Glenn McClure

Teaching artists are privileged people. Don’t get me wrong, when I say “privileged,” I do not mean that we are somehow touched by the gods and deserve special treatment, appreciation, or pay (though it would be nice!). We are privileged because we always find ourselves present during moments of beautiful and profound transformation in the lives of students and educators.

After 18 years in this profession, I don’t subscribe to a romantic notion of the difficult work performed by teaching artists. In the midst of negotiating contracts, filling out paperwork, distributing promotional materials, and writing lesson plans and grants, I sometimes lose sight of how my work affects others. In fact, in most cases, I will never see the long-term results of my work with students and teachers. Still, every so often, I am reminded that teaching artists weave art, information, emotion, and curiosity into unique experiences that legitimately change people and institutions.

Glenn McClure (Photo: Marten Czamanske Photography)

We are there when a shy, withdrawn child who struggles with academics and social relationships begins to command the attention and respect of their peers. We are there when tired teachers, worn down by the pressures of their job, rediscover the passion for learning that initially drew them into the teaching profession. We are there when a third-grade girl teaches her principal the dance move she just learned from her teaching artist.

I am not so arrogant as to suggest that teaching artists create these moments by themselves. I prefer to think that we catalyze transformations that were ready to happen.

We are present at these precious moments because we invite students and educators into a world where beauty matters. The realm of the artist often operates under different rules than that of the teacher. When we invite others into our world, we often see the traditional hierarchies of the classroom turned upside down. Marginalized students (who perhaps learn best through movement or sound) may succeed quickly, whereas straight-A students (who normally thrive in logical-linear-verbal instructional environments) learn what it feels like to work hard for something that seems easy to others. When we invite teachers into our world, they often rediscover the joys and challenges of learning something new. When we invite parents and community members into our world, they often find new solutions to the complex challenges of educating their children.

One of my most profound experiences as a teaching artist happened very early in my career while I was the artist-in-residence for a global studies project at a residential facility for at-risk teens in upstate New York. In addition to lots of hands-on world music activities, we listened to examples of a wide variety of music styles from around the globe. The music samples served as windows into the customs, beliefs, and histories of the people they represented. For each example, we asked four questions:
1. Who is playing the music (not just their names, but where and how do they live)?
2. What instruments do we hear (both familiar and unfamiliar instruments as well as varied vocal styles)?
3. Who are the non-performing participants (dancers, churchgoers, soldiers, audience members, etc.)?
4. What purpose does this music serve in its community?

Though these were tough kids, the toughest was a 15-year-old named Robbie. On Robbie’s good days, he was passive-aggressive; on his bad days he left bruises on some of his teachers. He treated me like he treated any other adult in the building: with suspicion, antagonism, and contempt.

On the last day of my residency, I asked the students to bring in a classroom-appropriate example of music they liked, so we could ask the same four questions about their music. I thought this was the least courtesy I could offer, since we had just spent a couple weeks listening to everything from Peruvian Rap to Vietnamese Opera. I planned this with the classroom teachers and aides. They agreed that they too would bring in music samples.

Robbie arrived promptly that day, and when class began he waved his recording in the air, saying, “Hey Mr. Glenn, I’m ready.” He was participating with the class. When I looked at the example he chose, I noticed that it was the only song on this heavy metal album that featured lyrics appropriate to the classroom. He was following directions. He was investing time and effort into our collective work.

Glenn McClure with students (Photo: Marten Czamanske Photography)

I played the song and we asked the four questions. Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed that one of the teacher’s aides seemed to be squirming a little in her chair. In response to the first question, Robbie knew the names and the complete family histories of each member of the band. He responded to the second question with the names of the instruments, amplifiers, and effects settings for each instrument. Robbie had done an extensive study of this band. When I asked who the audience for this music is he said bluntly, “Kids like me.” So I proceeded to the fourth question. I asked, “What purpose does this music serve for kids like you?”

“To make money,” he blurted out.

I acknowledged that moneymaking might be part of the purpose for the musicians who made the recording, but asked, “Since you paid 10 bucks for this, what is in it for you?”

There was a powerful silence in the room as Robbie carefully chose his words. Just as he was about to speak, the teacher’s aide (the one who was visibly uncomfortable with heavy metal music) said, under her breath but just loud enough to be heard, “I don’t see how this trash can serve any purpose.” It stopped Robbie cold, in mid-sentence. He immediately lashed out at the teacher and the two argued back and forth, with me negotiating in the middle. After a couple of tense moments Robbie looked the aide straight in the eyes and said, “This is angry music. I am pretty angry about a lot of things in my life. This music describes my guts better than anything else I know.” It was the first time that Robbie had openly shared this to any adult, a profound moment in this troubled young man’s life. There was a long silence in the room.

I looked at the teacher’s aide next and asked if she brought in her recording. She sheepishly put a Barry Manilow CD in the boombox. After asking her the same questions, she stepped forward and spoke from her heart: “This music is relaxing to me. I have to take care of my ailing parents and my kids. I worry about money sometimes, and I do have a stressful job.” This brought a smile of recognition to Robbie’s face. “I pop this in my car stereo and play it while I drive home and it gives me 20 minutes without thinking about any of these worries.” Another precious moment of silence passed.

Robbie and his teacher’s aide learned a little bit more about each other that day. They both realized that although their musical choices were different, their reasons for listening resonated with a similar truth. I don’t know where Robbie or the teacher’s aide are now, but as a teaching artist, I witnessed a profound moment of mutual understanding. Beauty mattered that day to those people. I was privileged to be there.

Glenn McClure is a composer and arts integration consultant. He designs arts-based partnerships and trains artists and teachers throughout the US. His current programs involve international partnerships between schools, universities, and civic institutions in the US and Europe. He serves as a director or a teaching artist for several Empire State Partnerships collaborations. McClure also teaches choral arranging at the Eastman School of Music and lives with his wife and two children in Geneseo, NY.