At the end of the day

It is not uncommon for me to have music in my head. I mean just now as I was walking over to my apartment to write this blog entry, I had the Cowardly Lion’s song, “If I were king of the for-ehhhhhhhhst” resounding through my head (in large part because today is my wonderful nephew Jack’s birthday, and he is a fellow fan of the 1939 classic movie). When I direct plays I often comment on how the actors should hear (maybe sense?) the musicality of a scene. And of course, there are the ad jingles and sit-com theme songs (“Come and listen to a story ‘bout a man named Jed…”) that have taken up residence where there might be knowledge of science or car repairs instead.

But last Tuesday I had a sing-song ditty in my head that I hadn’t thought of in a generation, I guess. Remember at summer camps, or whenever you had skit night with conferences or youth events, and the sing-song group participation number that goes, “If I were not a _____ [insert wherever you were] I know what I would be…” Maybe you don’t know it. For example, in 1980 at West Hi (ahhh…I was but a callow sophomore 30 years ago this spring) the Thespian Society (I was a new inductee) performed in the “Varsity Vanities” variety show an act with about a dozen of us. The sing-song round went, “If I were not a West High student, I know what I would be. If I were not a West High student, a ______ [insert strange profession here] I would be.” I remember this from camp, and a group of extroverted, silly drama-types would come up with a great, warped profession that you could define in 8 crisp beats and a laugh line. For example, in that fabled (in my mind, at least) rendition of this at West High, senior Ken Bowald in his best Uncle Fenster-impression, said, “If I were not a West High student, I know what I would be. If I were not a West High student, a mortician I would be! Six…by four…nail him to the floor…Dead!” You would do this in a round, adding each person after the “solo” and somehow if the group had the right pizzazz, it was really funny. I remember my contribution to this Job Fair ditty, “If I were not a West High student, I know what I would be. If I were not a West High student, a butcher I would be! Kill the chicken, kill the chicken. Ring its dirty neck!” And on that last beat I let out a squawk that resounded through the West High auditorium…I got a huge laugh. I got a laugh in part because my squawk was loud but also as I channeled my inner chicken, I had bug eyes that might make Jim Carrey envious. Oh, this group of serious actor types killed, killed, as I recall.

Now…why was I remembering this lo these many years later? Was it nostalgia for my high school days (“West High, Best High, West High, for dear old West High on the hill!”) or my lost youth (um, I still act sometimes like I did in high school, so probably not that one)?

Last Tuesday I think this song went into overdrive in my head in part because I was angry. I won’t go into exactly why I was angry—the reason is not for worldwide web consumption, and I don’t use my blog as a bully pulpit for vendettas or a hit list (ahhh, just the thought does tantalize a bit!) but suffice it to say, some adult decisions/actions/treatment here at KA made me angry enough to imagine these lyrics to the song…“If I were not a KA teacher, I know what I would be. If I were not a KA teacher, a…” hmmmmmmmm….what would I be? You know when you deal with what you consider shoddy treatment in the work place, it can help to just wonder…what else would I be? I decided a baker would be nice. I liked the idea of going to work with no preparation, no piles of grading around you, and then spending a day punching dough. Could be therapeutic, no? So as I strategized to myself about how to manage my discontent, I enjoyed the sing-song possibilities of other jobs.

I can mask that anger around the students pretty easily—in large part because going into the classroom and teaching is the best part anyway, and you can forget for a bit what is causing those thoughts/songs of greener-pasture professions. But last Tuesday I did what was probably not the wisest thing—before 7:00 a.m. Jordan time, I had already talked to two dear friends on the phone in the US, which you know, sometimes just stokes the anger a little more.

By the end of those conversations I had another song battling in my head, albeit a bit more of a highbrow tune. My brain kept marching to the martial beat of the song, “At the end of the day,” from Broadway’s Les Miserables:

At the end of the day you’re another day older
And that’s all you can say for the life of the poor.
It’s a struggle—it’s a war
And there’s nothing that anyone’s giving,
One more day, standing about, what is it for?
One day less to be living.

Oh, that’s a great start to the day! How optimistic! Pollyanna is dead. I am pretty sure I walked to morning meeting in the steps of the revolutionaries from the musical too—just waiting for somethin’!

While the image of the baker enticed me a bit, by the end of the day, my mood had changed. The adult(s) in question had hardly made life sweeter or kinder, but it’s those darn students. Class was exciting, the review for the upcoming AP test was strong and compelling, and yes, At the end of the day, my mood was different.

As the nightly review of art history drew to a close, a handful of us tarried a little in my room, breezily talking about, you know, just stuff. Then Rob, marvelous, inventive, extroverted Rob, suggested that we (a group of about six of us) play Art History Charades. We laughed, but Rob was serious, and so the game group jumped in—Zack, Abdullah, Dana, Rob and Swara started thinking of ways to stump each other as they decided to act out, as charades, art history vocabulary, art history movements, famous art works and artists.

For about an hour we took turns pantomiming such things as cantilevers, tenebrism, Bernini, American Gothic, and on and on. It was just fun. It was just a nice hour. And there was some good studying and review as well. Abdullah was usually chosen to play the female in the art works requiring a feminine presence! Swara tried to act out these complicated myths. But the play was a welcome oasis and relief from the unremitting stanzas of “At the end of the day” in my head. Of course eventually we realized we needed to head back to the dorms, and get cracking on the next day’s work. But for that blissful hour I didn’t think once that I would trade it all in to punch some dough.

I get back to the dorm, start to prepare the slide show for the next day’s lecture on environmental art of the 1970s-80s and I get a tune again (remember, there is lots of room in my head!). It’s the "At the end of the day" again, but at the real end of this day, I have a different stanza in my head. In the show, the previous stanzas had a flinty minor key driving the song. But for a short while, the key changes to major, and the down-and-out sing,

At the end of the day there’s another day dawning
And the sun in the morning is waiting to rise.
Like the waves crash on the sand
Like a storm that’ll break any second…

At the end of the day there’s another day dawning

In the course of that day, the music in my head changed from that minor key to the major key.

Thank goodness for the jukebox in my head!

Somehow this musical montage reminded me of something I found when I was cleaning out the office of my predecessor at Hackley, a venerable teacher who stayed at the school for over 40 years. I was going through a desk drawer and came upon a flask…I called Walter up on the phone, and said, “Well, I guess I discovered how you survived the traumas of school life for 40 years!” The tone in his voice was more Brahms-like than Barney Google, and he assured me that he used that simply as a prop to discuss in his United States history classes the accoutrements of a well-heeled man from the 20s…sure, Walter…

It takes a variety of things to make school life sing and work. But I hope to keep handy in that ipod of my brain that marvelous line, At the end of the day there’s another day dawning.

My class will be emerging from the AP test in under an hour. I will report soon how they have fared as they ascended this mountain.