have tried to incorporate those thoughts into my teaching (and to speak in a lighter, higher tone, which is better for my singing voice anyhow.)

In Blink (a wonderful summer book, if you're looking for one) Malcolm Gladwell interviews a team of psychologists that mapped out all of the different possible expressions on a human face.  There are hundreds, and as they struggled to separate contempt from bitterness and frustration from hurt, they found that the very act of forming the expression caused them to experience the emotion.  After a morning of making negative expressions, they felt angry, sad and discouraged.

So, why not the other way around?  It makes sense.  Forcing a smile might be a good thing.