Kids with smart phones
A friend of mine posted a meme listing the bad things about giving a kid a smart phone. That you steal their boredom, which might prompt them to be creative. To pick up a guitar or a paint brush. Or even a ukulele.
It got me thinking about how we blame so many of our ills on such easy targets. Phones are ubiquitous so it's easy to think that they're a problem.
I wouldn’t have met the person who made the original post had it not been for my phone and computer being internet capable.
If you’re reading this I’m not trying to beat a dead horse or make you feel bad, it just got me to thinking, and then to writing.
A lot of people blame smart phones for damaging our kids. That they will somehow grow up to be less realistic in their goals and expectations. That they’re less willing to work at a job they don’t like for less money than they feel they deserve.
Jodi Foster was raked over the coals because she said young people are a pain in the ass to work with in show business. She went on to say that young people have learned their value. That they know how to say no.
Someone being a pain in your ass might just be an expression of their healthy self esteem and I'm pretty sure that's what Jodi Foster was saying.
Phones are blamed for the coming generation’s bad mental health. Or is it because we’re able to see what their lives are like because they’re allowed unmoderated communication? The kids coming up today are not a silent generation.
I’m not saying there are no down sides to kids having phones, but I think we’re not able to see the good as easily because we need to get our eyes checked. Because we’re old.
We were bored when we were young and it made us the awesome people we turned out to be. We were told to suck it up and quit crying, or we’d be given something to cry about. We weren’t able to tell the world how we felt and it shows.
So if you’re worried about your kid, gather them in your arms and give them a hug. Whisper that you love them. Or just send them a text with a heart and a hug emoji. It’s less awkward that way.
I Quit
I walked into band class one day and there was a stranger at the podium. The only band teacher we had ever had was Mr. Miller.
I put my trombone together and took my seat. I heard people talking about the man at the podium. He just stood there. He was holding his chin and turning the pages. He didn’t look up.
The final bell rang. Chairs scooted around while stragglers took their seats and the man still didn’t look up.
Buzzing voices became a murmur and eventually turned to silence. When it was completely quiet the stranger looked up and introduced himself.
This was weird. Normally, when the final bell rang our instructor, Mr. Miller, would trot to the podium, flip through the scores, tell the class what song to play. Then he’d raise his baton and drop it.
Those who were ready to play would galumph their way through Paint Your Wagon or The New World Anthem. The stragglers would noisily settle into their chairs. When they were settled he’d stop the band and say, “Thanks for joining us.” He did it everyday.
The new man introduced himself as Mr. Jones.
Mr. Jones told us that we would be playing To The Summit. The trombone part was one page. It was the shortest piece we had. He raised his baton, then dropped it and we were off.
I watched his face as we stumbled and blatted our way through the song. He seemed concerned but stayed the course and kept us going until the final note was played.
This was odd. Mr. Miller never allowed us to play all the way through a song. At the first mistake he would wrinkle his nose. The second mistake would have him throwing his head back and gritting his teeth. The third mistake and he would toss his baton over his shoulder out of exasperation. Then he would wave circles in the air, which meant, stop playing. Maybe forever.
We were the reject band so Mr. Jones’ work was cut out for him. 7th hour was thinly populated. The trombone section didn’t even have a 3rd chair. Just me and Dan and he hated me so he spent the entire hour with his head down on his music stand.
Today, because there was a new guy at the podium, Dan paid attention. When the baton came down he actually played.
Mr. Jones stood in front of the clarinet section and had them play through several parts. Then he would single someone out and have them play it solo. When the problem was resolved he would head back to the podium and he would have us start over.
Mr. Jones didn’t call the clarinet section the ‘clarinuts.’ He didn’t call my section the ‘boners’. He didn’t call the saxophone section the ‘sucksophones’. Mr. Miller did that. And if he singled out your section he did it from the podium so everyone focused on you and your mistake.
For the entire hour Mr. Jones had us work on that one piece. It was boring. Mr. Miller’s short attention span had us bouncing around different songs for an hour. You never knew what was going to happen next.
As the class was nearing its end Mr. Jones told us we had time to play it all the way through one more time. He said, “Keep going no matter what! If the bell rings or if the person next to you bursts into flames, keep playing!” His baton swept down and we were off.
I’ve been playing instruments since I was 8 years old. I would pull out my dad’s mandolin and learn to play simple songs on it. I never needed a conductor and I was suspicious of their role in a band. Rock bands didn’t have conductors. I saw them in front of orchestras but what was the point? Couldn’t you just use a metronome to keep the band playing together at the same speed? Isn’t that what a conductor did, just keep time?
As I watched Mr. Jones swing his arms around he would emphasize problematic sections and we could tell, when we played that part successfully, that it made him happy.
Then I got it. I understood the point of having a conductor. He wasn’t there to keep time. He was there to encourage you. To lift you up and cheer you on. To make you believe that you could do it.
By the time we finished playing To The Summit Mr. Jones had tossed away his baton and was lazily flapping his arms as if our music was causing him to soar high above us. He was in heaven and we had put him there.
That day I did something I hadn’t done in a long time, I took my trombone home with me. I wanted to practice.
The next day, when 7th hour rolled around, I was excited thinking we might have Mr. Jones again. When I walked into band class there was no one at the podium. Hm. There was a questioning buzz. I wasn’t the only one wondering if Mr. Jones would be back.
We got settled and as the last bell rang Mr. Miller came trotting out of his office. He had a large bandage on his thumb. I was disappointed. I had really hoped Mr. Jones would be back.
Mr. Miller answered a few questions about his thumb, then he chose the first piece for us to play; not To The Summit, and we were off. He was no different that day than he was the day before Mr. Jones had come to our class. We blatted and blooped and missed our cues. Dan kept his head down like he always did. And Mr. Miller would show us just how mad we made him when we screwed up.
Eventually we got around to playing To The Summit. I was excited. I wanted Mr. Miller to be impressed with how well we could play that piece.
The baton came up, the baton swept down and we were off.
We were only a few measures in when I heard the first mistake. No big deal, I thought, just keep playing no matter what! Then the second mistake and Mr. Miller was gritting his teeth. By then I think we realized that it wasn’t going to happen. The energy in the room was different.
Mr. Miller tossed his baton over his shoulder and waved circles in the air. We didn’t get to finish To The Summit and we never saw Mr. Jones again.
Over the summer I decided to quit band. By then I was a pretty good guitar player and playing in a rock band.
I shoved the trombone in my closet and mom didn’t notice it until my senior year was half over. She asked me why I wasn’t taking it to school.
When I was 10 mom took me to the high school for a concert sponsored by a musical instrument company, hoping to sell trumpets and clarinets to the parents of elementary school kids. I didn’t ask if I could play an instrument and was baffled as to why my mom and dad wanted me to play one. The only music we listened to had guitars and drums in it.
I found out years later that my dad wanted me to play in the band in case there was another war and another draft. One of his brother’s was nearly killed by a 15 year old Vietcong sniper and he wanted me to be in the band and not on the front lines. Apparently, if you could play a brass instrument, you would never see combat.
I didn’t know that the day my mom discovered my trombone in the closet. All I knew was that I was tired of disappointing Mr. Miller, playing music I never cared for in the first place. If I was going to play an instrument I didn’t choose, it should be for someone who enjoyed it when I played it well. It should be for someone who wanted me to succeed. Someone who believed in me.
I was on my way out the door when mom asked about the trombone. I was embarrassed. I knew it had been a big investment for them, but all I could think about was Mr. Jones soaring around, our music lifting him above the clouds.
I wanted to tell mom about Mr. Jones. I wanted her to understand that I didn’t know that I had had a bad band teacher until I had had a good one. All I could say was, “I quit.”
Mom was surprised. I think she was wondering how I had done that without consulting her.
In the end, she shrugged her shoulders and said, “Okay.”
I drove off in my car to go play with my band. With musicians playing instruments and songs they wanted to play and telling each other how great they sounded.