A DM appeared in Facebook Messenger just hours after I accepted his friend request. He had written a long apology, and still addressed me as Mrs. J, even though he was 28 or 30 now.
As I scanned my brain for an image of his face, hundreds of others flooded back. I taught high school choir for over 30 years, meeting with 400 kids every day. I conjured an image I believed was accurate — the boys were more memorable, if only because they were fewer and their behavior was typically more outrageous.
Most boys started in Baritone Chorale. Despite its fancy name, it teemed with freshmen and sophomores, ranging in size from 4 feet, 10 inches to 6 feet, 5 inches tall. A few angelic sopranos still clung to their childhood voices. Some navigated a newly found basso. Most wandered, lost and pitchless, in a weedy baritone swamp.
The class met during third period, every day, from 9:28 a.m. to 10:12 a.m. I remember because I checked the clock a million times — as much as I liked those boys, and enjoyed the challenge, they were squirrelly, rarely sang in tune all at once, and smelled liked sweaty Nikes. The average size of my classes was 85 students.
I co-taught with another choir teacher, and we busied ourselves conducting, playing piano accompaniments, taking attendance, and passing out music. Meanwhile, the boys busied themselves inventing gags and performing tomfoolery.
