Bit of a longer one today, but I’ve found that it tends to address several questions that I routinely find myself answering. Thanks for reading!
-B
I never wanted to be a teacher, let alone a principal. I had always appreciated public education, having come from a long line of public educators, but it was never in the cards for me, or so I thought. As is the case with most great stories, my journey to becoming an educator began with a vow never to do such a thing. I had a rough time in elementary school, a mediocre time in middle school, a great time in high school and figured that I’d had about enough of school for one person. I was in a band, the band was doing quite well, and college would have only been a hindrance, so I simply didn’t go.
I spent the ages of 18 to 28 touring as a musician, and everything that came along with it. I had some money, then I was broke, then I had more money than I’d ever had, then I was broke again, and so on. That season was the best of times and the worst of times. Somewhere along the way, I needed extra income so I began working at local high schools as a drumline instructor. This was the perfect gig for me because I didn’t have to be a real teacher, go to meetings, or deal with parents. I wore designer jeans and had tattoos. The real teachers didn’t speak to me, only the band staff knew I existed. I was only 3 or 4 years older than the seniors, so I was caught somewhere between an adult and a student, which was fine with me. I needed the money.
Things went on like this for a few years. During lean seasons of touring, I would pour myself into the marching band world, working at two or three schools at a time, teaching private lessons to some of the kids, and unfortunately, really enjoying myself. I freaking loved the kids, and was beginning to love the hullabaloo that I so dearly love about the job to this day. When I would leave town to play shows, I found myself constantly checking in on my marching band kids to make sure no one missed a beat (puns are fun!) while I was gone.
Then it happened. A few months after my 28th birthday, Dr. Dennis Rogers, professor of percussion at Missouri Western State University took me to coffee. I remember everything. Dennis was my private percussion instructor from age 10 through the end of high school. He was one of my sounding boards, and, knowing my propensity to dabble in depression after extended tours, was quick to check on me as soon as I got off the road during those years.
He smiled as he ate his pastry and listened to me complain about everything that had ever gone wrong since the creation of humanity. I get embarrassed just thinking about myself during those years. I remember, my band had just come back from a run of shows on the east coast. We had an off day in New York City, and a group of friends from all over the country met us for what we dubbed “The Ghoat:” The Greatest Hang Of All Time, and it was. We talk about it to this day, and I haven’t seen most of those wonderful souls since The Ghoat, but I digress.
As Dr. Rogers listened to me weigh the options of moving to NYC and procuring a job at the Colbert Report (which was not on the table, I had just decided that was my next move, having no background in that field) he took a methodical sip of his coffee and said, “You’re really starting to love this teaching thing, aren’t you?” I was pissed.
I retorted that I simply tolerated teaching as a means to continue to play music, and that even if I did like teaching, there was no way in hell I’d be going to college to earn a degree at my age. I couldn’t afford it, nor was I interested. I was moving to New York (which wasn’t an option in reality) or Austin (which was an option, but I didn’t really want to go) and was going to continue to be a professional drummer.
He waited. Then he hit me with the big one. He started talking about impact. Impact on the lives of young people. Life altering impact that can only be accomplished through authentic relationships. He reminded me of teachers I had along the way that had impacted me. He reminded me of students that I had told him about and their success stories and how proud I was of them. He then compared the impact I was having with my current students to the impact I had on people who came to see our band perform.
Think about the impact you have on concertgoers. One night. An hour and a half with these people, 99% of whom you’ll never meet, never hear their stories. You give them a goosebump that they may remember for a couple years at best. There is some impact, yes, but it’s not the same. You’re not “in it” with these people. You are “in it” with your students.
This was November. In January I took my first college class.
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There are a handful of things I remember about stepping on campus for the first time as a 28 year old Non Traditional Student, or “Non Trad” for a cool abbreviation. My first interaction with college students or teachers was a three day, late summer marching band camp. It wasn’t an overnight camp, just three long days in which the drumline at the university learns and rehearses an exorbitant amount of music. I felt awkward enough being 8-10 years older than most of the other students, but I was willing to push through the awkwardness and patiently wait for this season of life to be over.
The things that stick out from my first college experience are as follows: First, I was 10 minutes early to the first meeting, because that’s what adults are supposed to do. When I arrived, there was no one there, not even any of the instructors. The building looked post-apocalyptically abandoned. So much so that I questioned if I was mistaken about the time or date. I double checked all the info and understood that I was in the right place, but absolutely no one else could be found. Sure enough, about one minute before the call time, a few students started to trickle in. Five minutes after the call time, more students, and finally, ten minutes after we were supposed to be there, the staff showed up, coffee in hand, happy as the day is long, no mention of being late or acknowledgement that we should have started eleven minutes prior. I took mental note that college did not run on the same schedule of punctuality and urgency that I was used to.
Another standout from that first day is that I was the only one who had even remotely attempted to look as though I was not a homeless Vietnam Vet. This is, of course, because I had gone to the trouble of wearing jeans and a decent t-shirt. Every other student was in shorts, and most of those shorts were gross. The instructors were in shorts. The students were either wearing a workout tank top, a t- shirt that most people would use only for checking the oil in their vehicle, or no shirt at all. Not a joke. There was a kid who didn’t have a shirt on because he had assumed that the group would be taking the drums outside for rehearsal and he wanted to stay cool.
The University was about a 40 minute drive from my house, and I used that drive to mentally prepare for what fresh hell I would be up against each day. I was usually happy to use this drive to have a little “me” time, as I had two young children at the time and was piecing together income wherever I found it. Life felt busy and broke so those drives were probably the best thing about my university season of life. I would have a long phone conversation with my dad, or one of my best friends, I’d listen to a favorite album from top to bottom, I’d check out one of the few podcasts that existed back then, or just mindlessly sit in silence and watch the billboards roll by.
This first day meeting of drumline students, of which I arrived overdressed in jeans and painfully early, took place on a Sunday. As I drove up to campus that day, anxious, annoyed, second guessing every decision that had taken place that led me to this moment, I found Garrison Keillor’s A Prairie Home Companion on the radio (pre cancel culture). As can happen while one is listening to such a program, once or twice, I teared up on the drive. I’m going to go out on a limb and say that it is highly likely that I was the only member of the meeting that got choked up listening to NPR on the drive to campus. These were not my people and I was certainly not theirs.
Over the course of the next three years, I would make that 40 minute drive five days a week. I’d teach high school band from 7-9 am, jump in my car and drive up to campus until around 3, then spend the evening either waiting tables, or going back to the high school for additional rehearsals. This season of life was profoundly draining, not just physically, but mentally and emotionally. We started that season of life with one baby at home and ended it with three. I regularly took and declined calls with bands or artists that needed drummers because I couldn’t travel or I’d miss classes that I’d wind up failing. My touring life dried up and with it, the majority of my income. We were broke and I was working or going to school 60-70 hours a week. On my good days, I could see the end goal, focus on how great life would be once I finished school, how I was making deposits in the bank and would be able to make a withdrawal soon. On my bad days, I went dark. Really dark. I hated myself for listening to the people that had duped me into quitting music and going to college. I resented the students and professors at the university because they didn’t know the real me. I hated myself for putting my family through the financial hardship. It would go pretty bleak there for a bit, then I’d pull up and get back to zero, waiting for the next depressing plunge that would inevitably take place a few days later.
I was smack dab in the middle of one of these depression flare ups when I found myself making that goddamn 40 minute drive one morning. I hated the traffic, I hated my car, I hated the sound of every song on the radio. I was flipping stations, trying desperately to find something to listen to that would help improve my mood, when I hit the button to the Christian station and heard my own band on the radio.
I’ll tell you now, there is absolutely no feeling like the feeling you get when you are no longer in a band, driving in your broke-ass car 40 minutes to a place you don’t want to go, the very place that took you out of your band, to take classes you don’t want to take, spending money you don’t have, surrounded by people you don’t want to be around, having recently declined multiple opportunities to continue playing music on a professional level, only to suddenly hear your band on the radio and immediately realize that being played on the radio doesn’t mean shit in real life because if it did, you wouldn’t be driving to college as a 28, 29, 30 year old man, you’d be enjoying life in your band that is being played on the radio.
Needless to say, it was not helpful for my mental health to hear my band on the radio that day.
What happened next can be attributed to any number of things. Coincidence, narcissism, God, it’s hard to say which. I listened to most of our song before changing radio stations. I knew how it ended. When I switched the radio channel, the very next song, and I’m not making this up, was “You Can’t Always Get What You Want” by the Rolling Stones. I started laughing hysterically in the car.
Somewhere along the way, I made a friend or two. As I bridged the age gap between faculty and student, I got along pretty well with both parties. I only had one professor that was younger than me, and that was a strange feeling. I sat next to a guy who was older than me in one of my English classes, which always made me feel better. I wonder what his name was? I was introduced to two guys that I would wind up hiring on my own marching band staff a few years later when I found myself running a program.
After a year and a half I decided the quickest way out would be to take an insane amount of classes at a time and graduate as soon as possible. I took 12 credit hours over the summer, 22 credit hours that Fall, and student taught in the Spring. I was done in May of 2015 at the age of 32. I don’t recommend that type of breakneck pace, but I smelled the finish line and had to get the hell out of there. One of my last conversations with Dr. Rogers, who kick started the whole thing three and a half years earlier, centered around continuing school to get my Master’s in Administration. He told me he thought I’d be a great principal. I very quickly stopped him and said, “Ah, ah, ah! I’m not going to let you talk me in to any more of this school business. You got me once, and I’m done!” He smiled and told me it was just his two cents, and suggested I think it over. This was May. I started my Master’s in August, started my Specialist two weeks after finishing my Master’s, and started my Doctorate a week after finishing my Specialist. I defended my dissertation in July of 2020 via zoom, while wearing a blue suit and sitting at my kitchen table. I was in some form of higher education with no break from January of 2012 until July of 2020. On my good days, I am so thankful for Dr. Rogers and his wisdom. On my bad days, I blame him for everything.
I'm so proud of you Brandon!