SEE YOURSELF IN YOUR STUDENTS
I have spent a good portion of my professional life standing in front of music educators. Thousands of them. Young teachers, veteran teachers, teachers with extraordinary programs, and teachers who are doing everything they can to keep the lights on and the instruments working. And I've noticed that some of the finest educators I've ever met are also the least convinced of their own abilities.
They talk about their students accomplishments and the incredible things happening in their classrooms. Then, almost as an afterthought, they'll say something like, "I just have good kids."
You've built a thriving music program, changed the trajectory of hundreds of young lives, and somehow convinced thirty-seven middle school students not to create chaos every day, and you pretend it was all their idea.
I think there's something particularly interesting about music educators and the way we see ourselves. We spend our professional lives evaluating performances. We listen for mistakes. We identify weaknesses. We look for what needs improvement. A concert can be ninety-nine percent wonderful, and we'll spend the entire bus ride home thinking about the clarinet entrance in measure 47.
I understand that it's inherent in our profession. We've become so skilled at finding imperfections in music that we've started applying the same unforgiving standards to ourselves. We can hear every wrong note in our teaching careers, but we struggle to recognize the beautiful music we've already made.
In other words, we don't always act because we believe something about ourselves. Sometimes we come to believe something about ourselves because of what we've done. We watch our own actions, much as we might watch someone else's, and conclude the kind of person we must be.
Consider the veteran director who has spent twenty-five years building a successful program. Hundreds of concerts. Thousands of students. Countless performances, festivals, competitions, and graduations. Former students return to share how music changed their lives. Parents express their gratitude. Colleagues admire the program. By almost every reasonable measure, this person is an extraordinary educator. And yet, on the first day of school, there's still a little voice whispering, "I just have good kids." Twenty-five years of evidence, and apparently the internal jury is still deliberating.
As a music teacher, think about how often we (you) explain away our own success.
The band performed beautifully? "Well, I've got a really talented group this year." The orchestra earned a superior rating? "The judges were pretty generous." Enrollment increased? "We're fortunate to have a strong feeder program." A former student tells us we changed their life? "Oh, that kid was going to be successful no matter who taught them."
We have an explanation for every accomplishment, and somehow that explanation rarely includes the possibility that we might actually be good at what we do. We are able to explain away every success and take accountability for every shortcoming.
And here's where I think music education makes this especially complicated. Unlike many professions, ours rarely offers a clear finish line. A surgeon completes an operation. An architect finishes a building. An accountant balances the books. Music educators? We finish one concert and immediately start worrying about the next one. We celebrate a successful marching season for approximately eleven minutes before someone asks about winter concert music. We graduate a remarkable group of seniors, spend a few days mourning their departure, then look at the incoming first-year students and wonder how on earth we'll survive without them. The work is never finished. The ensemble is never permanently excellent. Every August, we begin again.
And because we're constantly beginning again, we rarely stop long enough to appreciate what we've already accomplished.
I've often wondered what would happen if we evaluated our teaching careers the way we evaluate our students. Imagine a seventh grader who begins the year unable to produce a consistent sound. By December, they're playing simple melodies. By March, they're reading music independently. By May, they're performing in an ensemble and experiencing the joy of making music with other people.
But we explain away the person who made that happen.
This disconnect has another consequence. When teachers can't recognize their own accomplishments, they sometimes struggle to recognize the value of the work they're doing right now. They compare their programs to the school down the road, the ensemble they heard at Midwest, or the director whose social media feed seems to consist entirely of standing ovations and smiling students. They see someone else's highlight reel and compare it to their own rehearsal footage, complete with missed entrances, forgotten instruments, and that one trombone player who apparently believes fortissimo is a lifestyle choice. It's not a particularly fair comparison.
And yet we do it constantly.
We measure our professional worth by the extraordinary things we accomplish while overlooking the extraordinary value of the ordinary things we do every day.
I also think we confuse humility with refusing to acknowledge our own effectiveness. There's a difference between being humble and being unwilling to accept evidence. Humility allows us to recognize that we still have things to learn. Self-doubt, when it becomes excessive, can convince us that nothing we've already learned counts. Humility says, "I can get better." The impostor voice says, "I'm not sure I was ever any good." Those are two very different messages. One invites growth. The other quietly undermines the confidence we need to keep growing.
Now, I'm certainly not suggesting that we all walk into rehearsal tomorrow wearing shirts that say "WORLD'S GREATEST MUSIC EDUCATOR." Harry Dinkle already trademarked that phrase.
But, as we do with our students and ensembles, we should be able to recognize and celebrate growth and achievement in ourselves.
Maybe it's time we practiced what we teach.
So here's my challenge. Sometime this week, before you rush into the next rehearsal, the next concert, the next competition, or the next crisis involving a missing bass clarinet, take a moment to consider the evidence. Think about the students you've taught. The musicians they've become. The relationships you've built. The challenges you've overcome. The things you know today that you didn't know when you first stepped onto the podium. And then ask yourself a question we don't ask nearly often enough: If another teacher had accomplished everything I've accomplished, what would I think of them?
I suspect you'd be impressed.
You'd admire their commitment. You'd respect their persistence. You'd recognize the difference they've made. You'd probably tell them they're doing a remarkable job and encourage them to keep going.
Perhaps it's time to extend that same kindness to the person looking back at you in the mirror.
Have a great week!
Scott