And Now …

Tags

college, gnp, Jim MacRostie, sadness, UMass, UMMB

Each day after work I log on to Facebook to find out what is happening in my social circles. Most days I read about teething babies, dinner plans, and what’s going to be on TV later. Today was markedly different: my news feed contained numerous tributes to the late Jim MacRostie, beloved by many as the voice of the Minuteman Marching Band.  He passed away this weekend after a long battle with Parkinson’s Disease.

For thousands of UMass students and fans, Jim MacRostie’s voice was part of autumn’s Saturday soundtrack. As the band took the field at every home game, his thundering voice would echo off the walls of the stadium:

And now … the Powerrrr and Class! of New England … the University of Massachusetts … Minuteman Marching Band!

His voice was an integral part of the band’s performance. He even traveled with us for our out-of-state performances, for our show just wasn’t the same without him. Even our highly charismatic band director could not fill his shoes.

My first interaction with Jim MacRostie was as a freshman in high school when I acted under his direction in a production of “Show Boat.” The distinctive voice that made him a legendary announcer also made him a positively terrifying director. Readers who are familiar with his signature sound will understand what I mean. It was not a voice that you would want bellowing at you because you missed an entrance. I regarded the man with respect but timidly kept my distance.

As a college student I would come to know him as the voice of the organization that was dearest to my heart. Each time we took the field to the sound of his thundering introduction, my pulse quickened. I loved the guttural growl of his “power” and the staccato pulse of his “class.” I was tremendously proud to be a part of what he described.

Life in the UMass Minuteman Marching Band – or the UMMB, as we called ourselves – was defined by ritual. Together we cultivated the habits of posture, carriage, and tone production that created a cohesive whole out of hundreds of parts. From the first day of band camp we practiced good habits as basic as how to articulate a note together. (“You set, you breathe, you play.”) When we took a break from rehearsal, each section would carefully line up their instruments in perfect succession – every horn angle was the same, whether resting in the grass or positioned against our lips in performance. We practiced taking perfectly measured steps, turning on a dime, and stopping and starting together. We practice these skills over and over again until they became habitual.

Our rituals extended beyond our musical work to shape the way we interacted with one another.  If the trombone section leader declared “sun’s out, guns out!” on a hot day, every member of the section rolled their sleeves up to their shoulders. The trumpets called themselves hogs (give them points for self awareness) and loudly chanted “Hogo! Ergo! Suuuuuuuum!” before every performance. Other traditions were shared by every section of the band – when our director insisted that we run through a section “aaaaagain!” to get it right, we cheered with wild enthusiasm (because it was preferable to rolling our eyes.) We ended every rehearsal and every performance with a chant declaring our pride in the UMMB.

As a freshman I closely observed the rituals as performed by the upperclassmen. Some were explicitly spelled out while others were taught by example. At the time I happened to be pledging the band sorority and was required to memorize an assortment of trivia about the band’s history. I came to realize that I was part of an organization with a proud history – one that I would learn to carry inside myself. I was becoming part of a tradition that was older than me, and that tradition would continue long after I graduated.

For the first few years that I came back as an alumnus, the landscape was virtually identical to the one I had known. I took comfort in the familiar sights and sounds of the UMMB. I could almost see the faces of my classmates on the new students who I had never met. Our director was still there, pulsating with the same maniacal energy that I remembered. And still every performance began with the legendary voice that, to all of us from a certain era, was synonymous with the Power and Class of New England.

The campus looks a bit less familiar every time I go back. Even the band is not quite the same as what I remember. They have a new home now in a building I never knew, although I did play a small part in getting it built. They have a new director who, by all accounts, is excellent even in the shadow of his predecessor’s legacy. And Jim MacRostie’s voice will no longer echo off the walls of the Warren P. McGuirk Alumni Stadium. In fact, it hasn’t in quite a while – he retired from his announcing duties several years ago. I have never quite gotten used to the sound of someone else’s voice. I always hoped he’d come back to announce one more show.

His legendary voice – along with that of our beloved band director – is forever silenced. But for the rest of my life, both will be imprinted on my memory. And both still fill my heart With Pride.

Waking Up in Paris

Tags

AMA, France, love, Paris, sadness, travel

One week from today, I will wake up in Paris.

This was the first thought that crossed my mind when my alarm went off this morning.

My second thought was that waking up in Paris has been the starting point for some of the most vivid memories of my past.

July 22, 2010

I awoke to the distant sound of road noise. The room was pitch black, save for a narrow yellow beam that shone past the edge of the light-blocking curtains. Nestled under a thick feather comforter, I blinked in the darkness and tried to remember where I was.

It was hard to distinguish between dream and memory, but I was certain of this much: there had been long midnight walks through a slumbering city for which I was the tour guide. There were familiar monuments, eerily illuminated against the heavy blackness of a summer night. There was a sunrise over the Seine, two café crèmes, and a long talk about destiny, chance, and choice. There was a cinematic farewell on a train platform, a tearful solo walk back across the city, and a heavy fourteen-hour slumber.

Five hours later I would board a plane and return to a life I had left behind for a month. Some would call it a return to reality, but I couldn’t say for certain what was real anymore. For one last tranquil moment I surveyed the darkness of my room and marveled at the strange ways of fate – that thousands of miles from home, a stranger with kind eyes and a nice smile could change everything I thought I knew about myself.

June 28, 2011

I awoke shortly after four a.m. drenched in sweat. In the dim gauze-curtained glow of a streetlight I stumbled into the bathroom and drew my second cold shower of the night. It was the fifth day that my exhausted body had been stricken with fever, muscle aches, and digestive malaise. The hardest year of my life was nearing its end. Sweat and bile were the physical manifestations of ten months of grief, anger, and fear that were finally, violently, being expelled.

A most unhappy situation for a student – head lice – had been the catalyst for a reconfiguration of hotel rooms on the American Music Abroad tour. Her misery was my gift, for I unexpectedly found myself in a single room where I could sleep off my illness in solitude.

Freshly showered again, I wrapped myself in two towels and collapsed back on the bed. In three hours, my alarm would go off. There would be museum visits, walking tours, and a concert under the Eiffel Tower. I was barely sentient enough to appreciate where I was. But I would put on a smile for the students, who would take it all in with the wide-eyed delight of first-timers. I was nowhere near my best self, but I did at least have the sense to recognize that if I had to claw my way out of illness and grief, I couldn’t have picked a prettier place to do it.

April 24, 2008

I awoke as the plane began its descent into the Charles de Gaulle airport shortly after 6:00 am. I walked off the plane, cleared customs, and wandered down to the lower level where the RER trains departed for Paris. I stood there in jet lagged confusion for nearly five minutes before determining how to purchase a ticket. It was all so very foreign.

Paris was just waking up as I stepped off the metro at the Luxembourg Garden stop, which seemed like as good a place as any to start my exploration of the city. A small company of firemen jogged past me as I dragged my suitcase along the cobblestones. I smoothed the wrinkles out of my linen dress as they passed.

Unsure of where I was going, I wandered out of the garden and into the Latin Quarter where shopkeepers hosed down the sidewalks in front of their shops. A bookstore clerk nodded wordlessly as she set up tables covered with musty paperbacks under a yellow canopy.

Across the street, an elderly man made his methodical way down the sidewalk, a newspaper and a baguette tucked under his arm. He stopped when he saw me, removed his hat, and called across the street: “Mademoiselle, vous êtes très, très jolie!”

I responded with a cheerful “merci!” as I rounded the corner. I decided at that moment that I liked Paris very, very much.

In Praise of Beth

Tags

friends, leadership, music, news, sadness, teaching

Readers, I do not relish the writing of today’s post, for it is on a topic that saddens me deeply. I am writing in response to a choice that was made public last night at a televised meeting of the school committee. It is a choice that concerns the work of Beth Delforge, Fine Arts Curriculum Director for the Marblehead Public Schools. Her position is one of several being cut – whether it will be reduced to one day a week or eliminated entirely remains to be determined – in order to fund three new administrative positions for the school system.

I cannot overstate Beth’s impact on my adult life. She has been a steadfast mentor and friend to me.  I will spend the rest of this school year enjoying every moment with my mentor and attempting to adjust to the notion of a school without Beth – which already sounds to me like an alien landscape. I have lots of questions about how a leaderless department can maintain the quality that has brought such acclaim to our community. But those are questions to be explored through the appropriate channels, and this blog is not such a channel.

It would be a mistake, however, to fail to recognize the impact that this woman has had on our community and on my life in particular. The halls of our music department are lined with framed photo collages that Beth has lovingly assembled, year after year, documenting the great work of our students. Before she begins the next chapter of her professional life, it is important that we document her great work in our town.

Beth hired me in the spring of my senior year of college. It was her first year as Fine Arts Curriculum Director, and with the principal’s support she sought to expand the high school music program. Together, over the next ten years, we would develop seven new music classes, charter a chapter of the Tri-M honor society, and increase enrollment in choral ensembles by 400%. Meanwhile, Beth was also busy creating unique district-wide professional development opportunities, promoting and supporting a stunning visual arts department, and advocating tirelessly – for a decade – for a theater arts teacher, who has finally joined our department.

I’ve spoken on numerous occasions of my tremendous good fortune to land in a school system that has valued the arts enough to fund an administrative position. With Beth’s advocacy – and here I must also acknowledge the tremendous contributions of our Fine Arts secretary Cindy Thompson – I’ve had the luxury of focusing solely on my teaching. I am learning that this singular attention to professional mission is a rarity in public education these days. I have been fortunate indeed.

For ten years Beth Delforge has pushed me to reach for what others might consider impossible. She has encouraged me to dream big, wild dreams of what our choral program could be, and then she has helped me outline the steps towards my goals. She showed me how to seek out grants that would support the expansion of our a cappella program, numerous school-wide enrichment opportunities, and the creation of an in-house recording studio for our music department. Although she is not one to seek the limelight, there should be no misunderstanding: every one of our ambitious and exciting endeavors has had her fingerprints all over it.

Beth has been far more than a cheerleader to me. She has been a trusted source of wisdom and advice. Whether grappling with the wording of an email, a puzzling piece of curriculum, or classroom management, my first instinct has always been to walk across the hall to her office. When I make mistakes, she lets me know in no uncertain terms – but she has always done so in a way that makes me feel like a valued and trusted professional. I have made every effort to model that approach in my interactions with my students, for I have also experienced a more punitive management style, and I firmly know which one I prefer.

Beth is the embodiment of passionate teaching and lifelong learning. Her daily presence has shaped the teacher and the learner that I am today.  I suppose there comes a time in every mentoring relationship when the student must fly solo, and Beth has certainly given me the support and the freedom to learn how.

But I don’t like it one bit.

Safe With Me

Tags

blog, friendship, oversharing, sadness, secrets

Followers of my blog are aware that I got some bad news yesterday. Downright crappy news, in fact. The bearer of the crappy news shared it with me in confidence, and I will honor that confidence until my friend is ready to go public. Because this friend means the world to me, and that’s what friends do.

But I sure don’t like it.

I am bound to respect my friend’s privacy because it is not my news to share. But, as is the case with any close friendship, her life’s path intersects with mine at many junctures. I am angry, sad, and worried for my friend, but her misfortune also raises some Very Big Questions about what it all means for me. And I, for one, am not great at processing Very Big Questions in a vacuum.

I am a pretty open person. I don’t have a lot to conceal, which is good because I am a terrible liar. I talk, blog, and tweet quite freely about a range of topics: my strengths and shortcomings, my heart’s deepest desires, and the degree of inflammation of my gums. (Today: moderate except for one open sore.)

When it comes to sharing, I know where my boundaries are. My open book policy is governed by some personal golden rules:

1. I do not air dirty laundry in public. Interpersonal conflicts are to be resolved between the parties involved, not splashed across one’s social network.

2. I do not write mean-spirited and hurtful words.

Yes, I do think them. More than I care to admit.

(Mockery and snark directed at attention-seeking internet sensations are the only occasional exceptions – some people are just asking for it.)

3. I do not confuse openness with closeness. I’ll gladly tell you all the disgusting, embarrassing, and humbling details of my medical procedures, but the list of friends who I would take with me to the hospital is small indeed.

This third principle illustrates why secrets are sacred. In an age of oversharing, it’s important to know who one’s real friends are.

I remember a time when secrets were to be relished. As a child who was learning what it meant to be a friend, I craved secrets. To be on the receiving end of one meant that I was part of an inner circle. The nature of the secret or the size of the circle really didn’t matter. It just felt great to be in the know.

I don’t actually remember anything about my worthiness as a keeper of secrets. I imagine, like most kids, I probably wasn’t very good at it. Not that the stakes were particularly high back then. No harm, no foul.

Somewhere on the path to adulthood, secrets – and their consequences – began to take on more gravity. I am still deeply ashamed of the first major confidence I ever betrayed. A friend told me that he was an alcoholic. A year later, in an off-handed remark, I revealed this information to a mutual acquaintance and colleague. I couldn’t believe my own stupidity. I fessed up to my friend right away. He was far more gracious than I deserved. That was four years ago, but the recollection still makes me cringe.

So I think twice now before sharing what is entrusted to me. Because I know the value of a trusted friend, and I want to be one. It’s hard for me to keep my anger, sadness, worries, and Very Big Questions to myself. It’s not in my nature. But for my friend, I will.

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Sail On, Silver Girl

Tags

creative efforts, expression, music, sadness, teaching

“I like living. I have sometimes been wildly, despairingly, acutely miserable, racked with sorrow, but through it all I still know quite certainly that just to be alive is a grand thing.” ~ Agatha Christie

We as a culture are uncomfortable with sadness and uncertainty. Most of us lack the vocabulary to talk about these inconvenient feelings. We suspect that no one wants to hear about them, and that we are alone in our experience. When we can’t put a name to our inner turmoil we lash out senselessly.

I didn’t expect for this to be the recurring theme of my day, but it was. It began with my first period music history class as we started our cursory lesson on post-World War II serialism. Fresh from winter break my students, who had probably not seen 8:00 am in a week and a half, looked at me as if I had assaulted their tender ears. Once they were over their initial shock they began a conversation about how we turn to music to express the feelings we don’t know how to verbalize.

A few hours later my a cappella students ran into a proverbial brick wall when they couldn’t figure out how to take their performance of “Bridge Over Troubled Water” from accurate to artistic. When I asked them how the emotion changed at the outset of the final verse they fidgeted, avoided eye contact, and changed the subject. With some prodding they came to the conclusion that the song offers encouragement to someone who is sad.

I asked them to consider the power of bearing witness to human suffering and of the redemptive power of empathy. I asked them to consider the possibility that they could lift the spirits of their listeners even as they sing about sadness. I told them how the song touched the hearts of an entire generation. I wondered aloud of there is a song that touches the hearts of theirs. I await their answer still.

“This class makes me feel really depressed about the music of my generation,” said a student in my American Popular Music class recently. “Older generations had music to express what they were feeling. Music today is just about drinking and partying.”

I find this statement deeply troubling. What does it say about our culture when our exalted artistic heroes have nothing to say about our twenty first century human spirits?

Music is not just entertainment. It is the job of the artist to give voice to the stifled and silenced parts of ourselves.

Thank God there are a few artists out there who carry the torch quite masterfully. (By the way, here’s one from Hayley Reardon, a talented young artist who is wise beyond her years.) It’s a shame that they so rarely enjoy the perks of fame, because we need them now more than ever.

https://player.soundcloud.com/player.swf?url=http%3A%2F%2Fapi.soundcloud.com%2Ftracks%2F32331810 NEW SONG – SCRIBBLES (rough home recording..) by Hayley Reardon