The agony and the
ecstasy of the annual school
Christmas concert
or holiday festival or seasonal salute
or whatever
it is
called in our undifferentiated times.
They combine the expectancy
of a first-night
audience at the opera
with the self absorption
of a beauty contest.
The G-force of the ego
thrust in the auditorium is palpable.
That's not just a bunch of kids
up there on the rickety stage.
It's my kid up
there on the rickety stage. Look at him.
I mean, it's amazing.
Three months ago,
he didn't know a recorder
from a nine iron.
Now, look at him ⁠— Moe Kaufman.
There is a comforting inevitability
about the annual Christmas concert.
No, that's the wrong word.
It's more a cozy familiarity.
The gym is tarted up
with tiny Santa Clauses
and paper menorahs, Frosty the Snowmen.
The student artwork lines the hallways.
The
sound system,
in use since Pearson was prime minister,
kicks in and out.
The school is heavily middle class
and is ringed by BMWs, SUVs,
station wagons, family vans
⁠— all the latest in kid transport.
The parents bring out the heavy
photographic artillery
and jostle for position
like the most aggressive paparazzi.
More video cams than Future Shop,
enough digitals to open a camera store.
Moms and dads, the back of the gym,
drink killer coffee and nibble
on mandarins,
anxious for the morning to get underway.
You peruse the program to see
when your little Mozart comes up,
then calculate how fast
you can make it to the parking lot.
Every culture, every religion,
every ethnicity is salted
among the audience
and is reflected in the small
faces on the stage.
The audience is as multicultural
and as multi-hued as the city itself.
The principal welcomes
everyone and describes
how hard the children
have been practicing their pieces.
Everybody stands for the anthem.
The kids belt it out
lustily in two languages.
The parents dribble through it,
mumbling and humming
their patriotic weariness.
Each class gets its turn.
Choirs with children so tiny,
the teacher conductor
has to get down on her knees,
struggle masterfully through Jingle Bells
and shine little candles of Hanukkah.
Vigorous applause as they
march off,
smiling, confident, victorious.
The junior
master of ceremonies introduces
the next act:
‘And now the junior kindergarten
will sing Frosty
the Snowman, accompanied by Mr.
Ellis on the piano.
Thank you.’
Your eyes trail off
from the kindergarten choir to the door.
Where is the Grade 3
recorder ensemble, anyway?
Suddenly he is there,
anxiously scanning the darkened audience
for a parental face.
His hair sticks up in the back
and the shirt is a bit
too casual
for such an important event
and not tucked in.
But he seems ready.
He sees you, waves his recorder
frantically in the air,
and takes his place in the top row,
third from the left.
The program says simply:
‘A medley of songs.’
The conductor gives the upbeat,
and they are off.
And suddenly the notion of what
it must mean
to be an eight year
old comes through with stunning clarity.
Childhood is another country.
They do things differently there.
It is a place of wondrous certainty.
The last home of the unconditional.
Children embrace the shock of the new.
They don't qualify or temporize.
It is a landscape
wherein dwells good and bad,
but mostly good,
where enthusiasm drives
curiosity, which powers endeavour,
which fosters growth.
You can read the trajectory
of their energies in their faces.
They start out tentative, a bit scared,
then engaged, muscular
and finally triumphant.
They suck the worldly cynicism of
the adults out of the hall.
And you move from their
extraordinary faces
to the proud faces of the teachers.
Who are these people, anyway,
who seem as devoted to your child
as you would hope to be?
They work in schools
that have to run bake sales
and spring fairs to buy
basketballs and library books.
And you realize that
if we lived in a country
that had its priorities straight,
there would be no falling-down
schools, and teachers
would be paid $100,000 a year to start.
We grownups in the great big grownup
country calibrate success
by what we can count
⁠— SUVs, houses, Mexican vacations.
In the country of childhood,
they measure success
by getting through
Jolly Old Saint Nicholas on the recorder.
The medley ends.
The applause is thunderous.
The 30 or so recorder virtuosi march
off stage in triumph.
Your son
stares out into the audience, beaming.
He gives the thumbs up and disappears
through the exit.