Rhythm Jam

“I WANT THE DRUM! THAT ONE!!” Cody shouts and points at the Remo hand drum, crossing his arms across his chest like his father. (I’ve seen the dad do this at teacher conferences. Talk about intractable.) Cody sticks his lower lip out into a perfect pout. How do kids know how to do this? Is it some sort of instinct? I can tell that the pout is about to become a tantrum so I have to figure out what to do.

Why, oh why, did I think that teaching general music to a bunch of gifted children at a “gifted school” was a good idea? Since taking the job, I have learned that many of them come from, shall we say, financially gifted families which somehow qualifies them to be in the mix with truly intellectually gifted children. The pouting seems more common with these students than the run-of-the-mill high IQ kids.

I pull the box of classroom instruments off to the side and pile the drums in the middle of the round carpet. This is our home base for musical activities, an instant circle. I randomly hand out the percussion, everything from mini-djembes to bongos and various sizes of hand drums. Nothing that requires a mallet today. The energy of a minor riot is in the air. “You get a drum and you get a drum!” I hand them out individually. I am the Oprah of the music class, making sure no one is overlooked. I start a rhythm pattern and get a little jam going. It’s a simple pattern, easy to improvise to for the more creative kids. Everyone settles in, playing their drums and I think maybe I’ll get through this class. Except – there is Maria with her hands behind her back, her djembe by her side. I look at her, my expression a question.

“I don’t like hitting things,” she says. This is new. Last class, she was wailing on the big floor drum, smiling and improvising, like she was a miniature Mickey Hart.

My mind races around. Could someone be hitting her? Did she witness someone hitting another person, a kid? How did it go, in her mind, from playing a drum to hitting it? I keep eye contact with her and make sure that the group is rolling along. It’s a rhythm machine, and the kids seem to almost trance out, which a good strong beat will do. Cody’s eyes are closed and he’s repeating the pattern perfectly, happy with his drum.

“Maria,” I move closer to her. “Drums are built so that your hands make sounds by tapping on them. It’s not hitting, it’s playing them,” I try, kind of stretching the truth. Is there another euphemism I can use? She looks up at me and I know instantly that my hitting theory is correct. This means I will have to pursue it after class, maybe with the help of the school shrink. For the ten minutes we have left, I hand her the shekere and hope that being the only one with this instrument will get her to participate. She holds it for a moment, considering. And then she joins the jam.