Starting Over

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Quality of Mercy

One minute it's a perfectly normal lesson.  We're playing a memory game with Music Symbol Cards, and the father is unable to let his daughter miss a move.  She is momentarily stumped on the Treble Clef, and he quips quietly, "Oh, you'll get into trouble for sure if you can't remember that one. Trouble."

"Treble clef," she says sheepishly.  Then, askance, "Daaaad."

"Sorry," he says, affably chastised.

She is nervous about the rules of this game: I call it Foursquare, and it works a little like the game my mom used to play with us in restaurants while waiting our food.  You draw a grid of dots and connect them into boxes; the one who completes the box gets to claim it. Here, the one who turns over the fourth card in a square block gets to keep all four.  Her eyes are glued to the cards, her little mind intent on keeping as many as possible for herself.

But then something changes.  First, she accuses me of letting her win.  I explain that we are far enough into the game that there's no way for me to avoid turning over a third card; her only crime is getting them right over and over.  "It's okay," I say.  "It's just a game."

She hesitates before turning over another third card instead of completing the waiting square.  She feigns innocence; her father gives life to her thoughts.  "You're having mercy on your teacher," he says.  "That's okay."

I graciously accept the hand: "It's nice of you to think of my feelings.  But really, it's okay for you to win.  You know all the cards.  You're doing great!"  Yet still, before each move, she pauses, smiles sweetly.  "I'll have mercy."  There is no guilt or coercion in her manner, only a heart much bigger than her small body can contain.

Her father watches, proud, and I wonder just what he has gone through to raise a child like this -- a child who chooses mercy over personal gain, who is sensitive to others' feelings and wants to encourage me more than she wants to win.  I imagine the lessons he has taught, painful and enjoyable, to this end.  How has he helped her to see that justice is a bitter victory, and that truly, mercy conquers all -- so that, unprompted, she wants to extend this grace to those around her?  What a blessing he has given to her, to me, to all of us!

Yes, dear one, please, have mercy.  Have mercy, as God has mercy, on me.

What's in a Grade?

Our final project for my grad school course this semester sounds an awful lot like a teacher invented it.  It's called Problem Based Learning.  Basically, the students have to figure out what the problem is and how to solve it, and then solve it.  The teacher hangs around and answers questions if they have them, but doesn't volunteer anything except for the premise.

As I said, it sounds like a dream come true for a teacher, and it sure is applicable to real life, but I don't think it would ever work for the demographic I teach.  In fact, considering how many questions I have after assigning half a page of homework, I could probably guarantee myself a migraine.

In spite of myself, however, I'm starting to enjoy the project.  The premise, which is loosely based around the professor's other teaching job, is that an inner-city school is struggling to make state-mandated standards.  They have decided to create a yearlong tutoring program for the approximately 25% of the student body that has failed the last achievement tests, and they've given us $200,000 to plan and execute it.  My job is to write the budget: snacks, transportation costs, teacher salaries, materials, etc.  I've talked them into using Music Mind Games as an enrichment activity and to improve reading, math and test scores (all of which are proven to happen, by the way!)

So during class last week, I suddenly realized why the activity was so enjoyable, and so unrealistic, all at once.  We were coming up with the best strategies, the coolest ideas, the most enthusiastic instructors, in order to help these struggling students gain their footing and succeed.  And the one conspicuously-absent factor was GRADES.

As you may have read recently, grades are more controversial than ever: should teachers grade effort, achievement or both?  Presentation, content or both?  Are tougher grading scales, like the one we use, better or worse than the standard 10-point scale, or do they cause grade inflation?  Should we let a student volunteer for extra credit if she wants to bring her grade up, or deny it on the basis of fairness?  What if the parent calls, irate and demanding?  How much do we care, really, about the grades we assign?

I love teaching, but I hate assigning grades.  It seems so counterproductive to the work we're trying to accomplish: the betterment of human hearts and minds.  How does a number on a piece of paper help with that?

Learning and Reality

Last summer I realized that one of my biggest frustrations about classroom teaching was that students never got to see the "real" me.  When I teach piano or tutor outside of school, I am relaxed, funny, and helpful all at once.  In the classroom, I'm so besieged by learning goals and grading standards that I often feel I don't have time to connect with my students on a personal level, which is crucial to their being able to learn from me.  So this year, as a partial solution, I've had them studying the cornerstones of the Music Mind Games, which I consider to be the core of my educational philosophy. Each month we examine a different one: I ask them to reflect on it and we have a discussion.  Then I ask them how it applies to their education.  This month we studied the first one, "You are brilliant and can learn anything."

My Literature students were surprisingly positive about it, though a little formulaic -- most had something to offer along the lines of "I know can do anything if I put my mind to it."  Their observations about teaching were touchingly optimistic, too: one said that teachers must believe that students are brilliant, or they couldn't be teachers in the first place.  I was glad she'd never seen evidence to contradict that statement.

During our discussion, I noticed that one student, usually one of my most vocal, was pointedly silent.  As I collected the responses, she asked if she had to put her name on hers.  I considered arguing that if everyone else did and she didn't, I'd still know who she was, or admitting that I knew her handwriting well by now, but settled for, "Yes, so that I can give you credit for completing the assignment."  So, of course, I read hers first:

Now, I'm sure you want to look at these papers and amuse yourself over our incredible self-confidence, but pardon me if I shatter any delusions and state that this is entirely untrue. Not to argue technicalities, but I shall never understand the meaning of life. Also, more generally, I know that there are quite a few things I cannot learn. Just as my grandmother will never really understand her computer, I realize that there are some things that will never be clear to my brain. It disturbs me that people are so prideful as to assume that they are omniscient.

A note on teachers: I take everything with a grain of salt. First of all, it tastes better that way (ha, ha). Really, though, I have a deep suspicion of compliments and such thanks to having received too many in my life for them to be true.

I thought about it for a couple of days and then wrote this in response:

Dear Andi,

Thank you for your honesty in responding to this question, and for your maturity in recognizing that such a categorical statement should rightly be regarded with skepticism.  If by "the meaning of life" you mean the purpose behind each of the events that befall us, then yes, there is no way any of us will ever understand it.  But if you mean uncovering a purpose and direction for your own existence, then yes, I firmly believe you can and should work toward this end, and with God's help I pray you will reach it.

Sadly, none of us will ever have the time and energy to learn all we want to learn, so we must settle for whatever is most important to us.   But at this point in your life, Andi, I wouldn't be so quick to rule anything out.  Focus your energy on creating beautiful drawings and stories if you want, since you have talent in those areas.  Or study quantum physics if it interests you.  I'm not saying you should learn everything; I'm saying you can learn anything if you have a passion for it.

Most people (and nearly all women) have difficulty accepting compliments.  I am among them.  However, the gracious and polite thing to do is simply to say "thank you," and to accept that the person paying the compliment truly means it.  Even if you don't agree, you should be honored to receive the goodwill that comes from the bottom of another's heart.

Mrs. Lowe

Flashcard Fever

Rarely do I read something in the Times with which I so heartily agree as this brilliant defense of rote learning:

“In educational circles, sometimes the phrase ‘drill and kill’ is used, meaning that by drilling the student, you will kill his or her motivation to learn,” explains Daniel Willingham, a University of Virginia professor of psychology who has written extensively on learning and memory. “Drilling often conjures up images of late-19th-century schoolhouses, with students singsonging state capitals in unison without much comprehension of what they have ‘learned.’ ”

Oh, those schoolhouses — with the hickory sticks and the dunce caps. “Harrisburg! Salt Lake City! Montpelier! Tralalalala!” That does sound kind of fun — I mean, authoritarian.

I am eternally grateful for everything I ever had to memorize, from Lightly Row to the Gettysburg Address, French adjectives and the books of the Bible.  I took to memorizing poetry for fun in high school: Yeats, Shakespeare, Frost, cummings.  Though I have forgotten some of these things, many of them are still with me.  And I am shocked, just shocked, at how much resistance I see from otherwise-intelligent people when the subject of rote memorization comes up.  At a grad school course a few years back, the students complained nonstop about having to memorize nineteen coordinating conjunctions, even when they clearly didn't know them and, as aspiring English teachers, needed to. (Did I mention this was grad school?)  Parents tell me nonchalantly that their kids will learn their multiplication tables when they need them; there's no point in "just memorizing them," they say.  And recently I overheard some friends saying they didn't see why their children had to memorize Scripture in Sunday School: "They hear that stuff in church already!"

Our memories are one of the most beautiful things about us.  We use them to reminisce, to organize, to create.  And all of these help us learn.  Why should we hesitate to exercise them in this most basic way?

Dr. Suzuki liked to say, "Ability  equals knowledge times ten thousand repetitions."  His student Michiko Yurko created a system of cooperative games, based on memorization, that are my students' favorite part of piano lessons.  Children love hearing favorite books over and over, teenagers quote movies, and adults get a thrill from their favorite songs, long since learned by heart.  "Drill and kill?"  Give me a break.