Shock and Blah, & Pandemic Senioritis

Senior Ditch Day has been a long-standing tradition since, well, since we've had seniors. Embraced universally by student-athletes, academics, and artists alike, this special day has become a rite of passage for teenagers everywhere.

In my early years as a teacher, I made futile and foolish attempts to try and "be the adult" and "hold seniors accountable for their attendance." That was a fool's errand of an inexperienced educator.

As the years passed and I gained some perspective and wisdom, I relented, only asking the seniors for a week's notice so I could use that day to talk about next year and announce the fall marching show. It turned out to be a win-win. Seniors got a free day and a tip of the hat (shako) for their four years of loyalty, and I got a chance to get the other students excited about the coming year.

But as all high school teachers know, Senior Ditch Day is really the denouncement of the more significant illness, "senioritis."

We've all experienced/enjoyed it ourselves. Whether it is our final year of high school, college, or the last part of a lengthy journey, we've all been there. You want it to end, and our students are no different. After twelve years of grinding it out, the final twelve weeks prove to be not when students are at their best but at their worst. Heck, Universities stop caring after the first semester of their senior year, so you can see where your students might be taking their queue.

This apathetic and abrupt bout of laziness isn't brought on by a time of year or specific calendar date. It's brought on by fatigue, frustration, and the desire to move on to something different.

Sound familiar?

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Much like your teenage counterparts, after twelve grueling months, of teaching from a distance, through a screen, or in hybrid mode, it is likely many of you are experiencing your own version of senioritis.

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Let's check.

• Are you easily distracted (squirrel!)?

• Do you have trouble focusing (another squirrel!)?

• Do you have trouble finishing tasks and...

• Do you struggle with small detials?

• Are you going to work a few minutes later these days and leaving a few minutes early – like before the end of 7th period?

• If you were an emoji, would you be "meh"?

(See what I did there? Detials... I am funny!)

Then you have a case of senioritis. Or, as medical professionals call it, Languishing. And yes, it is a medical diagnosis, and you may unknowingly suffer from it.

Just because you aren't depressed doesn't mean that you're not struggling, and just because you don't hate your job doesn't mean that you are all fired up to do it.

As Adam Grant from the New York Times puts it, "Languishing is a sense of stagnation and emptiness. It feels as if you're muddling through your days, looking at your life through a foggy windshield. And it might be the dominant emotion of 2021."

How do we break the cycle? Experts recommend three key steps; 

1. Find and finish small tasks.

2. Manage your workflow.

3. Create uninterrupted time.

Small tasks: The pandemic took away big things that impacted us in many ways; however, for many of us, it also took away our sense of control. Try and find a small project you are passionate about and focus on that. This will give you your sense of control back and, when completed, provide you with a victory you so desperately need.

Managing workflow: The average American checks email 74 times a day and switches tasks every 10 minutes (or, as I like to call it, Tuesday morning). This jumping from task to task keeps you from getting in the zone and making real progress. The lack of forward momentum heightens our angst and makes us feel unproductive. Break down big projects into smaller tasks you can accomplish in brief periods. Once you have started, don't stop until they are finished.

Uninterrupted time: Make time to be alone, quiet, and at peace. This allows you to clear your head, calm the spirit, and renew your energy level.

And in this way, maybe the student becomes the teacher.

Our 17-year-old counterparts have been telling us for years that when you feel this way, it's time for a ditch day! A time to manage your flow, focus on something you are passionate about, and have some uninterrupted time.

I'm not kidding either. I say next Friday, the day before Teacher Appreciation Week, you take the day off and celebrate the 12-month journey you have been on.

Make the plan, call the sub, and leave the Languish behind for at least one day.

Happy ditch day, everyone! 

-Scott

A Major Champ and Tough Transitions

(Editor's note: Yes, this is the second week in a row he has written about dogs. I warned him about alienating fans of felines, but he brushed it aside, saying it was the snake lovers that scared him.)

This past week, President Biden's younger dog, Major, had another "incident." Unlike my house, where an "incident" means someone is grabbing the Spot Shot and opening the windows, Major's incident was of a different variety.

He bit someone.

Well, not so much bit, more of a nip, as I understand it. I mean, there was no growling or gnashing of teeth. Major just made a quick little jab that didn't even break the victim's skin (an unwitting Secret Service Agent).

Unfortunately, this is not the first time Major has nipped at someone. Several weeks ago, Major snapped at a White House employee and handler in a similar and more publicized incident. Afterward, they sent him to off-site training for remediation.

For nipping?

Perhaps things would be different for Major if he were a puppy or a Miniature Schnauzer. People might look upon the situation differently if he were a fluffy Golden Retriever or lumbering Bassett Hound. But he is not. Major, and Champ, are full-fledged German Shepards and look every bit the part.

After the most recent incident, President Biden publicly defended Major, stating, "He is a sweet dog who comes from a tough background." 

And despite his ability to pardon, President Joe Biden is sending Major back to the minors for remediation. Really? My first thought is that we should send the agent to remediation school.

Think about the situation from a normal, non–Presidential perspective.

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Major is an adult German Shepard, bred to defend and protect. He was in a new and unfamiliar environment, with someone he did not know, with a gun, standing close to his master.

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Yes, I am disappointed in Major. Disappointed he didn't take the agent's right arm off!

Isn't that what you would want and expect your dog to do in similar circumstances? Would you send him to obedience school?! That makes no sense to me and would be a waste of money, in my opinion. It seems to me law enforcement pays gobs of money to train German Shepards to do EXACTLY that. Heck, the way I see it, Major already graduated at the top of his class and should have his name changed to Lassie! (Wait, was Lassie a boy?)

Given the breed, circumstances, and the fact that the Bidens rescued Major from a shelter after enduring prolonged trauma, we should not have been surprised or shocked by this; we should have expected and trained staff for this. You don't punish the dog for behaving like a dog. He was doing what he was born to do.

Not sure where I am going with this? Wait for it...

As students return to our classrooms, it's important to remember that they, too, have endured trauma and are predisposed to behave in a self-protective way. A global pandemic changed their world for an entire year. Like Major, your students are in unfamiliar places, dealing with new and different situations, and are interacting with people in very non-traditional ways.

Students will be on edge. Students will be nervous. Students will occasionally snap at you or other people. Given the circumstances, this is not something to be surprised and angered by; we should expect and train for this. The outbursts, mistakes, and poor choices are not to be excused but should not surprise us. These young people have been through trauma that changed them. The world they returned to is not the world they left. As they re-enter, we need to remember that it's not our (emotional) safety we should be concerned with; it's theirs. So try to be patient. Try to be forgiving. Try to remember that they are humans who have been through something considerable, are in a new world, and will act accordingly.

Major? The way I see it, he should take a victory lap down Pennsylvania Avenue to the halls of Congress. There are a few Senators I would like him to take a nip at!

Have a great week! 

Scott 

Airports, Getting Lost, and Finding Home

Airports, Getting Lost, and Finding Home

Like so many other people, after months of pleading, prodding, and outright begging by my son Evan, we got a pandemic puppy. She's a beautiful Golden Retriever named Riley. Early on, I must admit to being reticent about doing the "puppy thing," but honestly, she has brought nothing but joy to our house. Even our eleven-year-old Golden Retriever, Rexi, seems to revel in the idea of it all as she plays with the puppy for hours on end like she was a puppy herself.

The other day, we took Riley to the park and let her off-leash. She took off, and I mean OFF! Evan, fearing she wouldn't come back, got very upset. Wanting to assuage his fear, I called out to Riley in a cheery voice, and she came bounding back to me. I explained to Evan that a dog will always return to a person or place where there is love. She will always come home.

Coincidentally, in yesterday's issue of the New Yorker, there was an interesting, albeit lengthy, article on why and how dogs never seem to get lost and that even when faced with seemingly insurmountable odds, can always find their way home. Dogs have several navigational tools: sight, smell, and surprisingly, magnetism (using Earth's magnetic fields).

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But more important than "how" dogs navigate is "why" they do it.

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Stories of mans' best friend traveling up to hundreds of miles to return to their home are unbelievably common. A dog will work to overcome almost any obstacle to find its way back to its home. It is ingrained in their DNA. In this way, a dog is rarely "lost," as they know where they are, where they are going, and how to get there. It turns out that when a dog goes missing, it is the humans that are lost.

And for the past 13 months, we have been lost.

I am writing this blog sitting at Gate B6 in Phoenix's Sky Harbor Airport. Under normal circumstances, this would not be worthy of mentioning as it is a regular and mundane part of my life, but these are not normal circumstances. Today is my first time in the airport in thirteen months, and it feels so very odd.

What started as anticipation last night turned into something more this morning. As I worked my way through the terminal towards my gate, feelings of joy began to wash over me. At first, I thought it might simply be the fact that I was getting out of the house for the first time in over a year. But that wasn't it. Then I thought it might be that workshops were restarting and or that I was working with kids in person again. But that wasn't it either. For a brief moment, I considered it was the mere act of wearing a shirt and tie again and seeing new people.

But that wasn't it either.

I slowly realized that the happiness I was feeling came from an understanding that being in the airport sitting at Gate B6 meant "the end" was in sight. The end of isolation. The end of uncertainty and angst. The end of fear. The end of the pandemic.

Feeling these feelings is not an uncommon thing. Many people have reported feeling "overwhelmed and overjoyed" after being vaccinated. It even has a name, Vaccination Euphoria. As I said, the feeling is not uncommon. The place I experienced it is.

You may have experienced this yourself. Perhaps it happened when you were able to see your students in person for the first time. Or when you were first able to play and sing for the first time. It might have even happened during a musical moment in rehearsal or discussion during a leadership meeting. The reason why and where it happened are unimportant. It is the "why" that matters. You had returned home to a place and people you loved and who loved you.

The need to seek out spaces and people who fill your life with love is as primal to humans as it is to our four-legged friends. For you and your students, your music room is a home away from home. And ever after almost 400 days of being lost, we are close to being back where we belong.

Will it be a little different? Yes. 

The pandemic has changed all of us, in ways good and bad, myself included. Additionally, it has transformed music education and education as a whole. These are the obstacles we faced during this year-long journey back to where we belong, making music in a place we love with students we care about. If you aren't there yet, stay the course. You are closer than you think. And if you are back to making music in person, let me be the first to say…

Welcome home.

Have a great week.

- Scott 

Dory, Data Dumping, and Memory Editing

Dory, Data Dumping, and Memory Editing

Let me cut right to the chase (before I forget). My memory is BAD. I'm not talking about, "Honey, where did I leave my glasses?" bad. I am closer to, "Honey, where did I leave the kids?" bad. And yes, that really did happen once. It amused my children and terrified my wife.

Beyond being bad, my memory is often wildly inaccurate. Rarely am I able to share an amusing anecdote or story without being interrupted by someone in my family with accusations of falsifying the events of that day or screams of, "That's not what REALLY happened!"

Maybe that's not what happened, but it's what I remember!

It turns out my Dory-esque memory is not limited to just me. It turns out that it's not that uncommon. In the new book, Remember, Author Lisa Genova explores our mind's ability to remember. Or not.

Genova explains that the mind sifts through thousands of data points every day to instantly determine whether the information is worthy of long-term memory storage. In short, your brain is constantly asking the question, data-drive, or data-dump.

But just like your hard drive, even when stored correctly, your memories can be corrupted when they are re-remembered. Genova calls this "creative editing," a process in which the current mindset alters your previously held memory. She further explains that "To remember an event is to reimagine it; in the reimagining, we inadvertently introduce new information, often colored by our current emotional state. A dream, a suggestion, and even the mere passage of time can warp a memory." 

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All of this means that you can be 100% confident in remembering something and still be 100% wrong. Something my wife proves to me almost daily.

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In dealing with difficult memories, Genova suggests and encourages the use of "memory editing." She argues that an effective way to combat trauma and pain associated with bad memories is to introduce new information and experiences to memories before they become permanently embedded in our brains.

The idea is simple. 

While memories are still fresh, discuss them with others, each time interpreting or introducing a new element that reveals what you want to remember. Eventually, the newly introduced elements will embed themselves into the memory before it becomes permanent. In this way, you can take a bad experience and ensure that you remember some good in it.

I think we would all like to forget the past 365 days. For the rest of our lives, we will remember the destruction and disruption associated with the global pandemic. And while the pain and suffering are real, the loss is not all that we should not forget.

As we reflect on the previous year, we shouldn't forget:

• Being home more and spending more time with family.

• A hobby you explored, a show you binge-watched, or a book you read.

• Activities or trips you did that would have typically been impossible.

• Working and collaborating with colleagues in new and meaningful ways.

• Being excited when you came up with your first creative remote learning lesson.

• Not having to stress over contests or concert prep.

• The concepts you taught or skills your students learned that would have otherwise succumbed to performance prep.

• Closing your laptop at the end of your last class and saying, "I'm done for today," with no remorse.

• Not having to complete purchase orders, bus requests, or fight for access to your auditorium or gymnasium.

• Not attending staff meetings or dealing with angry parent phone calls.

According to Lisa Genova, by reading these words, you have altered your memory of the pandemic in some small way. You have edited the primary emotion with time, perspective, and context. You have taken the memory as it was and moved it towards what you want it to be.

This is as true for your students as it is for you.

Perhaps tomorrow, you might spend a few minutes helping your students re-remember the pandemic and their music experience not just in terms of loss but also in terms of gain.

Yes, I am just like Dora. A forgetful optimist who reminds us in good times and bad to "Just keep swimming, swimming, swimming..."

And that's something we should all remember.

If we can.

Have a great week. 

Scott

p.s. As a part of the podcast series Revisionist History, Malcolm Gladwell did an episode on this very subject called Free Brian Williams. It is my favorite podcast of all time and worth a listen.

You Are Slaying My Song

Last week, on a particularly nice day, my son and I were driving down the road, windows down and music blaring. All of a sudden, Huey Lewis's song Hip to Be Square came across the speakers. Knowing we were listing to his playlist, I asked him, "How did THIS song get on your playlist?" Brayden responded, "I heard it from your playlist and loved it, so I downloaded it."

Hmmm... He learned it from me.

Brayden hasn't seen Back to the Future, or it's the sequel. He does not listen to 80's retro channels or even like bands with horn sections. Had it not been for me, this song and the artist would be dead to him. Unbeknownst to me, I kept Huey's music alive for another generation. That's the NEWS, and you are welcome, Huey (see what I did there?).

The passing of the musical torch happens every day in cars, houses, and backyards. It's not limited to humans; it occurs in nature as well, but with much more severe consequences.

In Australia, a critically endangered songbird species (regent honeyeater) are dwindling because there are not enough males to teach the younger birds the tunes they need for courtship. The birds are still singing, as making music is a part of their DNA. They just aren't singing the right song, and it could lead to their extinction.

A recent study surmised that "As the population of the regent honeyeater plummeted, some young birds could no longer find older ones to teach them to sing. As a result, the birds have failed to learn the songs they need for courtship and other evolutionary business." 

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This right of passage is as true in your classroom as it is in nature.

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Every day, consciously or not, you expose your students to music that they would otherwise likely never hear. Wagner, Holst, Bernstein, and Ellington are all dependent on you to keep their music alive. They wrote the notes and rhythms, but you are their voice and bring their music to life. You are the caretaker of our nation's and world's musical legacy. You are the protectorate of our humanity. 

But much like the songbird, our legacy is in danger.

If only for one year, the Pandemic has altered how we create and share music with our students. Our students cannot always play music in ways they are accustomed to, which makes internalizing and understanding the particular beauty or nuance of a piece difficult. They cannot experience how they can express themselves via the notes on the page.

But that does not make it any less critical. In fact, in COVID times, it might be more critical than ever.

Perhaps this week, you could take a few minutes and share your favorite work or composer. Share some history, what it is you like about it, and how it makes you feel. Be the caretaker for that composer and ensure that much like the regent honeyeater, we keep their song and our species alive.

For the record, this is my song. Not just because I loved the composer, but because in teaching this piece, I learned how to teach.

YYK Zippers and My Impression of Harry Houdini

Today, courtesy of a failed zipper, I had to complete a yoga-inspired escape from my winter coat. (Yes, I have a winter coat, and for the record, it got down into the 60s.) My wife had to assist me after I got stuck, and while I envisioned it like a Houdini-esque trick filled with tension and awe, my children said it was closer to a scene from Dumb and Dumber.

So much trouble caused by one little thing. A zipper.

The YKK (Yoshida Kōgyō Kabushikigaisha) Group, founded by Tadao Yoshida in 1934, makes roughly fifty percent of the world's zippers. Seriously, check out those pants or jacket you are wearing, and chances are fifty percent of you have a YKK stamped on the zipper.

Yoshida didn't invent the zipper — the ubiquitous device predated YKK by nearly one hundred years. The originator of the zipper was Talon Zipper, who first manufactured the device in 1893. Yoshida copied Talon's design and began making his zippers in Tokyo shortly after that.

Over the following decades, YKK grew from being an imitator to an innovator, creating some of the most in-demand and innovative zippers, including the world's first nylon zipper, polyester zipper, concealed zipper, and the world's smallest zipper. YKK zippers were even used in spacesuits belonging to Neil Armstrong, Buzz Aldrin, and the rest of the Apollo astronauts.

For clothing manufacturers and enthusiasts, the zipper is an essential and integral part of a garment. It is an indicator of quality and attention to detail. As fashion designer Trina Turk said, 

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"When the customer is buying $200 pants, they better have a good zipper."

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Zippers are important. They help us combine different elements and hold things together. They make things easier to get in and out of, and on occasion, make things more artistic and attractive. They are the very definition of form and function. More than anyone in the world, Yoshida understands the need for a dependable and high-quality zipper.

We all need zippers in our life. Not just on our garments, but in our lives. People who seamlessly and effortlessly help us integrate the different parts of our lives. Someone who helps us keep intact and together. Someone who serves to remind us that life is as much about form as it is function, even in pandemic times.

For many people in your life, you are that person. You are a spouse to someone you love, or maybe a parent to a child that needs you. You are a son or daughter to an aging parent or a friend and neighbor to someone in need. And yes, for many of your students, you are the one who holds them together. You connect the pieces of their lives and reminds them that school and life are about art as much as academics.

You are their zipper. You perform an essential service out of the line of sight and do it with compassion and dependability.

But if he were here, I believe Yoshida Kabushikigaisha would remind us that even the best of zippers get stuck and need a little help getting un-stuck.

If you are feeling stuck, if you are in a jam, know that it is perfectly normal and happens to the best of us. And if you can't break free and need help getting unstuck, I am here. I know what you are going through, and I would love to help you just like someone was there to help me.

-Scott

Wallace Hartley and Standing At Your Post

Wallace Hartley may be the most famous conductor you've never heard of. Born and raised in Lancashire, England, he was introduced to music at a very young age by his father Albion Hartley, the Choirmaster at the local methodist church, where the family attended Sunday services.

Despite his musical upbringing, his destiny as a musician was far from certain. In fact, after dropping out of college, where he studied business, Hartley gave up music and went to work for the Craven Union Bank in Colne. A year later he would return to his one-time hobby of playing violin in hopes of making it his profession. His road forward was difficult as he moved from town to town, playing in small communal orchestras and local dance bands.

Wallace never led a major orchestra, and there are no recordings of ensembles with him at the helm. He did not have standing in any professional music associations, and he lacked the academic credentials to teach at a university.

Why is he so famous, you ask?

Because his first and only conducting position was leading the dance band on the HMS Titanic.

On the night of April 14th, 1912, while on its maiden voyage, the RMS Titanic struck an iceberg and quickly began to sink. Hartley, recognizing the severity of the situation, assembled his musicians and began to play, hoping to calm the anxious passengers. The band played until the very end. Survivors report the band playing as the boat slipped into the cold and icy ocean playing Nearer My God to Thee as their final song, a hymn Hartley learned as a boy while in the church choir. 

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These seven men were more than musicians; they were hailed as heroes.

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One passenger stated, "Many brave things were done that night, but none were braver than those done by men playing minute after minute as the ship settled quietly lower and lower in the sea. The music they played served as their immortal requiem and their right to be recalled on the scrolls of undying fame."

And, one London Times article about the tragic sinking stated, "The part played by the orchestra on board the Titanic in her last dreadful moments will rank among the noblest acts in the annals of heroism at sea."

None of the musicians survived.

Hartley's body was recovered from the frigid waters two weeks later, with his instrument case still attached to his lifeless body. A statue honoring Wallace currently stands at the center square of his hometown, where he is still considered a hero.

There are some parallels to be drawn between Wallace Harley and yourself. And while the circumstances are very different, we are in dire times and circumstances. There are widespread fears and devastating losses of life. Through it all, like our musical colleagues from over one hundred years ago, you stand steady and are making music.

Why does this matter? Because in birth & death, in tragedy & triumph, music has always played an integral part of humanity's brightest and darkest times. Music is as much a part of our being as our appendages and brains are. Now more than ever, music matters. 

I can't imagine how Wallace and his musical colleagues felt in those final hours or what compelled them to do what they did, other than to assume that they had a job to do and knew that music would help. Nor can I fully understand how you feel or what compels you to do what you do, other than to assume the same, that you have a job to do and believe that music can help.

During this past year, on many occasions, you could have thrown up your hands and run for the proverbial lifeboat. You could have put yourself first and left your students behind. You could have hidden, paralyzed by fear, and ignored what you were trained to do.

But you didn't.

You stood your ground and manned your post. You provided aid and comfort in a time of crisis and chaos. For the past twelve months, you made the intolerable a bit more tolerable, and the darkest moments just a little bit brighter. You made music.

And while you and Wallace endured very different crises, your responses are both very similar.He led the dance band on the Titanic. You led the music of the pandemic.

Play on, my friends. Play on!

- Scott

Fine Art and Happy Accidents!

Bob Ross was an American painter, television host, and cultural icon. Ross was the creator and host of the Joy of Painting, a PBS show filmed from a Muncie, Indiana house. The show was wildly successful and ran throughout North America for over a decade. 

Bob specialized in a “wet on wet” painting technique that did not require the paint to dry, allowing him to paint quickly. Each of the 403 episodes was meticulously planned out to be achievable by anyone in thirty minutes or less, regardless of talent or experience.

Ross was a twenty-year Air Force veteran and developed an interest in painting after taking an art class at a U.S.O. in Anchorage, Alaska in the 1960s. 

Bob was well known for his permed hair and gentle voice as much as he was for his artistic prowess, although neither were native to him. He loathed his hair but realized its marketing power and decided to keep it, even making it a part of his company logo. As for his gentle demeanor, this once Master Sergeant was known for “being the guy who makes you scrub the latrine, make your bed, and who screams at you for being late to morning roll call.” 

Ross decided he would not raise his voice after he left the military.

Since the pandemic hit, and nearly a decade after his death, Bob Ross is experiencing a renaissance. He is more popular than ever before. In the past year, he has garnered millions of views on YouTube, had four works purchased by the Smithsonian, had a museum opened in his honor, and according to Google, is the most searched American artist on the internet. His catchphrase of “there are no such thing as mistakes, just happy little accidents” is known and used ubiquitously by young and old alike. To that point, next week, Mountain Dew is sponsoring a national promotion and releasing a “lost” episode of the long-running T.V. show.

But not everyone loved Bob.

Traditionalists scoffed at his seascapes and mocked his endless trees and picture-perfect mountains. Critics say that “real” art can’t be taught from a screen or finished in thirty minutes. Bob responded to those critiques with: 

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“It’s not traditional art. It’s not fine art, and I don’t try to tell anybody it is.”

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To my way of thinking, Bob Ross was the pioneer of distance learning. He built the first model for online fine art instruction, and similar to many of you, did it from home. He taught students in person for years, but saw the television screen as a way to reach a much larger audience.

Bob Ross made art that was accessible and approachable. He empowered, engaged, and gave agency to millions of people. He provided a calm presence and judgment-free space for his students. Dubbed the “Mr. Rogers of the art world,” Bob Ross gave his students the ability to express hope and be positive, even when gloom and doom were abundant.

The same can and should be said for music education. It gives our students hope and positivity when everything around them is dark.

Yes, music is meant to be created with others. But more importantly, it is meant to be shared with others. And Bob Ross taught us, and the latter trumps the former. The need to share music with each other is more important than quality of the performance and the size of the ensemble. Students need to have music in their lives, even if it is via a screen. 

This is not how music is meant to be made, but unfortunately, is how it's being made in some places. And while your inner critic may scoff at the quantity of the ensemble and quality of the music, Bob reminds us that it’s not traditional music. It’s not fine music, and you don’t need to convince yourself that it is. But it is music. And with all its flaws and imperfections, Bob would tell us that making music remotely during a pandemic is...

A happy little accident.

Have a great week.

- Scott

Teddy Roosevelt, Rocky Balboa, and A Fair Fight!

President Teddy Roosevelt was the epitome of a tough guy. Born into a wealthy family, he might have had it easy, but his path was a difficult one. Teddy lost his wife and mother on the same day, helped dig the Panama Canal, and rode with the Rough Riders in Cuba. He even cheated death on more than one occasion by beating Malaria and surviving an assassination attempt while in office. Dwayne, "the Rock" Johnson, ain't got nothing on our 26th President. 

President Roosevelt (Teddy) was well-known for his love of fisticuffs. On occasions, he would ask professional pugilists to hit him in the jaw as hard as they could, frequently immediately returning the favor. His passion for pugilism continued into his Presidency, where he was known to spar anyone and everyone in the White House gym. In one such fight, Teddy got walloped so hard in the right temple; that he permanently lost his sight. A fact he would not publicly reveal until after he left office. 

He indeed was our nation's first cage fighters, considering he was proficient in jiu-jitsu, wrestling, and, of course, boxing. 

In addition to being a fine physical specimen, Teddy Roosevelt was a considerable intellectual. He was the father of the modern U.S. Navy, was the first President to win a Nobel Peace Prize, had a photographic memory and was a prolific writer. He is also the author of one of my favorite quotes of all time. 

"It is not the critic who counts; not the man who points out how the strong man stumbles, or where the doer of deeds could have done them better. The credit belongs to the man who is actually in the arena, whose face is marred by dust and sweat and blood; who strives valiantly; who errs, who comes short again and again, because there is no effort without error and shortcoming; but who does actually strive to do the deeds; who knows great enthusiasms, the great devotions; who spends himself in a worthy cause; who at the best knows in the end the triumph of high achievement, and who at the worst, if he fails, at least fails while daring greatly, so that his place shall never be with those cold and timid souls who neither know victory nor defeat."

― President Theodore Roosevelt

I would share this quote with my students in some format every single year. One such student took the quote to heart, wrote it down, taped it to her bathroom mirror, and she read it every day. She ended up framing it and giving it to me as a gift upon her graduation. It has hung on my office wall through for over twenty-five years. That young lady is the founder of United Sound.

In politics and life, it is easy to point out where the strong man has stumbled. It's easy to point out where the doer of deeds did wrong or fell short of expectations. It's even easier when the object of your venom is unlikely to fight back. And schools, NEVER fight back.

During the pandemic, our schools have become a public punching bag. They get hit from all sides by all opponents in all ways. They take verbal jabs, hooked from the right, uppercuts from the left, and knock blows from the press. At the end of the crisis, we look like Sylvester Stallone, and at the end of the movie Rocky; still standing but badly damaged.

Opinions are easy, and blog posts (like this) and never short on criticism. Our "Yelp" culture provides a type of anonymity and protection that emboldens the critic and fuels the vitriol, often leaving a defenseless "victim" in their wake. But know that often, these WWE-Esque takedowns are not rooted in educational philosophy, but in fear and pain. Fear of the virus, for their jobs and the uncertainty of their child's future. The school is just the vessel of vitriol, and the bag that is easiest to punch. It is not right, but it is real. The problem is that itwe trivializes and disregards those who are "fighting the good fight." 

Teddy reminds us that "the credit belongs to the man who is actually in the arena, whose face is marred by dust and sweat and blood; who strives valiantly; who errs, who comes short again and again, because there is no effort without error and shortcoming." 

But he also reminds us the that when someone punches you in the jaw, sometimes you have to punch back! 

Something to think about.

Have a great week.

- Scott

Free Jim Memberships & My Introduction

Sadly, last month Jim Haynes passed away at the age of 87.

Jim was not a famous musician or bandleader. He did not compose anything or even play an instrument. He was not uber-famous or someone you likely have ever heard of. But, Jim Haynes led an eventful and interesting life. 

Jim created Edinburgh's first paperback book shop and founded the London Arts Performance Lab in London (where he hung out with the likes of John Lennon & David Bowie). He then became a university lecturer in sexual politics at the University of Paris, a place he would call home until his passing. Jim was a free spirit who was beloved by many. To that end, his obituary in the London Daily Herald called him "the unofficial agent for the beat generation in Scotland."

Jim created Edinburgh's first paperback book shop and founded the London Arts Performance Lab (where he hung out with the likes of John Lennon & David Bowie). He then became a university lecturer in sexual politics at the University of Paris, a place he would call home until his passing. Jim was a free spirit who was beloved by many. To that end, his obituary in the London Daily Herald called him "the unofficial agent for the beat generation in Scotland."

Yes, as a professional, he was successful and significant. But he is remembered for something entirely different.

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For forty years, every Sunday evening, Jim Haynes operated an open-door, open-house dinner at his Paris home. Absolutely anyone was welcome to attend, and all you had to do was phone or email, and he would add your name to the list. No questions asked. Just put a donation in an envelope when you arrive. 

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His dinners were as electric as they were eclectic, as people from all over would mingle about, holding paper plates of food in their hands, talking with strangers about the events of the day. Heavy with generosity and light in spirit, his parties would begin at 7 pm sharp and end no later than 11 pm.

Jim's influence was not limited to his dinners in Paris. He published four books with lists of people willing to host similar dinner parties in Romania, Hungary, Czechoslovakia, and the Baltics. His goal was to introduce everyone in the world. No agenda. No titles. No backstory or baggage. Just an introduction. He believed good things would follow.

Jim was indeed a pioneer in social networking. He opened his home to strangers long before AirBnB, delivered food to strangers thirty-five years before Grubhub, and had people connecting and interacting in ways that Facebook and Twitter never could. Jim was an endearing and beloved character who led an eventful and consequential life.

I wish I would have met him and attended one of his Sunday dinners.

If you were to ask, I would tell you that I miss teaching. For me, the elements I miss most are not the bell-to-bell instruction of making music. I miss the passing periods, after-school chats, and walking down the crowded hallways of the music complex, filled with students and friends, happily going about their day. I miss knowing that, like clockwork, my life would be filled with youthful energy and enthusiasm, and with similar precision, it would end just as it began. I miss seeing the same kids along with new ones. I miss being in on, part of, and the butt of a good joke.

And I miss the introductions.

I miss introducing seniors to freshmen. Introverts to extroverts. All-staters to beginners. I miss introducing students to music from far away places they have never heard. I miss starting life-long friendships through this incredible activity. Most of all, I miss introducing my student to their next best self as they get a glimpse of what they have yet to discover and the person they will soon be.

Yes, I miss the introductions.

In some ways, your music room is like Jim Haynes's living room. It's the epicenter of a social experiment that brings people together on schedule for prescribed periods. It has a distinct purpose but no plan. It allows students (and teachers) to find a place and space with people they are comfortable with and share similar (or not) values, thoughts, and ideas. It is an introduction to friends, music, and themselves.

And if you listen to Jim Hayes, an introduction is all that is needed. Good things will happen from there. 

Allow me to introduce myself. My name is Scott. 

Have a great week.