In Need of Kaleo

I stepped just beyond the reach of the street light and let my eyes wander upward. In no time at all there was a crick in my neck, but I couldn't bring myself to care. I was there to greet the stars. Surrounded by constant light pollution in my everyday life, it had been years since I had seen them so vividly. There they were, accompanied by a chorus of crickets and an aroma of recent rainfall. My familiar sense of awe and empowered insignificance rushed back to me. I hadn't been positive I would ever make it back to this place, and I was even less sure about what might happen or what I might feel if I did come back. As soon as I saw those stars, I knew something divine had carried me to this place. For the first time in six years, I was home.

The week before I left for Kamp Kaleo I had to explain to several friends why I would make a 12-hour journey to spend a week in between corn fields and cow pastures. It's a valid question. It's a lot of effort to get there, and very little can beat the Chicago social scene in the summer. Sure, I wanted to give back to a place that had given so much to me, but a deeper reason sat in the back of my mind: I am in need of a little Kaleo.

Kamp Kaleo has been the one consistent place in every stage of my life. It was a fun place to visit and make new friends at in my early childhood. In junior high, it was a place where I could belong, even when the nagging sense of isolation tugged at my sleeve. Experiences at Kaleo helped me to solidify my passion and direction for my future while I was in high school. Kamp was the springboard for my future during a transitional summer of my college career. Now, as a young professional living far away from where my life started, Kaleo has grounded me in my history, been a refuge from the hustle of my everyday life, and connected me with myself and others in the holy spirit. I thought that after my six-year hiatus from kamping I would be amazed at all that had changed there. It turns out, I was pleasantly surprised at all the ways it is the same. Kaleo is still the magic I remember, providing people with exactly what they need whether or not they even know they need it yet.

The week was incredible. It was filled with everything that you would expect from Kaleo: laughter, tubing down the river, connection, hot chocolate, music, creativity, inside jokes, bullfrogs, cherry crisp, blistering heat, incredible vespers, bell ringing, grace singing, challenging moments, dewy mornings, meaningful conversation, fire circles, unexpected adventures, new and old friends, and so much more. At the start of the week, there were a few kids who made it clear to everyone that they adamantly did not want to be there. So many times, I wanted to grab them by the shoulders and tell them to just be open to the possibility of this being a positive experience. I'm glad I didn't--they needed to come to it in their own time and their own ways. Really, Kaleo needed the space to work its way into their hearts without me getting in the way. By the end of the week, those kids were the ones wishing to stay longer and making plans for next year. Kamp will find a way to get under your skin whether or not you let it.

Someone once told me that kaleo is Greek for "calling." I never would have said it out loud to my Chicago friends, but my real desire to go to Nebraska, my need for a little Kaleo, was the spirit calling me home. I may have been called because the leaders were desperate for someone to be in charge of the music group or because they wanted an able, responsible body to watch kids in the river. More than that, I think the call came from the missing piece inside of me yearning for the extravagant belonging and holy work found only at Kamp Kaleo.

Music Matters

"How dare you waste my time and your talent by getting caught up in this mess," I growled at one of my students. I was livid. It was a fiery kind of anger that I had never known before. One of my brightest, kindest, most spirited, and most talented students was caught fighting in the hallway after music and would end up with a suspension keeping him from drumline practice. I could see the anger from the fight still on his face, so I changed tactics. "Look at me.... Look at me.... You show respect to someone by looking them in the eye while they're talking to you." He gazed up at me, still silent but starting to soften. "I see you," I continued. "I see the excellence inside of you. You try to do what's right, but sometimes you get caught up in acting tough. Know what? You're too good for that." Tears started to prickle at the sides of his eyes as I emphasized each syllable, and I knew I was starting to make my point clear. "You are a fantastic drummer and an even better person. I don't ever want to catch you behaving as something that is less than what you are again. Have I made myself clear?" My student slowly nodded and rubbed his eyes, in the way that most boys do, to hide the fact that he had ever been crying before picking up his bag and leaving the room.

From then on, this kid was always at the door of the music room to talk to me. He worked hard on his drumming technique and even harder on staying out of trouble in music class. I can't say that he never again was or never will be caught fighting during school. The reality is that going against the grain and staying out of trouble is a struggle that many of my students deal with every day. The need to come off to classmates as "tough" can be powerful, but the belief of an adult can be a strong force in fighting against it.

Toward the end of the year, I asked this student what it was that he liked so much about drumming. After a long pause he said, "It's really loud... but at the same time, it's really quiet. You know what I mean?" I realized right then that he had become a real musician... because I totally did know what he meant.

Music matters. It offers kids a chance during their day to make a lot of noise while shutting out the "noise" of their everyday lives. As I like to say, you can't throw a punch while playing the xylophone. Beyond that, music can be used as a healthy form of self-expression. Next year, my middle schoolers will spend the entire year writing, notating, and performing original raps. This project is a tool for them not only to learn about musical skills and history, but also for them to have the opportunity to express themselves through creativity.

Music matters. However, resources are always scarce. I am so lucky and so honored to be placed in a school with an administration and staff that is supportive of our music program and passionate about the work that we do with our students. I like to tell people that this is the hardest and the most fulfilling thing I have ever done. You can help to ease some of that burden by clicking on the link below and giving your resources. You can impact the lives of children in the North Lawndale neighborhood of Chicago by sharing a little bit of what you have. You can make a small (but mighty!) difference in the world by being a positive influence in the lives of my students. A ripple effect of any change, whether positive or negative, has a more noticeable impact in the areas of greatest need. Lets work together to make this a positive ripple of change for the children of Chicago.


Kendra Purscell's Adopt-a-Classroom Page
Click this link to read more about my plans for my music classroom and to help make a difference in the lives of children in a low-income area of Chicago

A letter to my girls

Hey ladies,

Although words can hardly express the affection and admiration I have for each one of you, I thought it best to give it a try so that you know without a doubt just how much you mean to me as a teacher and as a person and how much I will miss you as I move on to new things in my life.

Honesty time: Moving to Cedar Rapids was never in my life plan. In college, I wanted to do big things. I wanted to sing (or direct) in big important choirs, go big important places, and hang with big important people. I never imagined that it would take time and experience to reach my goals. Somewhat grudgingly, I accepted my first teaching position at College Community School district in Cedar Rapids teaching middle school girls (and a few boys) how to sing. I will never forget my first day. I played Taio Cruz’s “Dynamite” from my itunes as girls walked into my classroom and greeted each one of them with the enthusiasm I hoped to pass on to them about choir….but inside I was a nervous wreck all day (and all year!) long. However, as I got to know more students, I fell more and more in love with teaching choir to these middle school girls.  Whether or not you believe in fate, destiny, or some divine plan, I know that I was meant to teach here and to find my passion—mentoring young (preferably female) singers.

It wasn’t always easy. I’ve lived two or more hours from my best friends and family for these past two years, and being stashed away in my secluded corner of (not one, but) two schools wasn’t exactly conducive to building close adult relationships. Beyond that, structural and communication flaws in one of the buildings I taught in made my life a complete nightmare on many occasions. And don’t even get me started on the challenges of trying to get a word in edgewise with 70 chatty 7^th grade girls in front of me! Even so, it was always worth it. It was always more than worth it.

The greatest compliment a teacher can give his or her students is that they made him/her better at teaching. You did that and so much more. Because of you, I can look below the surface of behavior to why students act and think the way that they do, what the real cause of the issue is. This helpful not only in the classroom, but also in all dealing with people in life. Because of you, I know to be transparent with my decision-making and thinking as I’m teaching a piece of music (even if I learned this lesson later rather than sooner). Because of you, I know that students have to feel safe in an environment to truly sing their best. I’m still learning and still not the teacher I hope to be one day, but I feel like I am on my way there because I was lucky enough to have you as my first students.

I’ve also learned a lot about life generally in my time here. Probably the most important thing I learned is the power of vulnerability. It’s scary to let yourself be seen, truly seen, by other people, but it’s also the greatest feeling in the world. On the flipside is the power of insecurity and how it makes us mere humans behave. Insecurity literally makes people of all ages crazy, and (unfortunately) it runs rampant in middle school. I hope that at some point in our two years together you have felt secure and you have felt seen. I strived to do both for every single one of my students every single day and will keep striving for that goal my entire career. Your incredible spirit of generosity, kindness, and forgiveness are helping me to grow into the person I’ve always wanted to be.

I have so many great memories here that I will never be able to complete a list, but here are a few that you might identify with: the first time your group was ever successful with some form of harmony, our great (and sometimes less than great) performances, using your creativity to add actions and/or dance moves to our choir songs, going deeper into the meanings of pieces so that you could make music rather than just sing notes off of the page, conversations before and after (and sometimes during…) rehearsal, joking around any time, and so much more. Last year, I was sad because I knew I would miss my 8^th graders moving on, and I never thought that I would be as close to any other class. You all have proven me so so wrong. It has been such a pleasure teaching you these past two years.

As you know, I wouldn’t be me if I didn’t give you a little bit of advice before leaving….so here it is. The most important thing we do not only this room but in this life is treat each other with kindness and respect. To do this, wake up every day with the mentality that you are going to make someone’s life a little bit better that day—it doesn’t have to be huge; it just has to be something. I’ve seen middle school girls gossip, cat-fight, roll their eyes, and scream at each other… but I’ve also seen them encourage each other, compliment each other, offer help to someone in need and so much more. It’s your choice which kind of person you want to be. I know it can be hard, but anything in life that’s worth doing is hard. Practice every day by being kind to yourself first—look in the mirror (standing up tall with your sternum lifted, of course), smile, and say “I am an exceptional person”…. because you are, and the more you say it, the more you believe it; the more you believe it, the less need you will have to tear someone else down to make yourself feel better. You are so loveable already—there is no need to fight for it.

My second piece of advice: keep singing. Ideally this would be in a choir, but even if you don’t keep going in choir, keep singing. Be brave and work hard. It’s amazing how music can change your life when you let it.

Finally, and most importantly, (and I know I already took my poster down, but it is as true now as it was the day I put it there): If you ever (EVER) think that nobody cares, think again. I am just an email/snail mail letter/facebook message/tweet/instagram photo/skype conversation away. Don’t you dare hesitate to track me down if you ever need someone who cares for you to talk to… or, you know, video dance with.

No matter where I am or what I’m doing, I will always think back to the first batch of students I ever had very fondly and remember who they made me, what we mean to each other, and why I got into teaching. I love you all dearly and will see you soon.

So much love,

MsP

Top 10 Reasons Why Being a First-Year Teacher Doesn't Have to Suck

Here you are, a recent college grad who has landed that first gig as a real teacher (with real students!). You're smart, you're snappy, you've got a head full of knowledge and are ready to go... and then everyone hits you over the head with how hard this is going to be. They tell you how much you'll have to learn on the ground. They'll remind you of all the things that you simply cannot be taught in an undergrad program. When you mention an idea, they give you that face like, "Oh, you think that's going to work?" Well, I'm here to tell you that those people..... are probably right. Being a first-year teacher comes with a lot of challenges. However, there are also many benefits of which you can choose to capitalize. These are my personal favorites:

10. You're really freaking cool

Probably the biggest thing you have going for you right now is where you just came from--the Mecca of coolness known as college. Kids of all ages dream of the day that they will enter the Ivory Tower and start their four (or five... or six) years of eating Ramen and religiously drinking out of red Solo cups. In many ways, it's good that they already strive for academic achievement... in other ways, it's a little sad that we're making kids in our nation hyper-competitive at such an early age. Regardless, it's good for you because you are now the expert on the place and age that they long to be. You are their inside scoop on the amazing happenings of college life. Milk it while it lasts.

Chances are, you also are probably an avid texter and Top 40 music listener which can only help you in building rapport with kids. Taking an interest in the lives and passions of your students should never be underestimated. That, and you are pretty BA at catching people texting in class... because you know all the secrets.


9. "Better to beg forgiveness than ask permission"


I first received this nugget of wisdom while pushing a podium off of a stage to make room for our own purposes with the auditorium one day while student teaching. At first, I inwardly rolled my eyes and never imagined that I could be the kind of person to live by such a rule, but it didn't take long for me to realize the brilliance of this idea. The same guy told me that you have two years in a district to make mistakes and feign (or not need to feign....) stupidity. I'm sure the point of his advice at the time was for me to be more assertive about making things happen. Even better is knowing that when your assertiveness backfires and something goes horribly wrong (and it will), for two years you have the usual excuse on which to fall back--you just didn't know any better. It's okay to be wrong, it's okay to make mistakes, it's okay to occasionally look stupid. You're daring to try something for the first time. So, bonus points to brand new teachers making big mistakes... because you're never stupider than when you're in your very first job.


8. Everyone wants you to succeed

In all seriousness, it's best to remember that there are many people out there rooting for you. No one actually wants to see you fail. I know it sounds obvious, but it took me a surprisingly long time to figure out that maybe, just maybe, everyone in the building was actually on my side. We all want our students to receive a well-rounded education; we just all have our own ways of going about it. Telling someone you are a first-year teacher is pretty much inviting them to want to help you. There are so many people out there who would love to answer your questions or even just talk you through something you might be unsure of... if only you would ask them. Parents, administrators, teachers, secretaries, custodians, paras--we all have the same end-goal in mind, so utilize your human resources and practice patience and forgiveness when things don't necessarily go your way. 


7. You're not yet jaded

I avoid the teachers' lounge. Partially because crowds of adults overwhelm me and force me to retreat inward, and partially because soooo often I go in there and hear people complain about a student or a class or teaching generally. It seems to me that teachers talk this way because the job has just become old habit; sometimes they just do it because everyone else does. However, there is no one more enthusiastic about teaching than a brand new teacher. This is what you've been chomping at the bit to get to do for the past several years and here you are, finally getting to do it. It's a wonderful feeling to enjoy your job and the people you see every day. Love the feeling and don't let the teachers' lounge bring you down.



6. Exhaustion is a catalyst for creativity

'Nuff said.


5. A lesson in humility...... 

Once this year, I let a college senior in need of some observation hours come into my classroom and watch my girls' choirs. I thought, "Hey, this will be fun! We're not that different in age, we both like kids and are passionate about teaching, and we both are musicians!" When she got here and started watching my class, I could feel the judgement rolling off of her. I might just be projecting, but it felt like she didn't approve of my classroom management (she told me afterward the the 7th graders were crazy and the 8th graders were rude), my music selection, or my teaching techniques. I had offered her other dates to come see my choirs, but I never heard from her again. Honestly, I was annoyed with her. Then I realized, hadn't I inwardly done the same thing when I was a college student observing choral programs? I would watch teachers and get ideas, but I also would think about how differently I would do things. The truth is, no one realizes the reality of teaching until they are teachers with classrooms of their own. Not even student teaching can give you the experience of the full responsibility of being in charge of all classroom decisions. Being a new teacher makes you see all teachers and classrooms through new eyes.

4. $250 teacher tax refund! 

......yeah, as far as finances go, that's all I got. Being a BA1 does kinda suck.

3. Plenty of conversation fodder

My phone conversations (since I don't see friends and family very often out here in my social desert) usually consist of two things--my cats and my students. They have a lot in common: both are hilarious, both take up a lot of my time, and both do really silly (and/or stupid) things. I love talking about teaching theories and ideas with other teachers; but more than that, I love talking about classroom experiences, relationships built, and all of the funny things my students do or say.


2. So much to learn!

Chances are, if you are truly passionate about teaching, you probably are also passionate about education and learning generally. It's been said to me, "Isn't it interesting the more you learn the more you realize that you don't know?" This may seem daunting to some people, but I find it exhilarating. I'm never more bored than when in a situation where I can't find something to learn. In teaching, there is always something that you could tweak or change or try. There is always so much more to learn. 


1. Teaching doesn't suck

That's right, the number one reason why being a first-year teacher doesn't have to suck is because teaching itself does not suck. In fact, in my humble opinion, it is the greatest profession on earth. There may be bumps in the road (heck, there may even be pot-holes in the road), but if you are making a difference to the life of even one child, it is worth it.

Fireflies

As soon as the deadbolt clicked shut on the door of my Des Moines apartment, my knees gave out and I became nothing more than a pile of person in the doorway. I had reached the point where I couldn't escape my misery anymore, and I had no choice but to finally allow the weight of it all to wash over me: the five-month-old email still sitting in my inbox that seemed to contain all of my inadequacies while stealing all of my dreams, the fact that I was losing one my most important friendships because of my own lack of patience and empathy, the loss of my beloved childhood dog, and now, it seemed as though I was about to be torn from my last vestige of some form of "home." Hours were spent on that floor until tear ducts ran dry, and even then I couldn't move. Everything was far too heavy. I wasn't ready to be around people, but I also knew I shouldn't be alone. And so.... I prayed. It seemed almost silly at the time--I hadn't been to church in months and still wasn't entirely solid on how I should interact with the divine. But I had to do something, and in my crumpled position, this seemed as good an option as any. I told God how heavy everything felt, how it was starting to become too much, how I wasn't sure what to do next. I began to think about the darkness that had taken over my thoughts and behaviors. I begged God for some light--it needn't be sunlight or a lamp or even a flashlight... maybe just a firefly?

Hours later, I peeled myself off the floor, my final request of God still ringing in my ears--a firefly. I had plans to go to a concert with a friend that night, and I never bail on friends, so I cleaned myself up and took a running leap into the world. For reasons I don't remember, we were late. Actually, we missed the entire portion of the concert we had intended to see. Still, we paid our $20, got our wristbands and went to sit on the grass. Natasha Bedingfield got about four songs out before it started to rain. And even as the entire crew tried to corral her band off stage, she managed to sing an acoustic version of one of her most popular songs. We all laughed at the irony of her words, "feel the rain on your skin." My friend and I had taken solace under a nearby tree, and just as the piece ended, right before it really started to pour, I looked over my friend's shoulder and saw it. A firefly.

Almost a year later, and I can't believe how much (and in many ways, how little) of this still rings true. Yes, I have matured and grown in many ways this year, but I also have retreated into myself to a depth that I have never reached before, and I'm not sure how to get out. It's as though I have disengaged from my own life. Every single day I am haunted by the thought of the rejection email from last January and am reminded of my unworthiness of a life I once wanted. Then there's the thick loneliness that surrounds me all the time. Invitations that I should have accepted hang over my head, but I can't bring myself to feel the regret that should go along with those memories. I wanted to go, I wanted to make new friends, but it's as though I'm living behind my eyes these days and very little will draw me out.

But inside of me, there is still hope. There has to be--how else would I have unwittingly programmed the piece "Firefly" for my seventh graders to perform the week after my select eighth grade girls sing "Unwritten" by Natasha Bedingfield? Initially, realizing that is when I really began to see it. The real fireflies of my life this year: 200 adolescent girls who tell me every day how beautiful and amazing they think I am; a colleague turned mentor; two cats who light up my otherwise lonely apartment; church members of a small, but vibrant, congregation; friends and family who remind me in many ways that even though they are not here with me, I am still not alone. Individually, a firefly may be small, but put that many of them together and they sure can produce a whole lot of light. And who knows? Maybe just around the corner there will be a flashlight. And hopefully, eventually... some sun.

Voice

It's officially a trend. Middle school girls that I teach will sheepishly walk up to me at the end of class and awkwardly (and sometimes almost inaudibly) say to me, "I want you to hear my real voice." They usually do this flanked by at least two cohorts egging them on, but it's obvious that the idea originated from within the girl making the request. Then there are fits of giggles amongst the cohorts followed by a secretive glance from the girl, half dying for me to listen and half begging me to say no so she doesn't have to open her mouth. Always one to accept the opportunity to hear one of my girl's voices alone, I cannot refuse. I sit and smile politely as the girl prepares herself, giggles a little more, and finally.... sings.

The first time it happened, I was mildly offended. Just what did this girl think I didn't know about her voice already that I was going to get from some rendition of Rihanna's "Take a Bow"? I evaded the question multiple times by pointing out that my next class was already coming in, so she'd have to wait until another day. She finally cornered me one day: "Please, Ms. P, I want you to hear my real voice." I put my smile on, and listened to her sing her heart out. Why had I avoided it? Maybe because it's my knee-jerk reaction to run from any sign of individual vulnerability within myself and others? Maybe because I thought it was silly that she considered her seventh-grade version of pop singing her "real" voice, even as I was trying desperately to train every inch of her voice besides? Maybe because I knew she'd want a reaction, but I wasn't quite sure what to say? Maybe because I felt like this was something beyond my control... and I love being in control. Every time a girl asks, my body physically tears between my immediate flight reaction and my deeper desire to hear her voice.... and to understand why she needs me to hear it.

It's never the opera divas who ask (oh yes, I have 8th grade opera divas), or the sight-singing geniuses, or the choir junkies, or even the deathly quiet girls. It is always someone who surprises me. I'm secretly afraid that they ask because they believe that I don't really understand them, just like I secretly believe that every conductor I've ever sung for doesn't really understand me. Part of me hopes they ask me because they trust me, like they want me to hear them and know them at a different level. Maybe they're just looking for someone to give them positive reinforcement about something they like to do. Whatever it is, I hope I give it to them... and that they can't tell how awkward it makes me feel in the one room I never feel awkward in.

I was thinking about this middle school phenomenon one day when I realized that it inherently connected to my affective outcome of one of the seventh grade pieces for the next concert. The piece is called Oye, or in English, "Listen." It was inspired by impoverished children in Mexico who, when asked what message they wanted to give to choirs' audiences around the world, answered that all they wanted... was to be heard. So my girls are going to spend the rest of the year thinking about, discussing, and writing about what it truly means to be heard, to feel heard, to have a voice. I introduced this concept to them a few weeks ago, and it was shocking to see the faces that met mine. They were drawn in by the idea like an ant to a picnic, enthralled by the words coming out of my mouth. So, in the end, maybe that's all there is to it. Maybe that is the secret to teaching middle school girls. Maybe that's why all of these girls want me to sit and listen to them sing alone after everyone else has left for lunch. Maybe, in the end, middle school girls have the same needs as everyone else and ask for it in the only way they know how (with a lot of giggling). Maybe these girls simply have a hunger to be heard.

Musical Musings: Round deux

Phew... second round of concerts done, and boy, was it a doozy. It should seriously be made illegal for people to schedule a music teacher's concerts so close together. I blame the fear and stress for my current illness... because, obviously, it wasn't given to me from the cold weather or lack of sleep or the little germ-disseminators I see every day ;)

Let's start with 6th grade... just to get the bad news out of the way. I guess the concert wasn't so bad. Everyone got through their songs. They (mostly) sang in tune and (mostly) remembered their words and (mostly) pulled off the harmony. But I don't do mostly. If I'm going to show off a choir, I want it to be great or nothing at all. Mistakes were made, and the audience was forgiving. However, what I was most embarrassed about was switching between the two groups--while one choir was getting off stage and one choir was getting on, it was like this roar of talking and yelling and pushing in front of the audience. What I had been warned about and able to hold off with my 7th and 8th graders, my 6th graders were suddenly doing, and I could not have been more ashamed. Here's what's ironic about the whole situation: Backstage last concert was a mess, but when they got on stage, they didn't speak and they successfully performed all of their music at a level that I was fairly happy with; this concert, backstage was much more organized, but the behavior and singing in front of the audience was much worse. And yet, last concert I got berated by email for not being on top of my job, and this concert I got nothing but thank-you notes, kind words, and friendly emails. That school is definitely odd.

Last week, starting a new round of concert music, I had all but given up on my 6th graders. I worked my ass off to create a fantastic plan for teaching "An die musik" by Schubert to one group, and then essentially got it handed to me when there were actual kids doing it. They were to read (with helper notes, then helpers taken out) the do mi re do re mi do (mi's notated in red... so if we got to that point, they could physically put more emphasis on the red notes) pattern that comes back frequently in that piece while I sang the rest on solfege for them. Then we would add the sol la la ti ti do do pattern that also returns (in various octaves, which I would coach) off the board. One group would take the do mi pattern, one group would take the sol la pattern, and I would be in charge of the rest... until eventually I would hand out the music and we would sing it on English text, except for the two returning patterns we knew on solfege (with handsigns, obviously). I don't care who you are, that is excellent music teaching by anyone's standards, right there. In retrospect, that plan is exactly what we ended up accomplishing (it didn't seem like it at the time)... but, jeez louise, what could have been a short, sweet, and simple act with my 7th graders was like pulling teeth with 126 (the number I'm up to in the big group) sixth graders. It's like they would rather die than work or (God forbid) think in choir. I thought I had broken them of that long ago, but I guess the beginning of every concert cycle really is like starting over. I have ideas for modifying our reading in the future, but I will be damned before I give up on making them use solfege in the score.

Now, on to the good stuff. The 7th and 8th grade concert went splendidly! Of course there were minor things that I wish I could have fixed before presenting it to an audience (and one mistake the 7th graders had never ever made before that caught me off guard... but I'm sure almost no one noticed...), but I've chosen not to dwell on that because the rest of the concert went so well. By far, what I'm most proud of was their sound. We spent waaayy more time working on producing a mature sound and developing our voices for this concert. So much so, that my musicianship plans suffered a little. I think, in the future, if I have to sacrifice one for the other (which I probably won't, I'm still getting used to this whole "teaching" business) I should choose sound for the first concert and CMP for every concert after. I do know a certain choir director--the one who taught me CMP!--who does just that, after all :)

I may not have taught quite as much skill or knowledge with this concert as I had originally planned, but I'm nothing if I'm not an affective outcome based teacher. Since last concert we focused inward on writing about our own lives, this concert, I wanted to focus them outward (mostly) through visual art. Both groups discussed in great detail the meaning of the symbolism in the texts of their slow songs. For 7th grade, it was "Ode to Trees" by Mary Goetze. I had them sit in a circle and discuss some very sequenced questions about their understanding of the text and how the composer chose to set it. Then, everyone put a green thumbprint (a leaf, if you will) on canvas and wrote a personal dream of theirs around it to encourage the lyrics, "may I ascend like the poplar." One of my more artistically-minded girls finished the work by painting in some branches. The 8th grade did a similar process with "Omnia Sol" by Z. Randall Stroope. I had them sit in a circle and answer questions about how the text related to their own lives and why the composer chose to put two opposing musical ideas into the same piece ("wandering" vs. "stable" which I also encouraged with some movement activities). Then, on canvas, I had them make an anchor of words (people, places, dreams, ideas) that represent what we turn to when life gets challenging. Imagine my surprise when I looked at the finished product--I had essentially turned the whole project over to the students--and my own name appeared on that list.

And.... we actually do sing in my classroom too! This trimester was all about breathing and "ironing out the kinks" (as my old voice teacher would say) between the registers, as well as vowel and vibrato work. We started out the semester with vocalization on a simple "soo" set to sol fa mi re do. The s to get the air flowing and the vowel to teach them how to create backspace. It worked like a charm--I guided and corrected as they sang and did the hand motions I had created for this exercise. Then, we added "soo ee oo ee oo" to help them add the maturity of the oo vowel to the spread/bright ee vowel. Hand motions and coaching helped us right along there too. Finally, we added the "soh" to the mix... with the bend and shake. This forced them to open up on top notes and add some vibrato (sparkle!) to long-held notes. For breathing, the sizzle game and beatboxing worked nicely. I thought my middle schoolers would find those games lame, but they were on board! And it totally worked to get them attached to their core while singing. Sirens, sliding, and million games and hand motions helped us get started on ironing out the kinks... but a lot more work is going to have to go into that soon.

I'm excited/nervous for this next set of concert pieces. Seventh grade is singing "Firefly" by Andy Beck (I judge me a little for choosing this one... it's not a great piece, but it has exactly what I want to teach, so there it is), "Inscription of Hope" by Z. Randall Stroope (I think I'll stick with this one....), and "Oye" by Jim Papoulis. I'm not entirely satisfied with this choosing. It occurs to me that the only harmonic challenge is "Oye" and that there are no veggies in this meal; but I make no apologies. My seventh graders have sung Haydn and Schubert... I'm content with their veggie content for the year. My eighth graders are singing "Ma come bali bene bela bimba" arranged by Mark Sirett, "Family Tree" by Stephen Hatfield (Challenge alert! I have a back-up plan ready!), and "Up on the Mountain Shouting" by Caldwell and Ivory. I'm suuuuper nervous, but I'm so inspired by this music that I have some serious teaching plans... which I'm definitely going to need if we're going to pull this off! Just thinking about it makes me tired and excited all at the same time--I think this last set of concerts is bound to be a doozy, as well!