Crescendo

by Allen Cheney

  When the students filtered into his classroom, he greeted each one with a firm handshake, drawing from his psychology training to gauge personalities. Those who spoke clearly, made eye contact, and responded without hesitation were the self-confident leaders. He would call on them to set the example. Others shuffled away with their heads held low or giggled as they looked to their friends for direction. These followers were likely to be afraid of criticism and would do anything to fit in, so Fred would boost them with just the right amount of praise. Finally, there were those whose cheeks blushed red at the unexpected attention. Fred would not call them out, even for positive reasons, as their insecurities would likely get the best of them.

  So far Fred had seen nothing he couldn’t handle, but there was one young man who avoided interaction altogether, sliding past the new teacher with a shy, fatigued look on his face. Fred carefully eyed him. He was an attractive young man with an athletic build that likely could have landed him in the role of the all-American homecoming king if he hadn’t chosen to wear layers of baggy clothes as if he didn’t want to be seen. His hair was long like most of the boys, but unkempt, hanging down over his eyes, and he was the only guy in the room not watching the beautiful girl who was the last to enter.

  “Hi. I’m Laura,” the girl said, shaking Fred’s hand with a steady confidence. Her long blonde hair and golden summer tan were an irresistible magnet for her peers, but her bubbly personality seemed an equal draw. She claimed a seat on the lowest of the three-tiered rows and said, “We heard you were rich and famous, Mr. Allen. Is that true?”

  The others stared wide-eyed, eager to hear their teacher’s backstory.

  In educator mode, Fred stayed serious, setting a disciplined tone. “Laura, right?”

  The girl beamed, apparently happy he had already learned her name. The students would soon realize he had memorized all of their names, his photographic memory being one of his intellectual gifts.

  “Surely you aren’t the kind of girl who believes everything she hears,” Fred said with a playful smile. Holding everyone’s rapt attention, he asked the group, “Why are we here?”

  It was an unusual way to start class, one that made the students look at each other quizzically, trying to gauge reactions. Fred walked along the front row as they pondered his question. He took time to give eye contact and then said, “Think about it. Why even have a music class? Of all things you’re at school to learn, why music?”

  He let the pause do its work, as the students shifted in their seats, studying his every move.

  “Because music . . . music can change the world. Or at least change your life. I can tell you that it completely changed mine.” He spoke with passion.

  Laura smiled. The boy in the back stared blankly out the window. He was the only one not engaged with the lesson.

  “And yes,” Fred continued, eyeing the young man. “You matter too. Because you, too, can change the world.” After a small pause, he continued, “And maybe music can help you do it.”

  He stopped near a girl with freckles and braids, leaning in as if speaking only to her. “And another thing that matters is that you keep showing up every day.” He looked around at the others who were all processing their atypical new teacher. “I will notice when you aren’t here. I’ll notice, and I’ll care. Why?”

  Fred pointed to a boy in the middle who was laughing. “Because you get paid to,” the youth answered, trying to be funny.

  The music man swung his arm charismatically, as if the answer was correct. “Because it’s my job,” he echoed dramatically. “Yes. Yes, it is.”

  Everyone laughed.

  Then Fred grew serious again, lowering his voice to make them listen even more closely. “But it’s also more than just a job to me. I don’t care what test score you earn or how we decorate the classroom. Those things are irrelevant to your quality of life.”

  His volume increased gradually, along with emotion, and he gestured with emphasis to land each point. “I care about how you treat one another. I care about you not selling yourselves short. I care about you getting through high school without being devoured by the struggles of life. I care about you not falling through the cracks.”

  Then he stepped back, remembering his elementary principal, Mrs. Duncan, as he took in the entire group of students from the front of the room, near the piano. “I care about you. Every single one of you. That’s why we’re here today. And that’s why it matters. Because if we don’t find a place where it’s safe, even encouraged, to care for one another, then we’re all just a bunch of animals. Music . . . music reminds us to care. And just as importantly, it’s fun!” He added a wink.

  The students still engaged, Fred sat at the piano bench and began to play Buffalo Springfield’s popular protest song, “For What It’s Worth.” It had found its way to the pop charts years before, and as Fred rounded out the first verse, he lifted one hand toward the class, signaling the students to join in for the familiar chorus. He then instructed Laura to take the lead. She stood, hesitantly at first, but then kept singing as she stepped toward the piano.

  At Fred’s invitation others followed, building the energy as they gathered around the choppy old upright. Its top had been scratched and worn from years spent in the school’s dusty storage room, but Fred had given it a fresh tune, and so far it had held. As the small group of teens sang along, others began to mouth the words softly from the safety of their seats.

  By the ending notes nearly every student was smiling. Just as with the youth choir at church, Fred had won them over with a song.

  Fred eyed the teens and asked, “Now tell me, what do you feel?” The students waited for him to tell them the answer. Again, he pressed. “What does that melody, those lyrics, make you feel?”

  He scanned their faces for answers, and the pensive expressions suggested they were giving this serious thought. The class was a music appreciation class, not a singing class, but Fred knew he first had to get them to care about music before he could teach any hard-core theory. He began calling them out by name, pushing them to give words to their emotions. They were each in awe when he identified their names correctly, and his questioning yielded replies such as, “I feel happy. Inspired. Hopeful.”

  With each answer Fred responded with animated expressions, encouraging them to share openly, without a filter. Without fear. Reminding them, “There are no wrong answers here.”

  Then as the students began to talk with one other, he clapped once, loudly, resulting in a sudden return to silence. “Ahhh . . . you see? Sound is power,” he explained. “When you hear a sound, or a song, you’re actually receiving energy. And that energy affects you. It all comes down to physics.” He snapped his fingers and added, “Sound waves.”

  He stood, and the students walked back to their seats. Fred began to identify various instruments he had in stock, showing the different sounds made by each: cymbals, drum, flute, violin. All were participating, except the boy in the back of the class, a teen who clearly wanted to be anywhere but in a high school music appreciation class singing from the Billboard charts and learning about sound waves.

  “Now think about this. There is only one instrument in the world that is capable of both words and melody,” Fred said, waiting for the boy to make eye contact. When the disgruntled student finally looked up, Fred added, “We create sound with our voice. And, as I said, sound is power.”

  He emphasized these last three words, sensing the boy had been feeling, above all else, powerless. Just in case he had not gotten the message the first time, Fred repeated each word emphatically. “Sound. Is. Power.”

  The rest of the session Fred spent getting to know his students. He led them through a few fun team-building exercises, trying to establish trust and respect within the classroom. The only resistance came from the young man in the back, who seemed to shift back and forth from an underlying rage to numb disconnect.

  The class period passed quickly, and when the bell rang to signal dismissa
l, the students left the room in a flurry of enthusiasm, chatting to their friends about their cool new music teacher and jokingly chanting down the hallway, “Sound is power!” They sang this with the passionate flair Fred had exhibited when teaching, which only seemed to add to the envy of the two teachers who had side-eyed Fred that morning. They stood at the end of the hall and barked at the students to “Hurry” and “Get to class.” Fred watched, hoping he wasn’t destined for the same burnout so many teachers seemed to face while also wondering how he might ease the tension.

  Those two may have been suspicious of Fred, but a third teacher smiled warmly from the doorway to her special education room. Fred had interacted with friends from all ethnic backgrounds in New York, especially while living in the Village, but he was surprised to see this African American teacher working in the public schools of Thomasville. When he had left Georgia, the schools had been segregated, and despite a large percentage of minority residents in the community, he’d never had a teacher with skin darker than his own part-Native American tone. As the woman greeted Fred from the adjacent classroom, he took it as a sign of hope, proof that Thomasville would be a progressive-minded place, even here in the Deep South.

  Smiling back at the teacher, Fred noticed a frail, sandy-haired young boy with an obvious disability leaving her classroom. In that same moment a group of boys forced their way through the pod, laughing and mocking the young guy.

  “Hey!” Fred said forcefully.

  The teachers observed, curiously, as the boys turned toward Fred. He gave them a long, commanding stare that clearly directed them to cut it out.

  With broad shoulders and a thick neck, the bully strutted toward the exit, and his posse followed. They were not yet out of earshot when the aggressor huffed, “He thinks we’re one of his little songbirds.”

  Laughing obnoxiously, one of the others sang out, “Tweet! Tweet!”

  Fred was reminded of his own childhood days, trying to avoid Uncle Dirk and the abusive ballplayers. He was fighting the dark flashback when the kind special education teacher sighed and said, “Thank you.”

  “Some things never change,” Fred said, his voice carrying both sadness and frustration.

  “Most people around here aren’t that way,” she said. “Some just don’t know any better. Those boys think that’s how to act like a man. Be tough, loud, abrasive. Like a bunch of animals smashing their antlers together.” She shook her head, welcoming students into her classroom. Then she looked at Fred and continued. “That’s why they need strong, stable role models. If they had more of that, maybe they’d know how to behave.” She extended her hand with a smile. “Frances Williams.”

  Fred shook Frances’s hand and said, “Sure am glad to meet you. I was beginning to fear I might have landed in the wrong pod.”

  She laughed and glanced down the hall toward their jaded coworkers. With a softer volume, she said, “Change scares a lot of people. Don’t let ’em get to you.”

  Then the bell rang, and all four teachers returned to their classrooms. As he closed his door for his next group of students, Fred was grateful to have been placed next to someone who seemed to be gentle and clearheaded. If the morning was any indicator of how this year would go, he certainly was going to need an ally.

  Thirty-three

  While teaching music appreciation in the schools, Fred continued to grow the choral program at the Methodist church. In hopes of keeping young people involved in their own churches, he pushed his youth choir rehearsals back an hour on Sunday nights, but he had not yet gone as far as launching the music and drama troupe the family had discussed over dinner. To everyone’s surprise, most of the teens had been returning each week after their own church rehearsals were complete, suggesting the teens of Thomasville might actually support the idea of a community youth choir. Soon the group had outgrown the small choir room and relocated to the congregation’s fellowship building for a larger space.

  By October it was time for something more.

  After running his idea by Rev. Zorn, Fred tacked a sign-up sheet outside his classroom. At the top of the page, Winnie had typed: Thomasville Music and Drama Troupe. Laura and a few of her friends filled in their names to get the list started. As students began to filter in to music class for the day, they noticed the sign-up station and began buzzing about the clipboards, building excitement. Fred stood back and let the students take the lead. He listened quietly as questions filtered through the group: What if I can’t read the music? Do we have to wear a costume? How much does it cost? These queries were countered by comments of all extremes: Can I sing a solo? Oh, I hope he doesn’t make me sing a solo!

  As the bell rang, Fred nudged the teens to their seats and moved to the piano. His presence hushed the room, and the students immediately settled in, giving him their full attention. He was a quiet man, not like the teachers who would sometimes yell at their students, and his class had quickly learned to respond accordingly.

  Now that he had their focus, he explained his plans for Troupe. “We’ll invite students from the county school and the private school to join us.”

  “Oh joy,” one of the girls said with a smirk, drawing laughs from all sides of the classroom.

  Fred had expected that kind of flare-up. The region had long been divided by class, race, gender, and religion. As far as he knew, Troupe would be the first activity that dared try to bridge all these groups.

  “You are far smarter than the people who believe in stereotypes,” Fred said in response. Then he added, “Respect others. Respect yourself. I expect nothing less.”

  Launching such a troupe would be no small undertaking, but Fred believed wholeheartedly that the people of Thomasville would rise to the challenge. Nevertheless, bridging cultural divides wasn’t his objective. Fred’s goal was to give young people a positive creative outlet, as his musical mentors had done for him. And most of all he wanted to help them make beautiful sounds, satisfying his burning desire to create.

  “Look around this room,” Fred instructed. The students complied. “Every person you see here today has something to offer. Something you can’t.”

  A few of the kids kept their heads low, seeming to lack the confidence of others more affluent or popular.

  Fred noticed and spoke directly to them. “It doesn’t matter where your parents work or what kind of house you call home. Talent doesn’t see any of that. Talent comes from somewhere deeper, somewhere pure. It’s in your bones, in your blood. In your heart. And it’s begging you to let it out.”

  He stood and walked near each chair, holding everyone’s attention. “When someone we know starts to forget they have something to offer, it’s our job to remind them. Remind them there is something truly unique in them. Something unique in each of us. Something no one else can ever take or destroy, no matter how hard they may try. And yes, there are people out there who will try.”

  The air was charged as Fred moved back to the piano. Slowly, students began raising their hands, and Fred answered questions about Troupe: “Rehearsals will be held two nights a week, Thursdays and Sundays. . . . I have very high expectations, but this group is open to anyone willing to give your best efforts. . . . No, you don’t need stage experience. You just need to enjoy music and come ready to learn. . . . Can’t sing? I bet you can sing better than you think. You might surprise yourself.”

  Most of the students expressed interest, except Paul, that one annoyed kid in the back who always wore baggy clothes and seemed to lack any real friends. Fred had tried to reach him countless times, to find out what was causing such angst, but he hadn’t been able to break through, no matter how hard he had tried. If he called on him in class, Paul stared silently and refused to answer. If he tried to have a private conversation, Paul wouldn’t even make eye contact. He was so withdrawn, Fred was beginning to worry. Anger was one thing, but numbness? Emptiness? That only happens when all hope has died.

  When the bell rang, Paul prowled the hall like a ticking time bomb.
No one spoke to him, and he seemed intent on keeping it that way. The thin teacher at the end of the pod saw Fred’s attempts to reach the troubled teen. She rolled her eyes and said, “Why bother with a kid like that? He’ll end up in jail someday. Wait and see.”

  Her unhappy cohort shook her head and said, “Lost cause.”

  Frances defended the wayward student to Fred. “He wasn’t always this way.”

  The redheaded teacher smirked. “Maybe he should be in your class. He is special. That’s for sure.”

  Just like that, Fred was transported back to his own childhood, hearing that he had been born with “special” gifts, a misunderstood outsider who felt he didn’t belong. While most people at Thomasville High looked at Paul and saw only his troubles, Fred looked at him and saw some part of himself.

  That afternoon when school released, teens stirred around planning weekend dates and talking about homecoming. A small group of Fred’s students began playfully singing one of the songs Fred had taught them from the brand-new Broadway musical Pippin. Spirits ran high, and he was happy to see the music’s positive impact already taking place.

  Join us, leave your fields to flower

  Join us, leave your cheese to sour

  Join us, come and waste an hour or two1

  Of course, the two resentful teachers shot scornful looks.

  Fred was trying to ignore them when he noticed Paul getting into a car with an attractive older woman behind the wheel. Dressed in a scant low-cut blouse that covered barely more than a halter top, she looked to be at least two decades older than Paul but exuded strong sensual energy even from the driver’s seat. On first glance, the situation may have seemed like any of the other teens being picked up by their mothers, but Fred quickly sensed something uneasy in the way this woman leaned over to embrace the young man. Something unnatural about the way Paul smiled at her, then looked away.