The Courage to Sing

There’s eight of us in a small room. We have pencils and desks and the periodic table on the wall. It’s afternoon and the kids and I are talking about projects they’ve been working on – ski maneuvers, drawing techniques, Russian accents, and so on. One child, from whom we’ve been receiving updates for a couple weeks, has prepared a song.

It's a country song she’s been singing with her father. She loves him, and that shines through the bittersweet twang of the anthem. Yet, it’s hard for her to sing. She doesn’t like all the attention.

The kids know this and one of them offers, “Would it help if we closed our eyes?” It would. So we all turn around and close our eyes.

If you think we’re a bunch of softies, it’s time to relieve you of that opinion. The kids are close and loving, but more like siblings or cousins. They care for one another, but they critique and cheat each other all the same. They’re constantly riding the edge of pushing too hard, feeling too weak, seeking comfort, seeking confrontation. It’s middle school.

That’s the cauldron in which this young girl had the guts to sing her song. She worked on it for several weeks, studying the lyrics, practicing with her father, and so on. What made it precious was that it’s not a comfort zone for her. Attention, and particularly to her voice, is rarely something she seeks.

Moments like these are worth everything. They’re small. They’re simple. They’re profound. I love math and science, good literature and critical thinking. But I like this subtle form of care even more. To me, it is the greater purpose of school and life. Few of us are under-educated today; far too many are isolated, bitter, or lonely. The courage to share something of true meaning, and to listen with open hearts and ears – I believe this is what our culture craves. Not more math and grammar.

As this child sang, we could feel her father beside her. Her mother’s care and support. She missed not one word, not one note was off-tune. Her voice never cracked with uncertainty. When she ended, the kids and I erupted in applause. If you’re like me, you can tell when praise is forced and polite. This wasn’t any of that. We clapped and yelled not merely because the song was good, but because we understood what it took to sing it. What it takes to truly listen.

We opened our eyes. We turned back around, smiles on everyone’s faces. Smiles in our hearts. I promise you, we have difficult moments to equal this joyful one. The jokes and jeers and discomfort that make life strangely difficult and good. It’s constant these days.

I don’t like to present myself, the kids, or any of us as if we know what we’re doing. It’s so clear to me how little we (or at least I) really understand. It’s become the shape of our days, this whole structure of bodies and learning, of care and disrepair, anger, hurt feelings, and kindness – it’s like a blob of cytoplasm, forming and reforming from the volatile chemicals of life. Shadows dancing through light. Shape after shape after shape.

Life is so intimidating. It’s raucous and dirty, sometimes fun, sometimes harrowing. How do we help our children find the courage to step out of the shadows and sing, not because it’s forever and complete, but because it’s now? All of us wobble in and out of courage, pride, fear, remorse. I don’t think it’s possible, or even enviable, to avoid these things.

We feel.

To me, that is the essence of education. It’s far more compelling than fractions or history (though these too are plenty good). Planting memories like these, in ourselves and in our children, of moments when we were able to reshape the contours of this feeling life into courage – the courage to sing, the courage to listen. That’s a good song.