In February 2004, I went on maternity leave, from the district where I taught, with Monkey Boy. While on leave, I saw an opening for a Social Studies teacher in the middle school I had attended, and the district in which I lived. I jumped on the opportunity.
In September of that same year, I started my new position. I missed my people from my old district, but being in that school felt like coming home. Slowly, I started to make some new friends, and as I got to know people, our conversations moved from the superficial to learning more about each other.
On one particular day, there was a meeting in my classroom. After the meeting, people were lingering and during the course of the conversation, I mentioned that I taught piano lessons after school. The heads of two women, Tara and Jean, whipped around and Tara asked, “You play piano?” I answered that I did, and she followed up with, “Do you sing?” When I said yes, my memory tells me that they rubbed their hands together and cackled with glee, but it probably was more like them simply asking the question, “Would you have an interest in being the musical director of the spring musical here?” To which I answered a resounding “Yes!”
That first year, we did The Wizard of Oz and I was absolutely hooked. Always a musician, and always a fan of musical theater, it just felt right. And working with my friends was the icing on the cake. For the next 20 years, I taught hundreds of middle school actors and actresses the words to every song that was sung on that stage, and taught them how to sing those songs. It was exhilarating. It was exhausting. I loved it.
Wizard of Oz. Annie. Peter Pan. Back to the 80’s. High School Musical. Shrek. Guys and Dolls. Willy Wonka. The Little Mermaid. Beauty and the Beast. Every year I got to see children come alive on the stage. Kids who never felt quite comfortable in a classroom became characters and sang and danced their hearts in that auditorium. Kids who didn’t connect with other kids and sat alone in the lunchroom became part of the theater family and were never alone again. Kids who thought they were one dimensional learned that they had so much to offer. And kids who didn’t speak above a whisper grew in confidence and often stole the show. And I got to see the magic.
I will scream it from the rooftops until my dying day. The arts matter.
Monkey Girl was on that stage for three years. Duffy, in Annie. Glinda, in the Wizard of Oz. Belle in Beauty and the Beast. Monkey Boy was a pirate in Peter Pan. Baby Monkey worked his way from backstage crew to Stage Manager. And, for the past two years, Tiny has worked props and backstage crew.
As I write this, tomorrow night will be my last show as musical director at the middle school. After 20 years, it’s time to pass the reins to someone else. I no longer work at the school, having moved to the high school in September 2022. There are so many young, fresh faces at the school, and I’m sure that somewhere in that building, is someone who will be an excellent musical director of that show, and bring a new perspective. And I’m so excited for them; for what lies ahead for their time in that auditorium. For their particular brand of magic.
I’m sad. As much as I know that it’s time to go, I’m sad. As much as I’m excited to see what comes next, I’m sad. I love those kids. I love that theater family. I have made some of my best friends in that room. I have shared laughs and tears and arguments and more outrageous stories than one could imagine with my fellow directors.
I’ll see them all again. I get visits in my high school classroom from former middle school theater kids, now almost grown. I am friends on social media with former middle school theater kids who are definitely grown, with children of their own now. This isn’t the end of my belonging in that theater family. Once a member, always a member.
But as for my time in that particular room, tomorrow night, when the curtain closes for the final time, that’s it. It’s over. I’m done. I am so proud of every kid that has ever graced that stage in any capacity. I am so grateful for the small part that I was allowed to play in their lives. We made magic together. and, in case you didn’t know, magic is always a part of you. No matter where I go, or what I do next, they all come with me, safely tucked away in my heart.
I leave you with my director’s note from the Playbill. And I challenge you to find some of your own magic; be it big or small. Something that makes your heart sing. Because the song may end, but your heart will always remember the tune.
Tonight marks my 20th and last FMS Spring Musical. Over the past 20 years, I have had the privilege of teaching every song that has been sung on our stage, and that is not an experience that I take for granted. Music transforms the human experience. The stories of adults with dementia coming alive when a tune from their childhood is played speaks volumes to the power of music. It is my greatest hope that, at any point in their lives, when our FMS Theater Alumni hear a song that they sang, played, or moved set pieces to, they are filled with the warmth and joy that I have when I remember our time together. We have sung Dorothy home from Oz, let our voices carry us to Neverland, musically transformed ourselves into middle school gamblers, and allowed music to take us to so many other magical places. Every year was my favorite year, including the nine years that each of my four children were involved; either on stage, in the pit, or behind the curtain. The friendships that I have made in this room are among the most meaningful of my life and will last far beyond the final curtain call tonight. The arts matter. Music matters. Children matter. As I turn out the lights on this chapter of my life, I thank you all for sharing your children with me over the years. Belle will ask the question tonight, “Is this home?” For me, this room and this stage was my home, and I am grateful for every moment spent here.
