September 2008

As a former teacher, I know they’re underpaid and work way too hard. I also know they make all the difference in the world. My teachers in the Hamline University MFA Program in Writing for Children have made me work hard these past two years, but they’ve also made me feel like I’m special, that I have something to contribute to children’s literature. And that’s priceless.

In honor of the new school year, I want to share a story of my son Andrew. He had many wonderful teachers during his years in school, but one stood out as his favorite.

“Now remember,” I said for the tenth time, “no bopping during your concert.”

“No bottin',” Andrew said along with me in broken speech, even though his head was bouncing as he said it. He wore a white long-sleeved shirt and tie, with black pants that were too big in the waist and held up with a belt. He looked in my general direction through his glasses. He’s blind in his left eye and has very little vision in his right; not enough to see faces. I worried about the steps to the stage at school. What if he tripped and fell?

“When you’re singing, you have to stand still,” I repeated.  He constantly moved, especially when excited or nervous, and he’d be both tonight. I’d signed Andrew up for choir at the beginning of the school year, but now I wondered if it was a good decision. He loved music; he spent hours listening to the radio he got for his birthday. And all he talked about was choir and his teacher, Ms. Wolfe.  But Andrew was the only special-Ed student in the boy’s choir.

At school, as Andrew grew, the musical gap between him and the other students grew. The junior high choir sang Latin pieces that Andrew never mastered. Now he was in high school, where concerts were taped and aired on public television. This would no doubt be harder for him. Andrew was a special needs child who couldn’t stand still and who had trouble with speech. A child who couldn’t read or write.

We hurried into the building amid a blustery snow. I helped Andrew find his robe and put it on, a heavy red robe that came to his ankles. I deposited him in the music room where the music teacher was warming up the choir. She was new, a recent college graduate. She smiled at Andrew when he walked in.

“No bopping,” I whispered again as a student came to help Andrew to his place.

“No bottin',” he repeated. I hesitated, then left to find a seat in the auditorium.

Four other choirs performed before Andrew’s choir. They were choreographed acts. There was no way Andrew could do that. What if the audience laughed at him?  I wanted to protect him.

Finally, it was time for the boys’ choir to perform. Andrew started up the stairs. He tripped on his robe on the fourth step and I held my breath. He caught himself and proceeded up the stairs to the stage. He was helped up onto the first bleacher, right in the middle where everyone could see him. 

His arms were folded together; ruffled pleats of red robe hung down his front. The other boys held their arms straight down at the sides.

I worried that Ms. Wolfe, his new music teacher, would be upset if Andrew blew this concert in front of everyone. After all, it was her first concert, too.

Andrew was already squirming. Ms. Wolfe said something to the boys. Two of them went to the side of the stage and came back with sombreros, wide hats that they passed around. One of them placed a sombrero on Andrew’s head. Then they handed out maracas, and someone put one in Andrew’s hand.

She raised her hand and the music started. “Feliz Navidad,” they sang. It was a simple song, with easy lyrics. Andrew’s mouth opened and he began to sing. But he was already bouncing wildly, knees bent, moving up and down.

“Oh, no, Andrew!” I thought. Then I noticed: they were all bouncing. All the boys in the choir were moving and shaking every which way. What a sight. Andrew didn’t look out-of-place; he bounced up and down with the rest of them, shaking his maraca, singing the easy parts. I don’t know if Ms. Wolfe had Andrew in mind when she picked that song and the choreography that went with it, but I suspect she did.

Andrew couldn’t stop smiling when he heard the audience clap. Ms. Wolfe gestured toward the choir. Andrew stood still (finally) while the other boys bowed. A couple of them put their hands on Andrew’s shoulder. A friendly gesture to a boy who loved choir.     
Afterwards, several parents came up to Andrew and congratulated him on his singing.

“I can tell you love to sing,” one of them said.

“Yeah, sing,” Andrew replied with confidence, as if he knew all along that he could do it. Andrew’s beaming face said it all. Ms. Wolfe was Andrew’s favorite teacher, and she became mine that day, too.