The new school year is getting under way. For students, the beginning of the school year is highly emotional. On the one hand, kids are happy to be reunited with their friends, many of whom they have not seen all summer, though they have been together on social media. On the other hand, this happiness is mixed with apprehension and anxiety about facing a host of newness all at once: new teachers, new grade level, new courses, and perhaps a new building. In this milieu of newness and uncertainty, there is some familiar comfort to be found: their music teacher. Students have new teachers for every subject or grade level, except for music and other “specials” subjects. 

Holding their fragile security together with all of that newness is the friendly and familiar face of their music teacher. For many, they have been in that music educator’s classroom for years. Out of such constancy has grown a kind of friendship, not like the kind that is formed among peers, but between what one administrator described to me as “social equals;” teachers regarding students with the same respect they show their colleagues, yet differentiated from their students by experience and expertise. After years of having this kind of relationship with students, a precious bond is formed. This was never more clear to me than on the stage of my last show before I retired. In the lead roles were eighth graders. As the PTA presided over the giving of flowers and gifts to the directors, I took the microphone and mentioned what a special moment it was for me. Those students, and there were five of them, who were now eight graders, had been my students since they were three years old in the school’s pre-kindergarten program. I called them forward to acknowledge this, and one of them said “we didn’t know if you remembered.” I certainly did. After a few hugs, and close to tears, I left that stage for the last time. 

is the sort of relationship we music educators have with our students. We must never forget how much we mean to them. So, on first days of school, and really through the first month or so of every school year, we provide that stability that they can only find with us, and other arts teachers. One year, I remember our school was going through particularly difficult times. By the end of that year, the entire middle school team (it was a K-8 school) had resigned. The next fall, as the students returned for the first day of school, they found no familiar faces standing outside classroom doors. Even the art and physical education teachers had changed. Then there was me, standing there outside my music room greeting middle school students as they went by on their way to their homerooms. One eighth grader, clearly distressed, stopped in front of me, looked at me and then said, “well at least you’re still here.” That moment solidified my determination to weather the storm, to be that constant in those kids lives that they could depend on. Things did improve throughout the school, and what followed were undoubtedly my best years of teaching that finally culminated in that fond farewell on the stage. 

Most people don’t realize how hard teaching is. Most don’t understand how important teachers are. But teachers have to understand and believe that in spite of how hard their work is, it is priceless. The students know that, even though they frequently would have us believe the opposite. One thing I found teaching in a school where most of the kids were in very unstable families and from very unsafe neighborhoods, was that they all desperately wanted an adult in their lives that was not going to give up on them, as so many other adults already had. That’s what that moment at the door of my classroom on the first day of school really made me realize. They were testing me. They were testing all of us teachers. “Are you going to exit my life or are you really someone I can lean on? Let me see. I’m going to try to drive you away. I’m going to try to make you give up on me.” There were days I wanted to, then I remembered, “Well at least you’re still here.” No, I’m not leaving. I’m still here. I’m still going to be here tomorrow, for as many tomorrows as it takes. 

I realize this fidelity isn’t for everyone. If you’ve left a school, or left teaching altogether, that’s okay. Don’t feel bad or guilty. Teaching is hard. Sometimes enough is enough. Honestly, I retired a few years early because I didn’t want to go through another tough few years I saw coming up. But for as long as you’re there, a proven constant in the lives of the young people you teach, you are a treasure. Teaching is a privilege. Be proud of what you do, no matter how bad you feel about what’s going on around you or even inside of you. Your music classroom is a special place. What you do is the only reason some kids come to school. What you do is the only reason some kids stay in school and don’t drop out all together. Show them you care. Show them your passion for music and for teaching. They need to see that. They want that to rub off on them. If you’re having a rough day, just tell them. “I’m having a hard time today. If I seem grumpy, that’s why, it’s not you.” They’ll understand, and they won’t think it’s them when you’re a little short with one of them. Hide your frustrations and fears. They have enough of those already. 

By now your new school year is underway, or almost underway. Have a great school year. Follow your lovely passion for music and teaching. Energize yourself with new lessons, enjoy successful old ones. Socialize with other teachers. Take care of yourself. Share your experiences or to reach out for support if you need it.  And please, say hi to your kids for me.