The Music Teacher
Mr. Grandhoff, the newbie choir instructor. He replaced the talented and seemingly unsurpassable Mrs. Chalway. She, a bright middle aged woman who knew the best ways to evoke a sense of ambition in her students. For thirteen years, her A Capella and senior women’s choirs triumphed their way into top place for the Tri-County Conference. A truly remarkable talent, she had. A type of confidence that allowed her to connect with her students in the rawest form. She instilled unprecedented conviction, motivation in her students. With her, young scholars had the potential for immeasurable success. An inept freshman tenor would graduate her class not only as an accomplished singer, able to reach higher and lower notes than prior, but a confident young adult, ready to take on the world and its associated tribulations! She wasn’t like other teachers, like Ms. Midgin, who harped away at students how unaware they were of their life after high school, and wouldn’t it hit them like a ton of bricks! The kind that clearly pursues teaching for the rationale of seeking redemption for their misshapen high school experience. And she wasn’t the kind of teacher, like Mr. Brian, who skates off of being comedic to conceal their cluelessness, laziness, or both. Everyone loves them! but are they truly efficient teachers? Or the kind that grades based on classroom stereotypes; popular kids get A’s, the stoners… not so much. She certainly wasn’t like Mr. Grandhoff, a bonafide amature. No, no. She didn’t teach to usurp her authority over young students, but to turn them into confident and strong adults who were also talented musicians- the marks of a remarkable educator.
But Mrs. Chalway’s days of vocal instruction and shaping students at North High were over. She was offered an instructor position at Easton Private that called for a salary increase and a status boost. She was moving up, which was to be expected for her spectacular ability. But this Grandhoff figure, he was less skilled than Mrs. Chalway was when she first started. He was running through scales the other day, kept switching accidentally between major and minor keys and- worsley- unknowingly. Seemed like he had no experience. For a while, I figured him for a high school grad with no college experience, but he eventually told us that he went to a small community college and then took online classes at North Central College to receive his degree in Music Education. Mrs. Chalway had an extraordinary resume. She graduated from UIC (was apparently accepted to Juliardd, but turned it down due to the cost) with a Bachelor’s degrees in Music Performance and Music Technology. After college, she went on to instruct a chorus at a local church, thus starting her musical career, as she instructed high school and college choirs in Illinois, Nebraska, New York, and Vermont. She was a musical prodigy, and this Mr. Grandhoff couldn’t even succeed on a damn scale. It’s pathetic. At least, that’s what I thought.
And the way he talks to his students, as if he’s calling validation from them. Sure, some of the students went along with it, fed him with compliments to boost his morale, those super nice kids- but most ignored it, thought it childish and annoying. I could tell by the looks on their faces. Julia didn’t smile the way she used to when Mrs. Chalway was teaching, Brian didn’t sing with his eyes widened, Marcus was constantly distracted by his phone and caught up in chatty conversations with his partner. But Mrs. Chalway, she didn’t need to pry for attention or validation. She was admired by all and her ability was validated after hearing the harmonious choir that she instructed. The hum of angelic soprano voices and the deep drums of the basses supported the sweet sound of purposeful and passionate altos and tenors. A complex sound, one that was pure and dark. One that swoons an audience member, not a single flaw in perfect harmony. The kind of sound that evokes tears, anger, passion, strong emotion and conviction. Mrs. Chalway didn’t instruct a choir. No. She conducted an orchestra. All unified, all separate, all glorious.
Mr. Grandhoff, this scrappy fellow, had left us no choice but to fool with him, myself and a few classmates. Peccadillos! Silly antics. Things like sneaking to the bathroom mid period and switching each other’s clothes. My, was it grand when he didn’t realize it! For several minutes, he’d call me John and John me. When he did realize, he’d get all ashamed, sort of cower for a minute, and then his face would glow like a tomato. The piano would stop and he’d shout, boys, how many times do I have to tell you or I’m getting sick of this routine and always grow up! Unfortunately, we had to quit that scheme when he quit acknowledging our switched outfits after our third time doing it. But we’d keep fooling with him. Sometimes, Jason and I would switch vocal parts. He’s a high tenor and I’m a low bass, so the unity of the choir would be thrown off because he can’t reach low notes and I can’t reach high notes. But there were other little things. Like, when we’d talk to him, we’d look him just above the eyes. Man, it would frustrate him, yet part of me believes that he thought we were sincerely unable to make eye contact because he never reprimanded us on that. After a month or two of repetitive antics, I think he just thought we were plain stupid- and we were, yet it was a self-aware stupidity.
Maybe he thought that that’s just the way we naturally were. Born troublemakers, idiots, stupid kids. But that was far from the truth. When Mrs. Chalaway instructed us, we behaved the way humble students treated a gifted teacher, one unsurpassable in talent. We were fond of her, we didn’t have to force it. Everyone knew she was a phenom, even her, and we all acknowledged it. It was a peaceful harmony. This wasn’t the case with Mr. Grandhoff. Even the respectful kids realized that he had it less together with her, that he didn’t know what he was doing. And so, their admiration of him was fake, forced. They put on a show to avoid being rude. But we didn’t like to force anything. We tried the “nice student” act for a bit, but class became terribly insipid. Fooling him gave us a thrill. Choir became fun again. Close to how fun it was with Mrs. Chalway. So no, we weren’t born delinquents, we were adapting to new circumstances. Maybe we were adapting at an alarming rate. Maybe.
As time went on, our antics became more hurtful than playful. With every practical joke made for him, Mr. Grandhoff would lose a little more confidence everyday- and our antics were only fun if he had the mental integrity to handle them. We’d get a kick out of him yelling at us, sending us in the hall, and threatening to send us to the office. But eventually, he lost his motivation to reprimand us and instead of scolding, Mr. Grandhoff would sulk and hang his head low. For a short time, we became bullies. Hell, maybe we were bullies all along, convincing ourselves that we were rightful to attack his mental integrity.
With a month remaining in the semester, we pulled our antics to a sharp halt. We were practicing Amazing Grace, a quite beautiful arrangement, if I must say so. It was a Monday and I recall Mr. Grandhoff being rather disheveled. His clothes were wrinkled, perhaps dirty, his eyes were sunken, his hair was greasy, and his face was darkened by a patchy five oclock shadow- and our choir instructor never had a hair on his face. Suddenly, his playing stopped and so did the room. He buried his head in his hands and gripped at his hair. What began as soft shuttering escalated into a hysterical wailing. The room stood still and everyone exchanged glances. Shocked visages, trembling lips. I turned to see several students around me, shocked and confused, some fighting back tears. But nobody did anything to comfort him, our newbie choir teacher. Everyone was awestruck, unaware of what to do. The wailing continued for minutes that passed like an eternity. Briefly, he looked up at us. He noticed the students with streams down their faces. He noticed me, nodding at him, my silent attempt to comfort him. In that brief sullen gaze, I recognized Mr. Grandhoff. It didn’t matter if he bumbled up and down scales and represented a novice understanding of music. The fact that he was 15 years older than me was inconsequential. It didn’t even matter that he was less skilled than Mrs. Chalway when she started her career. Mr. Grandhoff was human, just like me, just like Mrs. Chalway.
Mr. Grandhoff stuck around for a week after his fit of hysterics, though he barely talked to us or even mentioned us. In his remaining five days, I swear his face, his body, and his hair became thinner; he was not in good shape. None of us knew for sure that he was going to leave, but we were fairly certain. There was a stale, awkward tension in the classroom after his fit. Our teacher grew more and more detached emotionally from his students, and them from him. And in his final days at North High, he seemed more disinterested than ever. On Friday, he called out to the class just as we were leaving. With glossy eyes he said, have a nice weekend, everyone. Thank you. Everyone responded cheerily, you too, Mr. Grandhoff!, and left shortly after. But I stayed around for a minute. I noticed that as soon as the room cleared he began to bite his trembling lip. I wanted to say sorry to him, for being such an ass and all, but for some reason I couldn’t bring myself to it. All I could think to say was, Amazing Grace really is beautiful. I gave him a brief smile, and left the room.
The following Monday, Mr. Grandhoff was replaced with an elderly woman substitute for the rest of the semester and, might I say, it was the most boring, dreadful three weeks I have known. She didn’t know a lick of music and instead handed out silent worksheets for us. In fact, we barely sang at all in the past month. Students conversed in the following weeks, attempting to configure the scene with our old teacher. Throughout the choir, talks of divorce or death. I don’t think we will ever know. I don’t think we need to. In retrospect, I don’t regret all of my antics with Mr. Grandhoff. He was, admittedly, a novice music teacher and I couldn’t stand to pretend that he was phenomenal. He did mess up his scales, he did orchestrate a clumsy chorus, he didn’t instill confidence in his students. Yet, I wish that I had gotten to know him a little better, and that I was playful than harmful- he didn’t deserve that. Looking back, I should have given him more slack. Teachers, after all, are human. If I could reverse time, I think that we could have been friends, Ol’ Mr. Grandhoff and I.