Hard Lessons from a Long Time Ago

Once upon a time, long long ago, I went to college. It seems like another life now. But I have a diploma to prove it, so it must be real. This is the story of one of the hard lessons that I learned during my time at BYU, that I will never forget.

Here I am with my brand spankin' new husband. We look so young and innocent!

Anyway, about the time this picture was taken, I was in my last year of college. I spent the fall semester pre-student teaching, and the winter one student teaching. I pre-student taught at a high school, since my main age of interest was middle-schoolers. I totally hit the jackpot with both the schools I was assigned. In fact, if I could've chosen them myself, I would've picked the ones I got. For pre-student teaching, I taught the best band at the best high school around with an amazing, prestigious, knowledgeable, and just extremely cool teacher. He also played the trumpet, and he taught part time at UVSC. All his students were hopelessly devoted to him, and all the music ed students were in complete awe of him. So yeah, I definitely lucked out, and had a mentor at BYU who put a lot of faith in me and got me the hookups. My full-time student teaching was at Centennial Middle School, with another master teacher, but that's a story for another time.

Anyway, there are a couple things you should know. First of all, the reason I wanted to teach middle school was because I was terrified of high school students. I was not worried about my musical knowledge or skill compared to them, because I'd had a lot more training and practice than they had. But the fact of the matter was, like three years ago I was one of them! I felt like I was getting up in front of a group of my peers and trying to act like I knew everything. I was totally uncomfortable and self-conscious in front of them. Also, this particular group of students had pretty much a non-stop stream of student teachers coming through, because their band program was so successful and their teacher was so highly regarded. So basically I was like fresh meat for them. They and their director were like one team, and I felt like the lone person on the other team. I'm sure my social awkwardness factors in there somewhere, but I definitely found myself on the outside.

Still, I was honored and really excited to have been assigned to student teach with their best band in the school. So I went in there and did the best I could every day all semester long. Then I'd head straight to the BYU Cannon Center and flip hamburgers for three hours before my other classes. What a life.

Christmas started to approach, and their director had assigned me a song to work on with the band for the holiday concert. It wasn't my favorite ever, but I didn't really get a choice in the matter, so I went with it and tried my best on it. One day I went in to rehearse with the band. I ran them through the song a few times and was working on a few sections, when the director (we'll call him Dr. Smith) came up to where I was standing in the front of the class and asked me if I knew what the problem with BYU trumpet players was. Well, being a BYU trumpet player, I had no idea what the problem was. So Dr. Smith proceeded to tell me, and the entire class that I was standing in front of, that the problem was that BYU trumpet players are cocky. And he was really mad. He went on and on about how I didn't think I needed to practice or prepare and thought I was the best at everything and guess what I wasn't, on and on and on, all building to a dramatic finish where he kicked open the emergency exit door in the corner of the band room and stormed out. Leaving me standing in front of fifty something students that I was scared of anyway, feeling totally humiliated and very small, and trying not to cry.

That's the end of the story. I don't remember what I did after that, or really much of the rest of my time teaching them. But I do remember that I had been misjudged, and that it hurt. The fact of the matter was that Dr. Smith was right: I hadn't prepared for class that day. I hadn't prepared, because the day before, I'd been in a shower-curtained-off section of a hospital recovery room watching Nate come out of anesthesia. It was scary. And then the doctor joined me in the room and told me that my husband of three months had an incurable disease, and would for the rest of his life. And that there was probably a 10% chance or so that it would be passed on to our children. And that was about it. So I drove my totally loopy and nauseated husband home from the hospital, practically carried him down the stairs into our basement apartment, put him to bed, and cried. Pretty much all afternoon. I don't think I've ever felt so alone.

So the point of my story is, don't judge. I don't care who you are, you just don't know what another person has been through or is currently going through. So just be kind.