Image
"Time out for good behavior." That wish had become my every breath in 2007 after more than a decade as chief executive of the Atlanta Symphony Orchestra. We had worked hard—me and my colleagues of the Orchestra and Chorus, the directors, staff, and volunteers—to build the ASO into the dynamo innovator it had become. But I knew that I needed time out to renew and collect experiences personally enriching to me so that I could return with a refueled energy tank of ideas and stamina.
My deepest thanks go to those colleagues who picked up the agendas and leadership of the Orchestra in order to support me with the gift of a six-month sabbatical. What followed for me during that time can perhaps best be summed up by the prescient gift from a staff member at my departure: the Dr. Seuss book, Oh, the Places You'll Go!
I was up for an adventure. During a weekend of web surfing (and watching a television tribute to Oscar-winning movies that included Out of Africa, Lawrence of Arabia, and Casablanca), I found a volunteer service program willing to take my last-minute application. Cross-Cultural Solutions was opening up a home base in Rabat, Morocco and needed volunteers. Could I go and teach small business practices to young women?
The Other Side of the World
I said yes, and three weeks later I was on the other side of the world, in the real-life Casablanca. Cross-Cultural Solutions' headquarters was not quite up and running when I arrived, so my first volunteer assignment was teaching not business, but simple cooking techniques to young women seeking to join the tourist industry trade. Thank you universe for those college French sufficiency courses!
On the third day, having just mastered the French words for butter, dough, and eggs, the program advisor informed me that I had been reassigned. "You'll be teaching music in a women's prison," I thought I heard him say. There would be no instruments carried in, since the inmates were to learn "transferable skills," and would likely not be able to afford or have access to instruments after their release. It was a "pilot volunteer program," I was told, new to me and to the prison administrators.
The next day, I arrived at the prison—a prison, it turned out, for boys who were serving three-year sentences for petty crimes. Having not grown up with a brother or been a mother, the scene I saw before me—a huge courtyard full of kinetic energy—harkened images of the Jets and the Sharks from West Side Story. Somehow I was supposed to teach them music without the benefit of a common language—they spoke Arabic. This was the plan: I would work with two groups of 20 boys, for one hour a day, for two weeks and one day in a "classroom of learning music."
"Sing, Sing A Song..."
I was ushered to a bare room and the door closed upon my first group of boys. How to get their attention? I motioned for them to sit on the floor in a large circle and signaled them to close their eyes. This did not happen. Then, I quietly sang, stealing from Kathleen Battle, the spiritual "Over My Head I Hear Music in the Air." Giggles galore ensued, an indication of the journey ahead. All I could think of next was to get them to sing back to me so I could sense what I had to work with. Thankful for the conservative "uniform" I had created for myself from old, stretched-out black knit pieces of fabric, I sat on the floor in front of each boy, coaxing him to use his voice to sing back to me. I pounded my chest and gestured from my mouth forward hoping to convey the message, "I have just sung to you." Then I pointed to the boys and used the same gestures to invite their response. Wonderfully, it took the rest of class to coax out each crooner, yodeler, and off-pitch timid voice in the room.
We had "lift off"—the smiles of connection and anticipation for what tomorrow would bring. I offered my hand to each departing boy, asking his name. Ten minutes later, I repeated the same routine with the second class, who giggled a little less.
Exhausted that night from thinking in pantomime and imagining how to fill the next hour with vivacious strangers, this former voice major sat wondering, "What on earth would a music educator do next?"
On day two, I took with me paper and crayons and asked each boy to divide the paper into four sections. I sang four different songs and asked them to draw what they heard in each of the four sections.
First, I sang "Vissi d'arte" from Tosca. Now that got their attention! The boys transcribed their impressions, each in their own way. Some tried to write what looked like words or script, others filled the section with color. Next, I sang "Downtown" by Petula Clark, accentuating the rhythms and giving it my guttural all. I was delighted to see that most of the boys filled up that section with bold dots or strike bars to capture the essence of the syncopation they heard.
I treasured the crayon spirals and continuum of circles the "waltz in one" feeling conveyed to them. It had been an inspiring day, underscoring afresh for me music as a universal language.
I don't recall my third song, but I fondly remember humming Copland's "Saturday Night Waltz" from Rodeo for the closing one, gently dancing in between each boy's place with my long skirt swinging. I love the gentle, lyrical cycle of that melody, and I treasured the crayon spirals and continuum of circles the "waltz in one" feeling conveyed to them. It had been an inspiring day, underscoring afresh for me music as a universal language.
It's Showtime
By the third day, the boys and I had decided we would set a goal of giving a concert for the students in the English class across the hall. We planned a program that included a western song, an Arabic song, and new "compositions" that groups of cellmates would create. Grouping the kids musically gave them the chance to practice during the hours they were locked up together. The boys named their ensembles "Mother Forgive Me" and "Good Over Evil."
On the day of the show (there is no Arabic word for concert or performance), I arrived at the courtyard. No boys. After waiting 30 minutes, I shook the locked gates to get the attention of the old guard assigned to me. Entering the prison I noticed that it had been cleaned top to bottom overnight. In the courtyard where we were to perform, there were rented blue fabric chairs, a sound system with mics, and tall posters of the Moroccan king's foundation work flanking the staging area.
Upstairs in our music classroom, still no boys. More time passed until, unannounced, "my" boys appeared—in a single line, tallest to smallest, with fresh hair cuts, new matching grey t-shirts, new clear jelly shoes, and smiles of joy. The prison had obviously taken this "show" very seriously. We set to work warming up. When we were ready to go, I motioned to the guard that we should start the show. "Not yet" was his reply. I soon lost the focus of the boys to cigarettes and jostling.
An hour later the guard announced, "Now," and motioned us to follow. Pulled back into formation, we entered the courtyard, whereupon it became clear what all of the arrangements for the day were about: Morocco's King Mohammed VI himself had come to see the show and the "volunteer experiment."
A sound system, which we had never used before, created infighting for proximity to mics, and the pressure of an elite audience had an unfortunate impact on our musicmaking. Yet, remarkably, our "Dona Nobis Pacem" came off without a hitch. At the end, the boys lifted me up and paraded me around as they sang their group Arabic song for the "bride." Goodbyes were tender and thank-yous from them were more meaningful to me than they will ever know.
My "time out for good behavior" connected me to the creativity of my own voice and the mentor that is, in fact, me. I came home from sabbatical humbled from experiencing our shared world, stretched beyond my comfort zone, and newly delighted by my own organization's extraordinary commitment to service through music. Our lifestyle of innovation at the Atlanta Symphony is fueled by differing individuals, co-creating and designing musical paths together. My personal toolbox had been restocked with open perspective and gratitude. Insha'Allah.*
*The phrase insha'Allah means "God willing" or "if God wills it" in Arabic.
This article is reprinted from The Voice, Fall 2009.
