Earlier this week, my daughter, Ms. 8, had the opportunity to perform publicly with her elementary school band. (Owing to the small size of the local schools, kids here start band in fifth grade–which is at the elementary school in this part of the world.) It was a short performance, only two pieces, and it had been rescheduled away from being included in the broader spring band showcase; originally, the plan had been that the whole of the district’s band program, grades 5-12, would perform, but administrative dicta ensured that so much would not be the case. Some scheduling shenanigans later, the youngest of them got to show what they can do.

In some ways, it was clear that the kids knew they had been jerked around. Admittedly, fifth-grade students, ten to twelve years old, are not noted for their focus or professionalism in this part of the world. “Let kids be kids” has some sway here, which is not a bad thing in itself. But it was also the case that the students–and I know many of them outside the classroom due to Ms. 8’s friendships and activities, as well as my own community involvements–approached the performance with an attitude of “this doesn’t matter.” It’s hard to blame them for it; administrative workings had told them that their work doesn’t matter, that others will come before they do, that they should be expected to step aside or be put aside in favor of some who have had chance after chance after chance to shine and might, occasionally, show some glimmer of excellence even as they, themselves, are slathered with another layer of patina.

Ms. 8, however, did me proud. I have heard her practice her music, and I have heard her tone improve and her technique develop. I have watched her struggle less and less to heft the horn that has been handed to her, lifting it with greater and greater ease each time. On the concert night, I saw her carry her instrument confidently onto the performance floor, settle herself to play, and play–all from memory when her peers were still bound to the pages of their pieces. And I heard her, the booming bass voice blowing from her bell to buoy up the rest of the band.

I’m an old bandsman, as I think I’ve let slip. I know in my bones what it takes to do well with a horn in hand. (I know, too, that I don’t give what it takes, so I don’t do well. It’s a sorrow, but that’s a digression for another time, a non-scholarly someday.) That Ms. 8 has done–and is still doing–that makes my heart swell. It’s not that I think she’ll turn into a professional tubist; she enjoys playing, yes, and accepts practice as necessary to playing well, but she does not have the kind of overriding passion for it that leads to pursuing it professionally. (There’s been enough of that in the family that the signs are clear to me.) But she doesn’t have to go pro to play well, nor yet to find joy in making music. She does find joy in it, and I admit to feeling no small happiness at seeing her do so.

I look forward to her next go-round.

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