A Day to Honor Our Veterans

By Laura Moore

WWII Vet, John Bergmann speaking to students and fellow veterans seated before him

When United States Marine, Honor Flight Guardian and self-proclaimed "push up guy" Dave Schott stood before a gathering of veterans, active service men and women and students this past Wednesday, he shared an excerpt of a speech called "Peaches and Poundcake" given by Retired Army Major General Robert H. Scales at the Harry S. Truman Library & Museum in Independence, Missouri, on September 12, 2009.

"It’s sufficient to talk to each of you about things we have seen and kinship we have shared in the tough and heartless crucible of war. Some day, we will all join those who are serving so gallantly now and have preceded us on battlefields from Gettysburg to Wanat. We will gather inside a fire base to open a case of C-rations, with every box peaches and pound cake. We will join with a band of brothers to recount the experience of serving something greater than ourselves. I believe in my very soul that the Almighty reserves a corner of heaven, probably around a perpetual campfire, where someday we can meet and embrace all of the band of brothers throughout the ages, to tell our stories while envious bystanders watch and wonder how horrific and incendiary the crucible of violence must have been to bring such a disparate assemblage so close to the hand of God."

For those of us non-military folks who happened to be unaware of the significance of peaches and poundcake, Schott followed up the quote by explaining that after being in the field, getting the chance to indulge in that dessert was heavenly, that it was a favorite treat soldiers could share together. 

And so the image he painted with Major General Robert H. Scales words--one of a campfire where valiant men and women would gather around and tell stories, surrounded by every box there was of peaches and poundcake--smoldered in my mind for the rest of the day and into the night: an image of diverse faces, with diverse experiences, people with enormous passion, grace, bravery and conviction, people brought together by the cause of our country, the cause of defending our freedom.

And as it lived there, I couldn't help but paint the individual faces I had seen on the logs around the fire: Mike Knilans, Andy Frick, Michael Rutland, Crista Sturbois, John Bergmann, Milt Mapou, Dave Schott, Bill Richards. I could help but fill the air of my mind with their experiences, their advice, their answers, their transparent quest--despite all they have already given to us--to give us more, to share some of the hardest, most challenging moments they endured, to pass on to us their part in history, to allow us to bare witness to the violence that brought them all together, and the kinship they shared in the tough and heartless crucible of war.

I couldn't help but fill up with their stories.

Stories that often took years to emerge.

Upper Arlington resident and World War II veteran, John Bergmann, had to wait 43 years before he could speak. A mathematics student at the University Pittsburgh, Bergmann was recruited by the military to come to Washington D.C. and serve as a code-breaker, as one of the crucial minds who helped us win World War II. For 43 years his family believed the story he was forced to tell them--that he was a payroll clerk--even though he was central to the effort to break Japanese and German codes, codes that changed every 24 hours, giving the code breakers a mere day to solve the pattern before it changed once more. He interacted directly with Franklin Delano Roosevelt and Winston Churchill, but his experiences had to exist in his mind as secrets until 1985 when the British started telling their story, and Bergmann asked if it was finally okay to tell his.

A second World War II veteran, Milt Mapou, talked also about the repression of story. As a Pearl Harbor survivor, he said soldiers were not allowed to talk about the attack. They could send postcards home that said, "I am in the hospital, but I am well." They couldn't, however, give details, they couldn't say where they were or give specifics about their injuries. They couldn't process what they endured with the people they loved most.

As Mapou told his story about growing up overnight, Bergmann emphasized how important it was for people at home to write to the men and women serving us. 

"If you have family members overseas, send letters to them," Bergmann said, "I've seen grown men in a corner crying reading letters from home."

When U.S. Navy Veteran and Honor Flight Guardian, Bill Richards spoke during 8th period, he started off by saying, "What a gift to be in the same room with World War II vets. Get a picture to share with your kids."

He went on to talk about the power of Honor Flights, of giving veterans the opportunity to visit their memorials, to share their stories and to give them the homecoming they deserved. This is particularly significant for Vietnam veterans who returned to a country in protest, a country who didn't grant soldiers gratitude and respect for their sacrifices, sacrifices many of them never chose to make in the first place.

He talked about one man who wore his greens on the flight, and when Richards praised his effort to keep his uniform in such mint condition, the man said he didn't. When he got back from Vietnam he destroyed his uniform. The one he wore on his honor flight was brand new. And when he got off of that plane, he said, "today, I come home."

Toward the end of his speech, Richards said, "we all have a story to tell." 

And he encouraged us to listen. 

To these men and women and to extend ourselves to meet others. To come out and greet the honor flight participants, to clap for them, respect them, to give them the dessert of human connection.

From beginning to end, the Veterans Day Celebration, organized by teachers Betsy Sidor, Mark Boesch, Nate Palmer and the rest of the Upper Arlington High School Social Studies department, was a moving example of the power of telling our stories, of gathering around a figurative campfire and listening to the people who have come before us, the people who have made tremendous sacrifices, sacrifices that enable us to walk into our school, sit in our desks and learn.

While the soldiers didn't get a truck filled with peaches and poundcake, our students and staff tried to honor them with the best of their gifts. From performances by Ed and Gretchen Zunic's symphonic orchestra, to Eric Kaufmann's vocal ensemble, to George Edge's drum line, to contributions from Kim Wilson and her classes, Mark Boesch and Kelly Scott and the class officers, Kim Brown and student council students, Judy Miller who coordinated lunch with Rusty Bucket (Easton) General Manager Dave Redenbarger, and Karen D'Eramo and the UA Rise baristas who made coffee for the veterans to enjoy, Upper Arlington High School made every effort to welcome some of the greatest people any of us will ever meet.

Thank you, veterans, for all you've given and continue to give. You are an inspiration to us all.

WWII Veteran John Bergmann speaking to students

The Power of Laughter

By Laura Moore

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.

Restore the Roar

By Laura Moore

Spanish Teacher Tony Naska

The other day, one of my colleagues passed me in the hallway and I couldn't stop staring at his shirt.

Despite rushing from one task to another, I slowed my stride when I saw it, ultimately pausing beneath the threshold of the learning center doorway. I had a million other thoughts hovering in the back of my brain, but I couldn't get his vintage gold t-shirt out of my mind.

"Restore the Roar," it said in cracked black letters: Restore the roar.

The exclamation screamed from the threads, and as bizarre as it all seems now, I couldn't help but nod, to agree, to mouth a yes in the middle of the library without any context whatsoever for those who overheard me.

Despite how odd my mutterings might have sounded to those who weren't privy to the inner workings of my mind, my response to that t-shirt--that harbinger of inspiration--felt appropriate. Simple in concept, yet powerful in its mission, that phrase captured what I hope to do in my new role as the Instructional Leader for the Research & Development Lab.

We have teachers imagining, developing and executing world-class instruction, and we have teachers and students conceiving a host of possibilities. This year, Upper Arlington is dedicating resources toward capturing what is already happening, as well as connecting thinkers who are interested in collaboration, design, prototyping, and experimenting with new ideas. 

As all of this happens, I am lucky enough to help uncover the details, to step out of my own classroom and observe the innovation surrounding me, to facilitate connections, to listen to ideas, to pursue funding and to tell the stories spilling out in our hallways and well beyond our doors. I get to plug in the speakers, turn on the camera, and amplify the learning bellowing from this building. I get to help, in some small way, to restore the roar.