MUSIC EDUCATION & THE MERE-EXPOSURE EFFECT
Back in the 1990's, researchers Richard Moreland and Scott Beach at the University of Pittsburgh conducted a fascinating experiment. They had four actors pose as students in a college class over a semester.
One actor attended the class zero times.
Another attended five times.
Another ten.
The final actor attended fifteen times.
They didn't participate in class. They didn't introduce themselves. They didn't make friends with their fellow students. They simply walked into the room, sat down, listened, and left. In other words, they did nothing more than show up.
At the end of the semester, researchers showed students photographs of the four actors and asked them to rate them. Something remarkable happened. The more frequently an actor had attended the class, the more positively the students felt about her. Students perceived the actor they had seen more often as friendlier and more likable. This (now) well-documented phenomenon is called the mere-exposure effect: repeated exposure can create affinity.
Contrary to the age-old saying, familiarity doesn't breed contempt; familiarity breeds connection.
The women weren't trying to be impressive. Unlike teachers who are trying to be memorable, the actors weren't trying to entertain anyone. In fact, they were trying to be unmemorable. They didn't say anything at all; however, they were remembered, fondly, for just showing up. So it begs the question:
How often did you show up for your students?
The study suggests that the consistency of your presence is more important than the quality of the instruction.
As a music educator, you show up. Again. And again. And again. Before school. After school. Tuesday night. Friday night. Saturday morning. Sunday afternoon. August band camp. December concerts. February festivals. April trips. May auditions. And just when everyone else thinks the year is over, we start planning for the next one.
Few people outside of our profession fully understand the depth of the commitment. They see the concert. They don't see the 6:30 a.m. sectional. They see the marching band at halftime. They don't see the director unlocking the band room before sunrise. They see the orchestra dressed beautifully on stage. They don't see the teacher who spent lunch helping one student learn four measures that everyone else mastered last week. The performance is the visible part of music education. Showing up is the invisible part.
But our students notice. Maybe not consciously. Maybe not today. Maybe they won't walk into rehearsal tomorrow and say, "Mr. Lang, I really appreciate your consistent presence in my life." Still, even in Costco this past weekend, I ran into a former student from 2003 - now married with three kids- and she had taught her 7-, 5-, and 3-year-old kids the band credos. I was amazed that she remembered the credos, but blown away that she taught them to her kids.
As a music educator, every interaction is another small investment into a relationship. Every trip. Every concert. Every bad rehearsal. Every great rehearsal. Every "Good morning." Every "Let's give that another rep." Every "We can do better."
You keep showing up.
That's particularly important for those of us who suffer from imposter syndrome (we meet Thursday evenings at Starbucks). We attend conferences and watch brilliant clinicians. We hear phenomenal ensembles. We scroll through social media and see someone else's incredible concert, enormous marching band, gorgeous facility, or latest award. It's easy to convince ourselves that everybody else has figured this out. They haven't.
You don't have to be the greatest conductor in your state. You don't have to have the biggest program. You don't have to win every festival or know the perfect thing to say every time a student walks into your office. You have to be there today. And then you have to be there the day after that.
Think about how extraordinary that is in the life of a young person.
Students change teachers every year. Coaches change. Classes change. Friends change. Interests change. Families sometimes change. But a music teacher remains in a student's life for years. That's hundreds—sometimes thousands—of moments of exposure, encouragement, correction, laughter, frustration, music, and life. You were there.
You don't just show up for students either. You show up for parents and families. You help foster family relationships, provide opportunities for shared experiences, and give fodder for post-performance car ride conversations. You attend birthdays, weddings, and even funerals.
There's an important distinction here. The Moreland and Beach study doesn't prove that simply being physically present automatically makes someone a great teacher. High-quality instruction and the pursuit of excellence are required and still add important value. It just means you don't have to have a world-class ensemble to make a world-class impact.
Perhaps that's the real lesson. Excellence is important, but consistency is transformational.
Someday, every one of us will put the baton down. Someone else will unlock the band room. Someone else will stand on the podium. The trophies will eventually gather dust, the marching shows will be forgotten, and even the performances we thought were unforgettable will become stories that fewer and fewer people remember. But scattered throughout the world will be former students who remember something. You! And you being there. Day after day. Night after night. Weekend after weekend, year after year. You didn't have to be the world's best teacher. You didn't have to be perfect.
You just had to care enough to keep coming back. And that's way more than mere exposure.
Have a great week,
Scott