our music teacher

Desperate to get my class to get into their respective characters while practicing their parts for our musical, I hunkered down next to our music teacher, crumpled down onto the chair, spent. We at last had a few moments alone. "I can't go on. I can't get anything more. I don't know what to do." She stares at me, warmly, a twinkle in her eye revealing that she sees that once again, I've gotten myself into trouble by stretching my limits far beyond what others would think is realistic. Impractical. Jump right in, too much, too fast. A full-production musical, this time of year? "Ok, we can salvage this. Think with me. So, you've got a class filled with gifted kids. You've got a lot of heady stuff going on in here. The kids have their iPods, they have their Macs, they know how to compose a paper in a class session, with original voices, well-researched pieces. They make their techno-productions, they read and read and read. They write well. They can do it all." Bleary-eyed, I just kept listening. "Yeah, they've got it, here." She motions with her hand to her forehead, in the shape of a visor, to the forehead and then upwards. "You know where they don't have it? Here!" She motions by dropping her hands alongside her body from the head down, flicking downwards to the feet. "They aren't present in their bodies. They don't have it here." Again that motion, with a jazz step this time. She's working with me next week. Can't wait.