Hi, I'm Steve

Wednesday Morning, North of the City

             

            In a dull, earth tone colored office that looks like a hundred others the principal greets me without leaving her chair. There’s a silver walker next to her desk and a large black brace on her left ankle. I remember the conversation we had nearly three months ago and tell her I hope her foot is feeling better, and that she looks terrific.

            “Oh thank you, Steve!” she says with a smile.

            My name is not Steve.  I let it go because she is old and has always been kind and supportive of the program I bring into her school. Besides, I’ve been called worse.  For an entire year at a school in Brooklyn the secretary never even bothered to attempt my name (it’s an easy one) or commit it to memory when I told her. Instead, she referred to me as “oh, it’s the band guy”.  I’d smile because I had to and then wonder how she might react if I greeted her as “the phone lady”, or “the big sittin’ down gal”.

            Sometimes I get “the music man.” This usually from strangers on the street, watching me carry instrument shaped boxes awkwardly over my shoulder and on my hip. Again I’ll smile, and try to look like carrying a trombone, a snare drum, a saxophone, and a couple of clarinets all at the same time is not only effortless, but a joy. 

            It’d be nice to hear “Hey look! It’s the guy who boosts the self-confidence of children!” or “Here comes mister cognitive function enhancer man!” But today I’ll settle for Steve. And actually the principal gets my name right after a minute.

            I leave the registration forms and head down to the monochrome cafeteria/gym/auditorium where two of my colleagues are waiting for me. We set up the instruments and slowly the room fills up. Eighth grade sits disembodied from the rest of the students in the far back of the room.  They look instantly bored but it doesn’t bother me. That’s how eighth graders are supposed to look. Like one of the requirements for entering high school is a well-cultivated expression of apathy. These kids have it down. I focus instead on the wide-eyed and excitable third graders sitting in the front.

            I introduce myself they way I want the students and faculty to think of me. I am The Band Director. Not a program director from a far away company, or a guy who just pops by every once and a while to play a little music, but The Band Director. A permanent fixture in the school. Like the water fountains. The third grade looks impressed. They’ve heard of me, but this is the first time they’ve seen my pitch.

            And a pitch it becomes. I’m The Salesman. Willy Loman peddling music. The Salesman talks about how much fun it is to play an instrument, and how high schools like to see applicants who play music. The Salesman tells them that unless they’ve ever tried to play an instrument, they’ll never know if they can do it or not. All of that is true but I don’t like The Salesman.

            I like The Teacher.

             The Teacher illustrates the difference between the woodwind, brass, and percussion families and demonstrates their various roles in the band. The Teacher holds up the saxophone.

            “This is the most modern instrument up here,” The Teacher says, “ invented a mere 200 plus years ago by a guy named Adolf Sax.”

            Then The Teacher explains that each instrument presents a very specific set of challenges and therefore there is no such thing as an easy instrument to learn. Despite this, most kids will still think the drum is the easiest.

            Their attention begins to wander so I became The Entertainer. My colleagues and I play familiar melodies on each individual instrument to a smattering of underwhelming applause. Some schools explode in uproarious excitement the moment they recognize a melody. Not here.

            No big deal. I’ve learned there is very little correlation between excitement during my presentation and actual interest in the program. Sometimes kids are just hungry for a show.

            The presentation ends with a cute arrangement of current pop songs and old swing and march tunes. Again a polite applause as The Salesman returns to remind them when the band registration forms are due and urges them to sign up.

            "We call it playing music for a reason," The Salesman says before the children return to their interrupted day. 

            I stop by the main office on my way out to let the secretary know when to expect me back to retrieve the registration forms.

            “No problem, dear. Have a good day,” she says. She always calls me ‘dear’. I hurry out the door and jam the instruments into the back of my small car.

            Two hours to go before I do it again at a different school and I’ve got some ground to cover.

Thursday Evening, East of the City

           

            Polyurethane fumes drift off the freshly lacquered hardwood floor. Lightening flashes beyond the dark tinted windows but there’s no rain yet. If it waits until I get home before it pours the drive might only take me forty-five minutes. And that would be nice. I’ve logged three hours in the car so far today.

            Most of the brown folding chairs in the gymnasium are still empty. I grab a spot in the front row. The teachers are seated to my left in order of the grade they teach. Parents slouch, locked in staring contests with their phones. Sweat sticks to my neck. I fan myself and gaze at the analog clock on the wall like it can offer relief from the Indian summer heat.

            I’m beginning to wonder if this is worth it as I run through my speech in my head. I never write anything down.

            Finally the principal steps up to the podium and the Open House begins.

            He’s a really good guy. We hit it off immediately when he took over the school a couple of years ago. Big Levon Helm fan. Good public speaker too. The heat doesn’t bother him. He invites the latecomers to take a seat as they sheepishly wonder in.  After a general welcome he introduces the teachers. Two of them are new and come fully loaded with numerous certifications I’ve never even heard of. Each teacher stands up and after the last one is acknowledged the principal turns back to his audience.

            And then it happens. My reward for enduring the traffic, the stifling air, and lack of dinner. 

            “You forgot a teacher!” The eighth grade teacher calls out. His husky voice fits his ample body and I look around wondering what teacher he’s talking about. Gym? Art? Computer?

            He’s pointing a meaty finger at me and he says it again. “You forgot someone!”

            The principal smiles and playfully chides my defender for jumping the gun. “Now if you wait a minute and let me finish, I’m getting to him!” the principal says.

            And suddenly I’m not only a teacher, but a teacher with his very own special introduction. It comes with a slight qualifier.

            “Now, as you know, the budget for this school as well as many others like it does not include a band program. But I’m happy to say that music can still be a big part of your child’s education here. And while this next teacher actually comes to us from an outside service, we consider him part of our faculty.”

            I walk to the podium when he says my name and he shakes my hand firmly. Parents clap lightly, but sincerely. Most of my speech gets thrown out right then and there. The Salesman, The Entertainer, and even The Band Director have all left the building.

            Only The Teacher remains.

            The Teacher lets the parents know when classes start, and what their kid will be learning if they decide to enroll in the band. It’s a short talk. The principal thanks me and I leave the podium to a short arpeggio of applause.

            When it’s time for the parents to meet with their child’s classroom teacher I slip out the door feeling good. Ten minutes into my drive home the sky opens up. Traffic thickens. An hour and a half passes and I’m in a crappy mood. Partially because I’m still in the car, and partially because I know tomorrow I’ll have to go back to being The Salesman, The Entertainer, “the band guy”, “music man”, or Steve.  Close to the two-hour mark I’m miserable, but almost home. Lower Manhattan looms in front of me.

            Then a massive bolt of lightening strikes One World Trade Center and all at once the tallest building in the western hemisphere is bathed in metallic blue light. Electricity sprays from the spire. It looks like He-Man’s sword at the moment he transforms from a strangely ripped servant boy to a, well... He-Man. The whole building is alight with power. Then it’s gone. Other than the blue image burned onto the back of my eyelids it’s like it never happened.

            Without a doubt, the most amazing thing I’ve ever seen in eleven years on the roads in New York. It took hours of sitting in antagonizing traffic but I’ll never forget that.

            My job works the same way. Mostly, it sucks. But then every once and a while a lightening bolt comes out of nowhere and reminds me how worthwhile it can all be.

            I work for an educational service that imports music programs into elementary schools.

            I live in New York City.

            And among many things, I am a teacher.