Identity Crisis: Goo Goo Goo Joob

Okay, so I just retired this past July. After spending thirty four years of my life being a band director, I must say that the hardest part so far over the past few months has been trying to find my new persona. I would venture to say that most retirees go through this phase. I think it all boils down to this question: Who am I?????

My identity used to be easy: School Band Director. This is all I ever aspired to be; I really can't recall ever wanting to be anything else. Well, ok.... I do recall having this "thing" for my fourth grade teacher, Mr. Blake. I dreamed every night that we would ride off into the sunset on a white horse and we would live our lives happily together on a secluded desert island. Yes, there was that. Years later, my mother told me that Mr. Blake requested a parent conference with her because he was concerned about me. He should have known that this was the simple crush of an immature fourth grader.

After being scorned by Mr. Blake, I set my eyes elsewhere. No longer a child, I discovered that in just one summer's time, I had morphed into this totally mature fifth grade woman, capable of totally mature feelings. No siree, Bob, no crushes here. We were talking LOVE. It was plain to see that I was destined to be Mrs. Paul McCartney.

The way I saw it, I was a picture of sheer beauty: white Buster Brown ankle socks, penny loafers, complete with a shiny penny inserted into each of those little leather slots. My blouse with the Peter Pan collar was securely buttoned all the way up to the top. These were all purchased in the Chubbette section of our local department store. My mother had just given me another Toni Permanent. God, I hated those things. The strong chemical smells would permeate through the entire house. While my hair was being rolled into snug little curly-Qs, I would envision mass explosions each time Ma lit yet another cigarette. She coiled my hair so tight, the U.S. Olympic Diving Team could have used my head as its springboard. But make no mistake, I was a LOOKER.

By day, I would trip down the hallways of my school, clutching my Beatles notebook which contained my Beatles pencil case which contained my official Beatles Fan Club membership card. Surely, Paul had to know all that I did, just for him. Forever and always, and I had the membership card to prove it. Why, it was ALMOST as good as a marriage license. I knew every lyric to every Beatles song on that first album, and I knew that Paul sang his songs to me. My girlfriends and I would sit at the cafeteria tables at lunchtime, and over peanut butter sandwiches, we would discuss the latest Beatle news. All conversation, of course, had to be spoken with a British accent. At night, I would remove my training bra, the huge balls of wadded-up Kleenex falling to the floor. I would bend down, pick up the tissue along with the crumbled picture of Paul that I carried close to my heart (along with other budding anatomical parts) and I would whisper his name. I just KNEW that Paul was going to ask me to marry him, any day now. Sigh. Maybe if I played a musical instrument, he would see that my talent and his were destined to be together. Little did I know that this would lead me to my identity for decades to come.

I also developed a crush on my middle school band director. Wait a minute. Before we go any further, I would like it to be said that...."Crushes are a normal, essential and healthy part of growing up, particularly throughout the adolescent years"- Psychology For The Educator. Okay, so I just made up this quote and the book title. So sue me. But I don't want any of you getting the wrong idea or impression of me. Normal and healthy, that's what I was. Anyway, my band director was wonderful, everything that a kid could want in a band director. He was funny; he could play just about all of the instruments well. He knew his stuff, was young and besides that, he had blond hair and blue eyes. Above all, he was the most caring teacher that I would ever have. Ever. I recall that when I was there in his band room, I was happy. I felt a part of something special, and we all worked so very hard for him. I knew in fifth grade when I picked up the trumpet that I liked it; but it was in middle school that I learned what love was really all about. For me, it was all about the music. One day, I got out my horn and my teacher and I played through From The Shores of the Mighty Pacific. I didn't know that this would be our one and only time playing this piece of music together. All I knew was that he had agreed to be my piano accompanist for the upcoming NYSSMA festival. He told me how wonderful it sounded, and I believed him. That's how good of a teacher he was.

The next day, I heard while sitting in my eighth grade homeroom that at age 32, my wonderful music teacher had died of a massive heart attack during the previous night. I totally broke down and had to leave school. My mother went to the calling hours with me, which was a first for me. I had never been allowed to attend this type of an occasion before this. As I looked at the casket, it was then and there that I vowed that I would be a music teacher.

So here I am, back to the question, "Who am I?". I think I need to spend more time trying new things on for size- going to the community of the gym, attending drawing classes, playing bridge with the girls. After all, that's how I discovered music, quite by accident. The new me is out there somewhere, maybe in the Bahamas. Would you believe last night I wove a muffin basket????? Unbelieveable. Me, a basket weaver. What's happening to me? It's all so confusing. Am I the eggman or the walrus? Goo goo goo joob.

2009: A Clean Slate For Paul.

Well, it's finally here. 2009. According to Obama, a year of change is promised to all. Last night, at the stroke of midnight, Tinkerbell came and anointed me with her magic wand. Forgotten are the mistakes and failures of the past. Gone. History. That clean slate glistens just as white and clean as the foot of snow that fell here yesterday on the prairie.

When I taught school, I used to give an annual fireside chat about fresh starts to my band on the first day of school. This was my time to find those special words that would motivate and inspire my students to musical heights never yet achieved.

Wearing my best teacher smile, I searched the back row until I found him. I said, "Hey, Paul, I found this....Is this YOUR drumstick?" How's THAT for eloquence? I passed back to him remnants of a crooked, splintered drumstick, vicariously held together by a silver band of duct tape.

"Boy, aren't you glad it's September? Look, I have a NEW pair of sticks!!" Paul waved them high in the air. "It's a brand new year," he replied.

And there you have it. The members of the band were laughing hysterically, except for my reserved little flute players in the front row, who managed to do their best Mona Lisa impressions. The band was remembering how during the prior school year, Paul had taken it upon himself to conduct a science experiment: If great centrifugal force is applied, how far, exactly, can a drumstick travel if rammed inside the bell of a trumpet? The answer is "pretty darn far." The bonus question: "Can a drumstick indeed get seriously stuck inside of a trumpet?" Please call on me, teacher, 'cause I know the correct answer to this one.

Yes, this actually happened. And of course, according to Murphy's Law, it happened two minutes before we were to take the stage to perform at the annual Senior Citizens Holiday Assembly. I had lined the kids all up backstage; I had removed the headband of fake reindeer antlers that Sean wore on his head. We were focused and ready. We were all set to razzle dazzle the community with our renditions of holiday favorites.

"Psssst, Paul REALLY needs you to look at something 'n fix it."

And there in the back stood Paul, with a giant smirk on his face.

Have you ever noticed that drummers ALWAYS have smirks on their faces? This is actually a test that all band directors perform when determining the proper instrument for each student to play. Science has proven that it's very difficult to blow air through any kind of mouthpiece or reed if there is a constant smirk frozen onto the lips of the performer. These kids immediately get selected to go to the outer stratosphere of the band. Call them Plutoniums. I call them Drummers. It is back there that they happily smirk their musical careers away by banging, crashing and booming their way into percussion stardom .

Paul stood there, clutching only one available stick in his hands. Do you have any idea how hard it is to drumroll or paradiddle with just one stick??? Just how the hell does one go "Pa Rum Pa Pum Pum" with just one drumstick? Paul pointed to Steve, my solo chair trumpeter, who also happened to be my official horse whinnier on the song "Sleigh Ride". And rammed down the bell of Steve's trumpet, I could see the protruding butt of Paul's drumstick. Steve was sweating bullets and looked like he was going to cry. Poor Steve. Definitely not drummer material.

To make a long story not quite so long, I decided to let Paul live, even though his drumstick wasn't quite as fortunate. Steve's trumpet had to go to the repairshop for a major transfusion.

We all need fresh starts. A time when bygones can indeed be bygones. A time to see things with a freshness and a spirit of hope. If you think about it, every day can offer those same promises. We always have the opportunity to right a wrong, to forgive and forget, to change something in ourselves that we don't like. It can occur on the first of January as well as on the first Tuesday after Labor Day. Happy New Year, Paul, wherever you are.