Well, it's happened, I thought, standing in dim light, overlooking the carpeted, tiered band room. The room and stage were empty--of noise, of students, and of light. No lesson plans. What am I going to do? I don't even know how long the classes are or which grades I'll have. I wracked my brain, grateful that I'd arrived extra early, pacing the room for inspiration, for something that would engage the students for a given hour but that would also be concrete, valuable strides forward in their music study. At 7:55 AM, a student walked in, and I feared that it was my first student of the day. He asked if I was the sub--it was then that I noted the crisp, white, freshly-printed pages in his hand. I eagerly took them--class lists AND sub notes. I was saved--somewhat. Two classes--7th/8th grade band and 6th grade band. 8 students in the former and 14 in the latter. I couldn't believe my eyes; I've become accustomed to thirty-student classes. I recheked to see if they'd missed something. They hadn't. That was truly the size of the classes. I soon found out why.
First hour, the students were slow to pull out their music and put their instruments together. The percussionists hardly even played--for which I learned to be grateful. The students were friendly, and I allowed a little off-topic banter though some talk I didn't know how to respond to. As I was helping a clarinetist identify the notes in her music, her friend--an inactive percussionist--declared, "I like your stomach." Dumbfounded, I didn't know whether to respond with some reassuring words regarding her body image or to engage in a conversation about the benefits of a healthy lifestyle. I chose no response as the wisest course, and I allowed my attention to be turned back to the music.
I continued to help decipher the notes for students, and I moved on to assist a trumpeter. At the beginning of the hour, we had chatted about Asia, particularly about Japan's earthquake and her trip to the United Arab Emirates. Now, the loquacious girl and I were singing through the rhythms on her music. She followed along with her finger--reading right to left. I showed her that the music read left to right and began singing it with her. I realized that not only was she memorizing the notes as we read (based on the annotation), she also couldn't tell the difference between a dotted quarter note and a half note. The trumpeter next to her was willing to finger through the parts, but refused to play a single note in the class--something his friend (an inactive percussionist) reported as regular course.
So class came and went. The students were pleasant--if not entirely on task--but soon it was time for the sixth graders to arrive. It was about 30 seconds before I realized I had runners on my hand. Back and forth across the fifty-yard span of the band room, one rummer continuously relayed objects from the back room to the stage. There were to be fourteen kids in my class and only eleven showed up. (Today was snow-day make-up.) Seven were percussionists. Simultaneously runners and percussionists. Stage to backstage. Back room to stairs to door to stage to backstage to seat across stage and repeat. When the feet were still, the drumsticks were not. I had four woodwinds (three clarinetists and one flutist). Two of my three clarinetists refused to play due to broken reeds. One proceeded to the back room and reported that the box of reeds was empty. The flutist would not play until after I helped her write out the "letters." I asked if she wanted me to help her with her notes. "No, I just want the letters." As I helped her, she commented, "You smell like powder."
Again unsure how to respond, I said, "Is that a good thing or a bad thing?"
"Powder smells good. It's a good thing. You know, like, baby powder. You smell like baby powder." She continued to marvel at me as I quickly wrote in her "letters" so that rehearsal could be continued. She wondered how on earth I knew what the notes were. Had the percussionists not been so eagerly prodding each other with their drumsticks and running laps, I might have taken the time to review the staff with her, you know F-A-C-E, et cetera, those things I remember learning in elementary school.
Halfway through the class, a percussionist ran to the back room and retrieved two reeds. I was flabbergasted, looking at the demure sixth-grader who had uttered a lie so boldly and so blank-faced.
The rehearsal was a challenge to say the least. One of my runners would run whenever my eyes weren't on him. From his chair to stage left. Center stage. Auditorium floor. Behind the steps. Behind the stacked chairs. Back stage. Amidst the curtains. I directed half of the "Hey Song" staring at him, keeping time, but cuing in no instruments. (Only one clarinetist and four drummers were playing anyhow--and the drummers without music.)
When I dismissed the students to put their instruments away, two of the girls that had remained silent the entire period went off. "I can't believe how disrespectful you guys are bein." And so on. At the end of the hour, a teacher/member of staff came in and redirected a student that had been launching himself over a mounted handrail. I'm not sure who this man was, but his presence made me feel inadequate.
I often wonder what the real goal of a substitute should be. Substitute teachers help kids learn through ensuring continuation of education when their regular educators are absent. Or at least, they should. Many bring in the perspective that if a sub got through the day and the kids are safe, that the day was successful. I disagree. This morning's experience (I went to a high school for the afternoon) definitely felt more like a "survive" instance than a "thrive" instance; however, I can sit at home peaceably, knowing that one loquacious seventh grader now knows that sheet music reads from left to right.
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