I still remember my first day of high school.
I remember it very vividly: every teacher, every class, and every emotion that
ran wildly through my head, whipping my fear and excitement together into a
whirlwind of anxiety. To put it simply, I was a nervous wreck.
During my second period class, though, I felt a considerable amount of
relief. For some inexplicable reason, walking into room S108 at 8:36 that morning calmed my neurotic nerves and eased them into a state of peaceful tranquility.
Looking around at the familiar disarray of unbelievably uncomfortable black
chairs, the sheet music scattered around on top of the piano on wheels, and the
ever-present stash of damaged cellos badly hidden behind some broken music stands, I
smiled for the first time that day. As I stood huddled in the corner with
the rest of the freshmen, the seniors helped themselves to the sheet
music. All six of them somehow managed to squash themselves onto the
piano bench. Just as they began to fill the room and surrounding hallways
with the chaos of harrowing harmonies mingling with the masked melody, our
teacher, mentor, and conductor, Mr. Clare, made his first appearance in the
classroom. Instead of calling for immediate silence, he stood in the
doorway for a moment, clearly amused at the seniors pounding away on the piano
keys. Then he walked in. Three years and two months later, when I
walked into my English classroom at 7:45 in the morning still laughing at the
school's glaring inability to sound the first bell on time, I sat down and, out
of habit, glanced at the quote on the board. As I read, I sighed and let
Ms. Serensky’s neat blue lettering take me back to my days in strings: “A man who wants to lead the orchestra must
turn
his back on the crowd.” I thought immediately of Mr. Clare, one of
the most passionate, talented, and under-appreciated teachers in the district. What
kind of sacrifices had he made for us? How had he “turned his back on the crowd”
while exercising his leadership? In order to successfully conduct an orchestra,
one must ignore the demands of the crowd in order to focus on the task at
hand. The melodies and harmonies that
each section of the orchestra creates combine to form a masterpiece, a
beautiful, unique work of art—one that could never exist without the precise
hand gestures and meaningful eye contact with the conductor. The conductor’s confidence instills a sense
of power in his orchestra, as they too ignore not only the crowd but also all
other distractions and let the music enter their minds and swirl around. They block out everything but the rhythm
flowing through their heads and the conductor’s steady, reassuring presence, the
barrier between the soothing comfort of the orchestra and the haunting ambiguity
of the audience. The conductor, back to the crowd, works his magic throughout
the entire piece—he draws out a hidden melody from thousands upon thousands of
interlocking dissonances and resolutions and at the same time emphasizes the subtle
yet intricate harmonies weaving themselves throughout the powerful melody and
waves his baton around wildly then abruptly pauses and turns to the violas and then
emphatically puts his whole body into the music and then the music sweeps him
away along with his orchestra and then the audience cheers and wildly applauds
as the music encircles the room and then double bar lines and then silence. The
conductor stops, baton in the air. The
orchestra follows suit, bows suspended the air, hovering over the
still-vibrating strings as the last traces of the heavenly melody fade. The
harmony takes longer to die away, as if still under the control of the
baton. The conductor relaxes, smiles at
his talented group of students who just discovered their ability to make magic with music, and turns to
face the crowd. Applause engulfs him as
he raises his hands once more, turning to recognize the orchestra. He no longer has his back to the crowd--he faces it, confidently, as the audiences realizes that he does more than extract the melody from his crowd of musicians. He is the melody.
