MERCY

All-State Band, 10^th or 11^th grade. I thought I was a Very Big Deal because I was accepted to this group of high school musicians that will meet for a weekend somewhere in the middle of giant Pennsylvania. At the end of the weekend, we will present a concert, each one of us wearing our own band uniform, just like All-Star sports teams.

There are eight oboes (who thought it was a good idea to have that many? Four is almost excessive.) I am third chair. We are all surreptitiously checking each other out, including the flutes and clarinets that surround us. We are surprised by a man jumping loudly onto the podium and clapping his hands at us. “Silence! NOW!”

The band goes silent. No more riffs and excerpts to show each other how good we are. “I am Dr. Streblahblahblah and you WILL attend to everything I say throughout these rehearsals. Am I understood?” Many of us nod. “AM I UNDERSTOOD?” We collectively whoof out a YES. This appeases him.

“Doctor?” whispers the oboe girl to my left. None of us understood at the time that a doctorate in music was a thing, so we’re confused about this doctor status.

By the first rehearsal break, his unpronounceable name becomes Dr. Strangelove. When we pick up the rehearsal again, he begins by pointing his baton at specific individuals. “You,” stabbing the air at a girl trombonist, “out.” “And you and you, out.” Two clarinets. “You – ” pointing to the only girl trumpet, “GO.” They all tentatively stand up. What is going on?

“I said GO. You are all fired. Get off my stage. You may sit in the audience for the rest of the weekend. But you may not play. You are not good enough.” The rest of us are not breathing.

We tremble through a reading of the Holst Suite in F Major during which he fires the first chair oboe after the second movement and her trembling solo. She bursts into tears, grabs her stuff and sobs offstage. I am now second chair. Dr. Strangelove folds his arms over his chest and glares at us. “Pathetic,” he says, and I don’t know if he means our fallen first oboe or the entire band.

“Have some mercy,” one of the flutes whispers, and I don’t know if it’s a joke or a plea.

The afternoon rehearsal brings six more firings. I didn’t know that kids could be fired from anywhere but McDonald’s. The humiliated musicians, twelve, are ostracized by Dr. Strangelove, and banished to a row near the back of the auditorium where they will have to listen to us play the music they have practiced, just like us, for two months. “By the way,” he half turns to them, “girls should not play brass instruments. Stick with woodwinds.”

That was our pep talk for the evening concert. Our uniforms seem a little less resplendent to me now. And I’m officially scared to death to play, because it means I’m either worthy or not. Good, or not. Dr. Strangelove has made it clear that we are not the best of the best, as he’d been told. We were just regular high school kids that he was putting up with for two days. The flute girl who called for mercy was fired, too. She didn’t show up for the concert and I worried about her.

Dr. Strangelove was not the only heartless, authoritarian bully on the podium I’ve ever encountered, there have been so many. But he was the first I experienced to “other” people, the first to make music a scary, hostile place. He would likely not get away with it today, but I don’t know that for sure. Empathy, compassion, and heartfelt teaching happens in so many ensembles these days and that is encouraging. That is what we need.

But if you are an Episcopal Bishop who calls for mercy because people are afraid and you are met with hostility, death threats, and a demand for an apology from a Dr. Strangelove type, I applaud you; you could be that flute girl from so many years ago. It took me many more years to understand that what I thought was a haven (music) was sometimes not. For me, from that time, it was clear that seeking mercy, for yourself or others, is always warranted in the face of “othering,” bias, hatred, and racism (along with the other “isms”). I want us to be better than this. I want us all to stand up to hatred and bullying. In music, and in life.

With so much appreciation and respect for Bishop Mariann Edgar Budde, who said:

“I will not apologize for asking for mercy for others.”

Mercy (From The Prayer Cycle) · Alanis Morissette

The Collection ℗ 1999 Sony Music Entertainment

Vocals: Alanis Morissette

Producer: Jonathan Elias

Orchestration: Lawrence Schwartz

Vocals: Salif Keita

Vocals: The Enligh Chamber

Audio Recording Engineer: Walt Vincent

Mixer: Walt Vincent

Writer: Alanis Morissette

Writer: Jonathan Elias