Motherhood

When I was 24 years old, I did my student teaching in music at a junior high school in Utah. I had the opportunity to meet many wonderful kids and I thoroughly enjoyed the experience.

One of the students who made a particularly strong impression on me was a 14-year-old boy named Michael. Michael was in the 7th grade. Due to complications at birth, he had learning disabilities, so he had been held back twice in school. He was also quite small for his age. Michael told me that when he was born, his delivery didn't go well and he'd almost died. After telling me his history, he said, "My mom's real happy that I lived." I could imagine the conversations that they might have had. I pictured his mom telling him every year on his birthday, and on every major holiday, and maybe at times for no particular reason, how happy she was that he was alive.

I could tell that Michael came from a good home. In spite of his disabilities, he was confident. He was very kind to other kids, and I was glad to see that he was quite popular. He was not your average surly teenager -- he was cheerful and open and sweet. In addition to being small, he wore glasses, had blond hair, and he had the face of an angel.

Michael was in the brass class and he played the tuba. He was able to get an amazing sound on the tuba and he had great rhythm. The only thing that he struggled with was memorizing the fingerings for each note. He had to practice 5 times harder than the other kids to learn the music, but his practice paid off. He was a great little tuba player.

My cooperating teacher turned over all of his classes to me, with the exception of this brass class. (I think he was afraid they would eat me alive.) On one particular day, he was going to administer a playing test in the brass class. Michael forgot that there would be a test that day, and he was very upset when he got to class and was reminded of that fact. He asked me if there was any way that he could do the playing test the next day. I talked to my cooperating teacher, who told me that I could take Michael into one of the practice rooms and work with him the whole hour, and then Michael could do the playing test at the end of the class period.

Michael and I worked very hard on that piece. It was a march, so it was not something that he could play slowly for the test. He was struggling to play it up to tempo, though, because it was difficult for him to remember the fingerings for each note, so we ended up writing in the valve combinations above each note. Michael practiced the piece over and over, and by the end of the class period, he was playing it up to tempo.

We went back into the band room so that Michael could have his turn at playing the piece. When he got ready to play, I was so nervous for him. I wanted him to do well because I knew how hard he had worked and I knew how nervous he was. I said a silent prayer that he would be able to play it as well as he had in the practice room. I really wanted him to succeed, and I wanted the playing test to be a positive experience for him.

When he started playing, I was happy (and enormously relieved) to hear him play it exceptionally well. He played the march up to tempo, he got a great sound out of his tuba, and he didn't falter or hesitate on even one note. He nailed it. I don't think that his own mother could have been prouder of him than I was at that moment (although I'm sure she would have been equally proud). I wondered if the other kids in the class had any idea what an accomplishment this was for Michael. To most of the other kids, that playing test was no big deal. I wondered if they could appreciate what a triumph it was for Michael.

I got my answer soon enough. The instant Michael was done playing, the entire class erupted into applause. Everyone cheered and whistled for him. "Bravo!" and "Encore!" were yelled. The congratulations continued after the bell rang and they were all packing up their instruments. It was like they were a team and Michael had just scored the game-winning point.

That was the day I fell in love with an entire class of teenage brass players (and one little tuba player in particular). It was also the day I knew that, whether or not I ever got married and had children, I was a mother.