When I walked into our band room that day in 1964, I had no expectation of anything earth shaking taking place. As far as I knew, it would be just another practice session for our high school concert band. But for me, and I believe for the other band members as well, it turned out to be far more.
I remember that although this was my first year in the band, I had already participated in many band practices. So this one must have happened fairly late in the school year. The first indication we band members had that this practice would be different was when we walked into our band room and saw a White man there.
A White Man in the Band Room of Our Segregated School?
This was the South of the 1960s, and in my town all the public schools were still segregated by law. (The first non-segregated school I ever attended was our state university). Although we did sometimes have White teachers come in to teach specialized courses, like the man who taught my Russian language class, I don’t think I’d ever before seen one in our band room.
Our band director introduced the visitor as an official of the school district. I don’t remember his official title (it was probably something like District Music Director) or his name, so I’m just going to call him Mr. Jones.
Our director informed us that Mr. Jones was going to be our guest rehearsal conductor for the day, and handed over the baton. As I recall, that announcement didn’t arouse any particular reaction among the band members. We still expected it to be just another practice session.
We had been rehearsing the Semiramide Overture by Rossini, and as a rookie third-chair trumpet player, it was one of my favorites. I loved that parts of it were fast and intricate and exciting, and I thought we played it well. So, I was ready to show this stranger what we could do.
Mr. Jones stepped to the front, lifted his baton, and started us off. And quickly stopped us. Somebody, maybe one of the clarinet players, had been just a bit late with their entrance. Let’s start again. Stop. Now it was a trumpet player (not me!) who didn’t quite hit that high note. Do it again. And again. And again.
A Conductor Who Refused to Be Satisfied With Good
What was the matter with this man? We had never seen anybody so nitpicky! He would stop and correct flaws our own band director had never seemed to hear. But Mr. Jones heard them. And he wouldn’t let us get away with them. He made us go over each passage again and again until we got it right.
It was exhausting! But it was also exhilarating. We had thought we were pretty good, and we were. But under Mr. Jones’ exacting tutelage, we were challenged to rise to a new level of excellence. And we did! He wouldn’t allow us to settle for being anything less than the very best we could be, and we loved it.
At the end of that practice session, the band did something we had never done before; we all stood up and spontaneously applauded the man who had nitpicked us into excellence.
He wouldn’t allow us to settle for being anything less than the very best we could be—and we loved it!
It’s Not About Race
I hesitated about sharing this story because I don’t want to give the impression that it took a White man to do what our own Black band director couldn’t do. It has absolutely nothing to do with race — except perhaps in this sense:
As I look back to those turbulent times and the sometimes extreme challenges many of us students were facing, I wonder if our director didn’t empathize with his band members a little too much. Knowing how difficult it was for some of us to obtain instruments and have the time, energy, and focus to play in the band at all, perhaps he was afraid of discouraging us if he made it seem too hard.
We Needed to Be Challenged to Not Settle for Being Good
I want to be clear. Our band director did a good job teaching us. But he could have held us to a higher standard than he did. He was satisfied for us to be good — good enough that we, our parents, and the school had every reason to be proud.
But Mr. Jones gave us something more. He taught us that good isn’t good enough, not when you have it in you to be great.
And that’s a lesson that’s helped to shape my life for more than half a century.