KNOWING AND DOING ARE NOT THE SAME THING
In a recent article in The New York Times; What Do Students Lose When They Stop Writing? makes a compelling case about what is lost when students write in the age of artificial intelligence. The article explores a question much larger than whether students should or shouldn't use AI:
What happens when we separate the result from the work required to get there?
The author makes a compelling case that when AI does the actual writing, the learning isn't imprinted on the student because they didn't actually go through the task of writing.
READING doesn't equate to learning - WRITING equates to learning.
As someone who writes every week (and writing may be a generous definition of what I do), for me, writing is hard. Really hard. It requires me to process information, come up with an original observation, build it into an engaging narrative, and deliver it on a timeline. As I said, writing may be an overly elegant way to describe these weekly missives.
But I do it every week, forty weeks a year.
But according to the researchers cited in the Times, that difficulty isn't simply an unfortunate side effect of writing. The difficulty is part of what makes writing valuable. According to author Dana Goldstein, "The process develops working memory, planning, metacognition, and the ability to evaluate and revise our own thinking."
But I already knew that. Not because I am a writer. Because I am a music teacher.
(I was literally talking about this in a workshop last week)
Because in music, knowing isn't enough.
You can know every note on the page. You can identify the key signature, explain the time signature, define every musical term, and tell me precisely what the crescendo means. Congratulations. Now pick up your instrument and do it. And then come back tomorrow and do it again. And if it pleases me, again the day after that.
You don't learn to play the clarinet by knowing about the clarinet. You don't read a book about it, memorize the fingerings, and pick it up and ne Eddie Daniels. You learn to play the clarinet by playing it. Usually badly at first. Occasionally loudly. And sometimes producing sounds that cause fear among your family members and pets.
Then you practice. You listen. You adjust. You fail. You improve. And you come back tomorrow. And it's not just the music.
Knowing your drill isn't the same as marching your drill. You can memorize every coordinate on the page, but eventually you have to put your feet on the field. Eight-to-five. Hit the form. Dress the line. Miss it. Fix it. Do it again. Eventually, what you knowbecomes something you can do.
And then there's responsibility.
Imagine if we knew the music and drill and only showed up on Friday nights. After all, why should we have to DO something when we already KNOW something?
What separates music from every other curriculum is the daily, repeated application of the knowledge.
We don't teach responsibility by giving students a book or a PowerPoint (although my books are pretty good). We teach it by asking them to be responsible every day. Bring your instrument. Have your music. Show up on time. Practice your part. Remember your uniform. Help load the truck. Put away a chair that isn't yours. And, in one of the highest expressions of personal responsibility known to humankind, remember to wear LONG black socks under your uniform.
But there's something even more important happening there. Music teaches a particular kind of responsibility because other people are depending on you to know AND do!
If you don't know your part, the entire band pays the price. If you miss your dot, somebody else has to fudge the form for you. If you're not there to play your part, we can't 3D print another second bassoon. Well, not the person, at least. Your preparation—or lack of it—affects people besides you.
The same is true of non-musical skills. You can define grit. You can read about teamwork. You can probably write a perfectly respectable five-paragraph essay about both things. But music requires you to practice it in real time, EVERY DAY! Music teaches you when to speak, when to listen, when to lead, and when your contribution matters precisely because nobody notices it.
And if you fail to learn these lessons?
There is no undo button. You don't get to stop the ensemble and explain that you actually knew the answer. You can't hit the delete button or erase the mistake. You recover. You count. You listen. You find your place and get back in. And maybe five minutes later, you get another chance. Music teaches students that making a mistake isn't nearly as important as what they do in the measure that follows it.
So yes, this activity is meant to be hard. Not just once, every day.
Not impossible. Not miserable. Not the hard that makes kids want to quit, like marching in 118-degree heat in July in Arizona. But hard enough that forces you to learn something to make it easier. Without the hard, there is no learning.
The music is supposed to require practice. The drill is supposed to require repetition. Playing together is supposed to require listening. Being an ensemble is supposed to require compromise. And being dependable is supposed to require showing up again tomorrow.
The difficulty isn't a flaw in the experience. It's part of the experience.
That's what I think is so important about music education right now. We live in a world increasingly capable of producing the product without requiring the process. And I'm not anti-technology or anti-AI, far from it. Technology can be an extraordinary tool. Even the experts in the Times article aren't advocating abandoning AI altogether; they're asking educators to think carefully about which parts of learning students still need to do themselves.
In music, we want kids to...
Know their music—and play it every day.
Know their drill—and march it every day.
Know to listen—and actually listen every day.
Know about responsibility—and be responsible every day.
AI may provide a shortcut to writing––but not one to learning.
And that is why music matters.
Have a great week,
Scott