My Story Matters Because I Matter: Part 1
“Sharing art is the price of making it. Exposing your vulnerability is the fee.”
This blog post will be the ultimate act of vulnerability for me, and hopefully, this writing will be one form of my art. But it begins with incredible vulnerability.
To let others hear my full story requires me to relive trauma. To walk back through this huge turning point in my life, but it is my story to tell. And I have chosen to share it. To quote Brené Brown, in her book The Gifts of Imperfection, “My story matters because I matter.” While what happened is an important part of my story, the more important part is how it affected me. But before I get into that (which is far more important) I have to walk through the past.
I have always enjoyed creating new curriculum and often attempt to do new things or “new takes” each year. No year is the same. This keeps me learning, which keeps me more excited to teach. So finally getting to the point where I could teach a Junior High Exploratory Music Class that changed from year to year, where I could get creative, interactive, interesting content that is different each year was exciting to me.
I also enjoyed developing my Songwriting course over the years and always like to use popular music as a way to connect with students. So when I decided to teach Songwriting as the year’s Exploratory theme, I knew we needed to start by listening to the best songwriters of the past generations.
I wanted to make sure a variety of extraordinary songwriters were explored so we listened to not only songs by Bob Dylan, The Beatles, and Bruce Springsteen, but Carole King [insert other names]. I also didn’t want to just explore 20th century songwriters, but look at who currently will most likely (or already has) ended up in the “record books”. So we listened to and analyzed Taylor Swift, Ed Sheeran, Eminem, and Kendrick Lamar.
Kendrick Lamar. Pulitzer Prize-winning songwriter. I figured this was a no brainer! As prolific as some of these other 21st century songwriters are, he is the only one who has won a Pulitzer for his songwriting! Kids listen to tons of rap and hip-hop, and have such a visceral connection to it, I knew it would be a good fit.
Now, I figured if I avoided his more political songs and stuck with his autobiographical album, that would be a better choice in this incredibly conservative corner of Iowa. So I began our lesson that fateful day when we listened to the first half of his song “Sing About Me/I’m Dying of Thirst” (clean version–we only listened to “Sing About Me” because I didn’t want them to listen to the interlude between songs AND they also lose interest after 5 minutes).
Unlike every other song, which we just dove into listening to, I prefaced the listening with some education. I gave the students background information about him, where he grew up, some of the horrible things that he had witnessed as a very small child–significantly younger than they were!–and how he was writing about that–and if he went through all of that, if he witnessed that as a 5-, 6-, 7-, 8-year old, then they were going to be mature about listening to this song and analyzing the lyrics. The song wasn’t glorifying anything. It is a brutal representation of a person’s life. I told the kids that the woman and man in the song may actually be a representation of many men and women who experienced similar life circumstances. We were learning about figurative language–this was important for them to recognize! The song is from an album that is autobiographical in nature, of course they represent real people or are based on real people who really went through that.
None of this was more complicated or “racy” than any time I had taught a Spiritual in choir. Whether I was teaching a Spiritual with Fr. E, my longtime sidekick, or not, we both made sure to talk about where that music came from, the hardship, persecution and strife the enslaved lived through, the horrendous things they went through, the multiple meanings of the lyrics, and the list goes on. I knew how to approach sensitive topics like this and had done it so many times before.
The kids were awesome. They were mature. They received the content well enough. Shocked, naturally, when you grow up in a very safe place, to learn that there are plenty of children out there who do not. They didn’t all like the song–and I told them that’s ok! We don’t have to like all the songs we analyze–even I don’t love them all! We were here to analyze the autobiographical lyrics of a Pulitzer Prize winning lyricist.
And I thought I had a very successful lesson.
Until I learned it wasn’t.
To be clear, the students still thought it was. I never heard anything different from them. They always acted mature about everything.
The first time I learned anything was wrong was several days later when my principal came to talk to me before school.
He told me that some parents were upset about the song lyrics. Instead of contacting me, and instead of efficiently communicating with him, they had taken their concerns to a State Representative who was then in the process of harassing my principal, our school board, and our superintendent.
This is when I start really thinking about what went wrong? How did this happen? I realized that when I was making my original plans of what songs to use I had thought about including a portion of educating the parents when I had first thought of using this song, but as I do with some many things–I forgot.
I’m not just teaching this one class. I had several others, and was in the midst of preparing for All State Auditions. The end of the quarter was approaching and I’m also a very busy mother. I taught this lesson on a day when my children and I were out of the house for nearly 12 hours with their activities and school. I made a mistake not writing my plan down, but I regularly teach my students and my own children that mistakes are OK. We learn from them and GROW.
We do not persecute one another for our or their mistakes.
But in real life, this proved false.
“There is real fear that we can be buried or defined by an experience that, in reality, is only a sliver of who we are.”
My principal asked me to definitely not attend the school board meeting that also happened to be that night, and that he would speak on my behalf as best as he could, and defend me. He had my back and for that I am forever grateful. But it seemed everyone else came out to attack me.
I did not go to that meeting, but what was told to me the next day was that the overall judgment of this curricular choice was dripping in racism and ignorance.
“If I wanted my kids to be exposed to this I’d send them to school in Minneapolis”
“Is she even sorry? All we want is an apology.”
There were calls for me to be fired immediately.
It has taken me months of therapy to be able to write all of that and not become overcome with panic and filled with tears.
I had been a part of this school system for 13 years, and had just started my 14th. I had an impeccable reputation throughout this time and had been an integral part of this school and community. And for some of these people–some of whom have known me that entire time–none of that mattered.
Fortunately for me, it did matter to the most important people in this situation, who did not let me be fired.
I was told I must issue an apology immediately. I was also told that because I gave students the lyrics to analyze, I broke part of the Code of Conduct because the content was deemed too graphic and inappropriate.
Just to be clear: Kendrick Lamar’s autobiographical song–his life–was deemed too graphic and inappropriate for minors to consume. When he met those experiences at a much younger age than these students.
The guilt and shame became oppressive. I wasn’t even always certain those were things I was directly feeling or if the outside voices were screaming so loudly at me that I should feel guilt and shame for even attempting to expose students to lives outside of their own corner of Iowa. And all of that coupled with feeling the “need” to “keep things quiet” really messed with me.
And then I had to sign a sheet of paper, saying I acknowledge my breaking the code of conduct, which went into my permanent file.
And I was suspended for 5 days.
Without pay.
And I learned that mid-day, on a Friday, and had to hold myself together for the rest of the day until I couldn’t anymore.
I’ve always been “emotional” and would be the first to admit that I’ve probably dealt with mild, incredibly manageable depression my whole life, but it was this experience that taught me that what I had experienced was only mild. The deep, deep despair I felt that following week very nearly destroyed me.
It didn’t completely destroy me, but it did destroy my passion for teaching. It destroyed my passion for this school. It destroyed my passion for the community I had been a part of for a third of my life. My fire was put out. I had thought I knew what it was like to feel “dead inside”, but learned I had no clue until then.
I still cared very deeply about my students. I still cared very deeply about the experiences I wanted them to have. But I wasn’t sure how I would go back to school let alone finish the year. I was completely numb.
My lifelines during this time were my kids, our families, and therapy. In therapy I learned that I had already made up my mind that I would not return to teaching in a school. In therapy I rediscovered parts of myself that had been stifled by school teaching, or motherhood, or just life. I rediscovered and reimagined what I’m most passionate about: teaching others about music. I remembered that I, too, am a musician. Even a musician first, an artist first. My therapist helped me realize I have so many skills that are applicable and desirable and transferable to a different approach to teaching music. She helped me begin to believe in myself again and helped me realize the potential I had to start my own business. To speak out loud that I wanted a more flexible, creative schedule. To speak out loud that I wanted to be able to put my kids first.
So I started dreaming again. And I realized how long “dreaming” had been dead inside of me. It wasn’t killed by this particular moment, but reaching this deep despair did draw my attention to the lack that already had existed.
I started imagining the future again. And I realized how long my imagination had been dead inside of me.
I started creating again. And I realized how desperately my life, body, and soul needs to create.
And then I felt alive again. And the dread I felt every day heading to school became manageable, because I was recognizing it could be just temporary. I could change the trajectory of my life and career.
And so here I am. One actionable step at a time, I created Earth Song Studio, LLC. Working on this brought me back to life. Preparing to write this new chapter became the medicine I needed. Even though life didn’t get easier. I was starting to find my way through. Music and singing are my light.
Text taken from the choral arrangement of Frank Ticheli’s Earth Song. Photo generated by AI via Canva
