My eyes scanned the room as I wiggled uncomfortably in my seat. From "vibrato" to "güiro" to "audiation," terms were flying left and right and students were either nodding at the epiphanies those words helped produce, or they were laughing, imagining their orchestra teacher, Ed Zunic, in a whole host of vulnerable situations.
I jotted notes furiously, intending to meet with him later so I could clear up my confusion and translate what felt like a foreign language into plain spoken English. But as the period wore on, I found that what was happening around me quickly moved from foreign to unmistakeable: bit by bit, anecdote by anecdote, detail by detail, I could hear music evolving. I could see learning happening. I could--despite my lack of musical acuity--process precisely what was going on: kids were taking risks, having fun, and pushing themselves to make adjustments so their own personal sounds would make the entire class sound just a little bit better.
And strangely enough, what initially felt so foreign suddenly felt familiar, suddenly reminded me--unexpectedly--of my days playing sports: dribbling drills before learning a new offense, spin drills before taking the mound, digging lines before 6-on-6 scrimmages. Laughter and playfulness cropping up between moments of intensity, where joy has space to emanate and camaraderie has room to grow. And as it all unfolded, Mr. Zunic's pep-talks, his mini-challenges, his ability to manage a room of 80 kids masterfully reminded me--very clearly--of the best coaches who guided my life.
He isolated the violins and the violas, the cellos and the basses, and group by group, he asked them to test out finger plucking and vibrato (which I learned was a technique to produce warm, richer sounds that feel more human, interesting and pleasing).
"If one person uses too much bow it can all fall apart" he told them, drawing awareness to the details of finger position and bow position, challenging them to perfect their form.
"Watch how the bows line up," he said scanning the room, "we need to play like one giant organism."
I sent my eyes across a space dotted with 80 students holding 4 different instruments, and I observed them struggle and excel. I watched them test and grow, experiment with vulnerability and laugh.
And then I watched them laugh some more.
In fact, despite how beautiful the music was, it was that laughter that gripped me the most, laughter that seemed to come at all of the right times through anecdotes and puns.
In discussing vibrato, Zunic gave them a mini history lesson about its origin, concluding his story by saying, "it goes Bach that far."
Later, sensing insecurity, he connected with them using an anecdote from his own life. Students had been working on audiation skills, and Zunic asked them to play a portion of a song, and then play AND sing that same portion, and then drop the instrument all together and just sing the music itself aloud. Some kids--the brave ones--acted without thought; others adopted a silent lip-moving whisper. My own insecurities about singing in public instantly sent a flash of empathy through me as I put myself in their shoes, but before I could tie up the laces, Mr. Zunic had stopped them and told them about a moment in 4th grade when his teacher assigned him to play the güiro--a fish-shaped instrument--in his class's rendition of the Don Gato song.
"You don't need to sing," his teacher said, apparently recognizing his less-than-stellar singing voice, "just play the instrument."
The students laughed, and Zunic continued. "I can sympathize," he said very sincerely, "with those of you who aren't strong singers."
It wasn't surprising that the next round of "play, play-sing, sing" sounded a little louder than it did the first time.
And after watching Ed Zunic's class, it also wasn't surprising that I understood far more than I expected to when I walked into the room. From lacing his lessons with metaphors and analogies about escalators and elevators, to easing anxieties with laughter, to admitting his own challenges, Zunic has a way of making music feel accessible and fun, powerful and important and chaotically beautiful. He pushed them and pulled them and kept them on their toes, persistently looking for ways to make simple tasks complicated, to build a better mouse trap.
He says he does this by learning from and listening to teachers in all different disciplines, looking for new methodologies and ideas to help students polish skills, to push them beyond the literal and help them embrace the details, the dynamics, the "fun stuff."
The stuff that makes music--and life--art.
That night when I went home, I felt a little braver than I did when I left for school in the morning. Plopping myself down at our family piano, I put my fingers on the keys. Pressing against them, I tested out the sounds, sounds my two-year old son has no problem playing, but sounds that had previously seemed out of reach for me. I had no idea what I was doing, but the minute I started risking, the minute I dropped my inhibitions and let myself laugh, ideas surfaced. The discomfort inspired me, motivated me, pushed me.
And even though I was lightyears away from making music like those students in Ed Zunic's 8th period class, as I sat before that piano, as I recalled the challenges they tackled that day, I realized that musically inclined or not, I was a better human being for having been present in the room to watch them.
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