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!

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.

Except the person who, unlike my students, might know more than me.  Okay, with a doctorate in choral conducting, he knows way more than me.  So much more that I’m majorly intimidated.  Oh, who am I kidding?  I’m freaking out.

Relax, I tell myself.  Breathe.  Sing.  You love to sing.

I do.  I love to sing.  And I know I have a gift for it; I thank God for my voice.  But until last month, I’d been skating by on tips and tricks I’d picked up from hanging out with musicians.  You know, really impressive terms like “glottal stop” and “diaphragm support,” standing with an open rib cage, over-pronouncing consonants.  Stuff I really didn’t understand, but was happy to throw around as if I did.

Until last month.  Suddenly, while sitting through a grad school lecture and wishing my classmates were not quite so verbose, I decided I was tired of being insecure about my singing voice.  I’d never actually had a voice lesson.  In a twisted kind of way, I was proud of that, the way I was proud of never having dyed my hair.  Then one day I just decided, who cares?  I feel like a change.  And I had my stylist put in highlights: 3 different colors, but wonderfully subtle.  I loved them.

So I guess this was similar.  What was the distinction of an untrained voice worth?  Certainly not more than the distinction of a trained one.  I looked up Suzuki voice teachers, found one in the area, and asked if he’d be willing to take on a piano teacher who had never really learned to sing.  He responded enthusiastically.  We set up the first lesson.  Here I was.  Learning, just like my students.

Also, like my students, completely overwhelmed, anxious and neurotic about every little thing.  Stand up straight.  Feet apart.  Hands and arms down.  Shoulders back.  Jaw loose.  Belly full of air.  Pure, clean vowels.  In a foreign language.  And for goodness’ sake, RELAX!

I saw it from the other side: my teacher patiently corrected all my errors, one by one.  Breathe deeply.  Give more support to the lower, richer notes; back off on the higher ones.  Relish the consonants.  Slide from lower to higher register seamlessly.  Let the volume expand; fill the room with sound.  And just as I was getting it, really getting it, I’d forget to breathe again.

“What did you learn today?” he asked after an hour.  (Only an hour?  Not three?)

“Singing is a lot more complicated than I thought!” I said.

He looked disappointed. “Then I’ve been talking too much,” he said.

No, no.  You’ve only forgotten, because I fake it well: I’m starting from zero.

Today, one more day of trying to teach while ensnared in a web of red tape, I’m thinking specifically about two kinds of people:

1. The kind who thinks the rules don’t apply. You can give them the Suzuki Speech before beginning lessons, but they still don’t understand that they need to be involved.  You can tell them tuition is due at the beginning of the month, but they won’t bring it until you remind them, sometimes multiple times.  You can even make them sign a contract, but they may or may not abide by it, depending on the weather.  Their lives are just SO complicated and SO busy; you couldn’t possibly understand what they are going through, but at least try to understand it’s much more important than anything you care about.

2. The kind who takes a mile. Growing up, my mother had the same job I do now, so I learned early the value of a professional relationship.  It drove us crazy the way her students would tromp through the kitchen exclaiming, “Wow!  That smells GOOD!” or “What are you reading?”  We felt invaded, even when the people were our friends — imagine your friends following you to the office and trying to make small talk while you work.  Eventually, she trained them to come in through the front door, and I’ve done the same with my students.

Except then we had this little storm, and shoveling four feet of heavy, wet snow is exhausting; it was all we could do to clear a path from the street to the front and back doors.  I (generously, I thought) offered to let my students use the back door that week.

Now the snow is melting and the walkway is clear, but they have still been coming in and out through the back door.  I feel awkward refusing, especially when they look at me with Bambi eyes and say, “It’s soooo cold, can we go out through the back?”  So I say of course, and they walk through the kitchen commenting on dinner / dishes / decor.  It throws me into the most grumpy mood imaginable.  Is it a big deal?  Of course not.  (And at least it’s reasonably clean.)  But I hate feeling like a sucker when I was just trying to be nice.

Now, I’m willing to bet that I’ve played both parts on occasion.  So I’m actually, in a sick sort of way, grateful to the people who have inspired this rant post.  Because of them, I am more than careful to honor my commitments and respect the boundaries others set.  Here’s hoping that’s contagious.

It was a questionnaire, something designed to allow me to share my feelings about playing the piano.  Five questions: what I thought of my teacher, practicing and performing, and my likes and dislikes about learning to play.  Each had a handful of possible answers and an opportunity to fill in my own.  Judging by my penmanship, the 7-digit phone number scrawled on the back and the fact that she wrote it out by hand, I’d put it at about 1988.  I was eight years old, playing Bach minuets but struggling to learn to sightread the most basic melodies.  It was a difficult time, perhaps the only difficult time in my musical career, and without her brilliant pedagogical logic I might not have made it through.  I don’t remember the experience at all, but that’s probably a testament to the resolution we reached.

The apple doesn’t fall far from the tree, I guess.  Last week I did a very similar exercise with my Journalism students, who were in a pretty bad place after last semester.  They claimed they were furious at the administration for killing some of their pieces; I arranged a meeting so they could communicate, at which point they told the administration they were furious at me for assigning too much homework.  Clearly, we had misunderstood each other.

So, last week, we started over.  I asked them what they liked and disliked about the class, what they would change about it if they could, and what they wanted to do for the rest of the year.  It was not nearly as well-thought-out as my mom’s questionnaire; I just asked a question, gave them five minutes to brainstorm, and then asked for volunteers to start the discussion.  I tried to be fair and unbiased (although when one girl protested that we should do more sports articles, because “everyone loves to read about sports,” I had to take a couple of deep breaths.)

The result: a lot of great ideas.  One suggested a food issue where we review local restaurants, share recipes and interview nutritionists.  One wants to write only about sports, but another only about international news.  One was adamant about including games, like Sudoku and word searches.  All liked the format of the paper and at least some of the articles they’d written thus far.  After some profitable discussion about interviews, I increased their deadline from five days to seven, which made all the difference in the world; they agreed it was fair and even seemed excited about starting their new assignment.

It seemed almost too easy to heal the hurts of a semester in a day, but by actively seeking and relying on their opinions, maybe I reassuried them that they count, that I valued them fellow human beings.  The surprising thing is that when you ask for input and are serious about accepting it, you will find that students’ standards aren’t much lower than yours.  Sometimes they’re even higher (many students had specific suggestions about grading, implying they wanted their classmates to share their ideas about proper quality.)  In short, after a bad start to the week, things are looking up.

Just for fun, below is the whole piano questionnaire, with my answers in bold.  I made a few changes to the original and I think I may send it out to my piano parents — it could be one of them is dealing with a child every bit as headstrong and difficult as me!

This is what I think about my teacher (Miss Kathy):

She likes me.
She makes the lesson fun.
She gives me too much to do.
She makes me rush along too fast with Bastian [Bastien, a sight reading book I hated.]
She doesn’t give me enough; it is too easy and boring.
She doesn’t really care about me.
Other comments:

This is what I think about practicing:

I want Mom to stay with me when I practice so she can help if I need it.
I want Mom to let me practice by myself.
I want Mom to help when I say so, and I feel angry when she can’t come.
I want Mom’s help sometimes, when there’s a new piece.
I have too much to practice.
I should practice 30 minutes a day.
My favorite time of day to practice is afternoon
My least favorite time of day to practice is morning
Other things about practicing that I want to tell you: I don’t like Music Tree, Bastien [got it that time!], Theory

This is what I think about playing for other people:

I like to perform, but it’s too much work to get a piece ready.
I wish pieces didn’t have to be perfect for me to perform them.
I don’t like to play for groups. (If you circled this, please also answer the following questions.)
I feel nervous before I play.
I make mistakes, and that makes me feel badly.
It makes me feel worse when my friends talk about feeling nervous.
It is easier to play
For large groups
For small groups
in a big auditorium church
in my own house at a play party
for Miss Kathy at a lesson
I feel nervous before I play in front of people, but great afterwards if I do a good job.
I feel unhappy afterwards even if I played well.

What are the things you dislike about learning to play the piano?

Difficulty — work is too hard.
Practice time — too long?  interferes with other activities?
Going to lessons – time
Teacher
Mom’s help
Learning to read the notes doesn’t come easily
Not enough fun things in learning (like games, contests, rewards)
I will never be great (as a pianist.)

What are the things you like about learning to play the piano?

I like the sound when I play something beautiful.
I like finishing a piece – I feel I accomplished something.
I like starting a new piece – it’s fun, like getting something new as a gift.
Other people think I play well, and that makes me feel good about myself.
I like sharing a talent with my family and friends who also play.
When I try to do my best, I think it brings glory to God. [Apparently was NOT interested in THAT.]
I enjoy thinking about how much I have progressed in 3 years. [Okay, I must have been a year off; I was 9. Not bad for two decades ago!]

Near the end of the evening, we came to a Bartok piece, one of two recently added to the second volume of the Suzuki repertoire.  I had already commented that Theodore’s playing seemed much lighter than previously; his touch was deft, but sure.  Now, suddenly, with the opening chords of the left hand, he was transformed into a master.  The tempo was all wrong, much too slow . . . but no, it drew me in, forced me to accommodate and accept it.  Each chord struck a haunting, mournful timbre; my body suddenly felt warm all over, as if I were feeling the sun’s rays for the first time.  I was transfixed, almost frightened by the artistry I saw and heard and felt.

The last notes faded, and silence rang in my ears.  Without moving his fingers from the keys, he shot a look at me, concerned that I hadn’t yet chirped my customary words of praise.  And just as suddenly as he had become a virtuoso, he turned back into a boy, eager to impress but not quite sure what to make of the look of astonishment on his teacher’s face.

The performer below doesn’t hold a candle to my Theodore, but at least you’ll hear the empty shell of the music.  Enjoy.

He laughed, and although he was still frustrated, he now made a great show of throwing himself at the piano keys, knowing his mother and I would find it funny, instead of turning the frustration on himself.  Mission accomplished.  Carole would be proud.

Me: You are so brave to stick it out through such a tough piece!  And don’t feel badly; I know you didn’t play as well as you would have liked, but all the basics were there.  It’s just a little . . .

Charissa: Rusty?

Me: Yes, that’s exactly what I was going to say.  How did you know?

Charissa: Well, that’s pretty much your favorite term.

This was a brilliant way for Carole to ensure she said lots of positive things about the student (not that she ever had a problem being positive!)  These compliments ranged from the musical to the inane: when I studied with her at a workshop once, she remarked on my beautiful long hair and how dramatic my bow was because of it.

The Secretary’s Report, however, was a powerful thing.  Everyone loves to be praised, but to be praised out loud and then have it repeated back to you a few minutes later is a huge boost.  Carole told the story of one teenage boy who acted disinterested and eventually didn’t want his dad to read the compliments aloud, saying it embarrassed him.  But, said the dad, as soon as the car door closed behind him, the boy would mumble, “Lemme see,” and grab the notebook to read them to himself.

It’s amazing, isn’t it, how one small compliment can make your day?  When a co-worker compliments my skirt, I walk with a little more confidence.  Once, when a friend sent me a thank-you note written on a pretty Post-it, I kept it stuck to my desk for years.  I can still remember the text: “Emily, you have done a wonderful job with all of this!  BRAVO!”  It referred to some music I had written down for her, I think, but the text was generic enough for me to glance at it from time to time and pretend she was complimenting my organizational technique, my classroom preparedness, or my bruschetta.

Somehow I lost that note, but last week I replaced it with a new one.  When I applied for a scholarship to Loyola, my principal had to sign the form, but instead of merely giving it back to me, she included a note in a cheery cursive hand: “I’m so glad you are doing this, Emily!”  I keep it here, because while I’m pounding out a paper or slogging through a text, it’s nice to have a reminder: she’s glad I’m doing this.  So am I.

Perhaps the most telling evidence of her success as a teacher and a person is the fact that I can’t be sad about her death, much as I might try.  I’m sorry for myself, of course, as I’ll never get another chance to joke around with and learn from her.  But I can’t be anything but grateful for her life and ministry, so much so that it’s hard to feel angry that she was taken away.  I feel as if humanity never deserved her in the first place.

How can I describe Carole?  She was a study in paradoxes.  She was the tiniest teacher I’ve ever met, but had the biggest personality.  Her goofy sense of humor hid a dazzling intellect; she was always acquiring knowledge from the most unlikely sources.  She was completely silly, but she meant every word she said.

She believed in being completely positive all the time.  “Criticism doesn’t help anyone,” she once said.  “It just makes them feel rotten.”  She didn’t believe in lying, of course, but she would always find something to praise even after the most disappointing of performances.  She would compliment the student’s smile, his attitude, his big strong hands [that had just played all the wrong notes.]  Then she’d find a way to make him do better.

If a student made a mistake, she said, the teacher should take the blame: “I’m sorry.  That’s my fault.  I haven’t been a very good teacher; I didn’t explain that clearly enough.  Will you forgive me?”  It sounds ridiculous, but it was born of pure, clean humility.  She believed it; she believed in taking the fall so that the student could feel more successful.  Once I ventured to ask her whether that wasn’t a little degrading, constantly telling the student what a poor teacher you were.  “So what?” she said.  “The student should be your first priority — not your own ego.”  I remember this exchange verbatim, because I wrote it down.  I needed to hear it.  And although I have never been very good at keeping my pride in check, I’m getting better at it.  Because of Carole.

She was a staunch populist in a field populated with professionals whose insecurity drives them to snobbery and elitism of the worst type.  She didn’t care if her students won awards.  She wanted them to love music, and she wanted them to be good, kind people.  Skill was a distant third.  There are many who disagree with her, but really, in the end, what matters most?  The heart.  Carole’s heart was bigger than all 90 pounds of her frail body.

I asked her once what I should do about a “Suzuki” piano teacher who wasn’t really teaching Suzuki.  I’d received several of her students, and I complained that they didn’t appear to know any fundamentals of the method.  “You know what I’d do?” she mused.  “I’d take her out to lunch.  I’d be her friend.  No matter how lousy of a teacher she was, she obviously did one thing right.  She taught her students to love music — otherwise, they never would have come to you.”

Last week, in a flash of inspiration, I followed that advice in dealing with a colleague who had previously been combative and negative at every turn.  She always said that if you wanted someone on your side, you should ask for his help.   So I did, and suddenly he was transformed into an animated, gregarious, and articulate ally.  I almost fell over when he actually complimented me on the results of my work, something he had never done in all the years we’d worked together.

In our teacher training classes, she re-iterated over and over the importance of seeing lessons from the child’s point of view.  95% of student misbehavior is due to a fear of failure, she explained: students are so petrified at the thought of disappointing you that they will goof around, refuse to play, pout or even throw a tantrum to avoid doing it wrong.  I try to remember this when I have a student who’s smug or defiant or mopey.  Usually, my impatience gets the better of me, but occasionally I’m able to do what Carole did — to look at that child and see the image of God, marred but intact, and treat her accordingly.

The world needs more people who see only good, all the time — and where they don’t see it, they create it.  This was Carole.  I am so thankful for the blessing of having known her.