THE BEE & THE IMPACT OF YOUR WORDS
This one is a bit long - but I hope is worth reading for Teacher Appreciation Week!
It's Teacher Appreciation Week, which means people are saying thank you (including me). There are kind emails, handwritten notes, and maybe donuts, but they somehow show up after you have already been to the teacher workroom at zero-dark-thirty, and disappear before you get back there at lunch time.
All of it is good. All of it is appreciated.
But there's something about this job that doesn't get talked about enough.
The impact you have, but might never know about.
I was thinking about that recently, and it brought me back to one of the most important teachers in my life, Bob Larabell.
You won't know the name, but you may know the story. The movie Akeelah and the Beewas based on him (written by a classmate of mine, Doug Atchison - worth watching). He was that guy. Brilliant, demanding, intense, and absolutely unwilling to let you get away with anything less than your best.
I barely survived his class. BARELY!
It was required to graduate, so there was no escaping it. I did what I could, which at the time felt like a lot. Looking back, it was probably just enough not to fall apart completely. I scraped through with a C-. Not exactly the kind of performance that makes you think, "This is going to be a defining relationship in my life.
Then came the final assessment, a thirty-page paper and a presentation.
The paper? I think I got a C+, but the presentation? I nailed it. I created a Monopoly-style game in which each participant was an arts organization. I structured it so that, much like in real life, each player struggled to survive and eventually folded.
On the very last day of class, we got our final assessments: pages and pages of typed, personalized feedback for every student. I honestly don't know where he found the time.
His final sentence, handwritten in red ink, said:
"Dare as I might to insult you, Mr. Lang, but there might just be a teacher in there somewhere.
That was it—one sentence.
It was delivered in the most Bob Larabell way possible—equal parts compliment and challenge, wrapped in just enough edge to keep you from getting comfortable.
And here's the thing.
I don't think he had any idea what that sentence would mean to me. For him, it was probably just feedback. A moment at the end of a long day. One more student, one more presentation, one more comment.
For me? It stuck, and it planted something.
Up until that point, I hadn't thought of myself that way. Not seriously. Not as something real. Once I read it, I couldn't unthink it.
That's the part about teaching that's so hard to see when you're in it.
Most of the moments that change students' lives don't feel like big moments at all.
They're not planned. They're not scripted. They're not part of the lesson plan.
They're just throwaway lines as a part of a rehearsal or conversation.
A quick comment. A reaction. A sentence you don't even remember saying five minutes later
But they land. And they stay.
As music teachers, we say thousands of things in a single day. We're correcting notes, adjusting posture, managing behavior, trying to get through a rehearsal while also wondering why the trumpets are doing whatever it is they're doing that day.
We're not thinking, "This might be the sentence that changes how this student sees themself."
But sometimes it is.
When we're early in our careers, we think our impact will come from the big things. The performances. The ratings. The moments where everything clicks, and we walk off stage thinking, "That's what this is all about."
And those moments matter. They're just not the whole story.
Most of our students are not going to become musicians or music educators; they're not going to spend their lives thinking about tone quality, articulation, or whether the low brass was too heavy in measure 42.
But they will remember how they were seen. They will remember how they were spoken to.
They will remember the moments when someone they respected said something that made them reconsider themselves.
We get to be that person more often than we realize. That's the responsibility. And honestly, it's also the gift.
Long after the performances fade and long after the scores don't matter anymore, those words are still out there doing work.
Bob Larabell probably doesn't remember saying that to me, but I remember it clearly. In fact, I still have that paper saved in my safe.
If I'm being honest, there's a pretty direct line from that moment to where I ended up.
So, during Teacher Appreciation Week, while people are thanking you for the visible things—the concerts, the performances, the long hours—know this:
Your real impact is happening in the invisible moments.
The ones you don't plan.
The ones you don't remember.
The ones that feel small at the time.
Somewhere down the line, one of your students will make a decision. To try something. To stick with something. To believe something about themselves that they didn't believe before.
And part of that decision will trace back to something you said.
You won't be there.
You might never hear about it.
But it will be there.
That's the job. And it's bigger than any performance, any rating, or any score.
So here's to teachers like Bob Larabell—the ones who demand more, see more, and say just enough at the right moment to change a life.
And here's to you. Keep saying the things that matter. Even when you don't realize they do.
Thank you for all you do - Happy Teacher Appreciation Week! I APPRECIATE YOU!
Scott
p.s In my first book, I wrote a chapter about Bob. I shared it with him when I escorted him to the premiere of his movie. He sent the chapter back two weeks later, with corrections and a handwritten note that said, "You cabetter kiddo."
I treasure that note as his words still matter to me.