tap.
”
Hunter’s three students tighten their grips on their drumsticks and repeat on their drum pads what Hunter did on their heads. When they pronounce “flam tap,” they sound awed, as if “flam tap” were a spell from a Harry Potter movie. Actually, it’s a rudiment—one of the basic patterns you start with when you’re learning the drums.
“Awesome! You guys got it!” Hunter says. “Now it’s time for the paradiddle. Your head ready, Molly?”
This is how Hunter teaches music. Today isn’t even the first time he’s hit the kids on the head. Last week, during the first lesson, he taught his students to hold drumsticks and then set them free to run around the room, hitting things. Anything they want—the blackboard, the floor, the music stands, one another…
“Hear how something hollow has a different pitch?” Hunter yelled to them over the racket. “The blackboard has that tinny sound when you hit it, but the wall sounds different. Here, c’mere, hit the wall.”
For his second lesson, Hunter walked his kids to the top level of the bandstand and showed them all the parts of the drum kit. Then he assigned one student to the cymbals, one to the bass drum, and one to the snare drum.
“This is a contest,” he announced. “Which one of you can be
loudest
?”
And then, on Tuesday, he found out that if you hit an eight-year-old on the head on purpose, they think it’s really, really funny.
The fact that we don’t have a faculty adviser in the room while we’re teaching music is good for Hunter. His lesson plans would probably fall apart if you took away that element of danger. But it means that I have to be the responsible one, because I worry that if someone gets a concussion and their parents sue our school, this music program will definitely be canceled.
“Um, Hunter?” I call across the room. “Can you guys maybe get to the drum-pad part of the lesson?”
“Oh, yeah.” Hunter grins and tosses his hair back. He jumps down from the bandstand and jogs to the piano to grab his own drum pad, calling out while his back is turned, “Loosen up that grip, flam tap!”
So this is PMS. No, we don’t have a better name for it yet—and yes, I know we need one. For the past two weeks, Hunter and I have had fun talking about PMS in the hallways and having people give us strange looks, but I don’t plan on listing PMS on my college applications next year. The only person who could legitimately do that is Pam, who spends so much time with actual PMS that it’s an extracurricular activity for her.
Every Tuesday and Thursday, nine third-graders come over from the elementary school on a bus. Hunter and I walk them to the band room and give them lessons in drums or the flute. The room is back the way I like it—there’s music, laughter, and lots of noise; the instruments our kids rented are in the cubbies.
That day in the hallway, when Hunter told me we should start the music program ourselves, he surprised me. I had no idea he was that interested. When he and I asked our friends from band to help teach, all of them had either signed up for another class or liked having a study hall so much they wouldn’t give it up, which made me realize that Hunter had given up his study hall. Before our first lesson, he told me he’d never worked with kids before, or babysat, or anything, but our students loved him right away. He’s super-patient and so easygoing that he can even deal with No-Teeth Kid, whom I personally think could use some Ritalin.
Setting the program up wasn’t exactly the easiest process in the world, though. When we first met to go over the details, I brought a two-page to-do list, and he brought a bag of Cheetos.
“I think we should figure out instrument rentals first,” I said. “So we can put that information in when we mail out the permission slips to the parents.”
“Right, the instruments,” Hunter said. “Well, there’s a drum set in the band room already, so
”
Hunter’s three students tighten their grips on their drumsticks and repeat on their drum pads what Hunter did on their heads. When they pronounce “flam tap,” they sound awed, as if “flam tap” were a spell from a Harry Potter movie. Actually, it’s a rudiment—one of the basic patterns you start with when you’re learning the drums.
“Awesome! You guys got it!” Hunter says. “Now it’s time for the paradiddle. Your head ready, Molly?”
This is how Hunter teaches music. Today isn’t even the first time he’s hit the kids on the head. Last week, during the first lesson, he taught his students to hold drumsticks and then set them free to run around the room, hitting things. Anything they want—the blackboard, the floor, the music stands, one another…
“Hear how something hollow has a different pitch?” Hunter yelled to them over the racket. “The blackboard has that tinny sound when you hit it, but the wall sounds different. Here, c’mere, hit the wall.”
For his second lesson, Hunter walked his kids to the top level of the bandstand and showed them all the parts of the drum kit. Then he assigned one student to the cymbals, one to the bass drum, and one to the snare drum.
“This is a contest,” he announced. “Which one of you can be
loudest
?”
And then, on Tuesday, he found out that if you hit an eight-year-old on the head on purpose, they think it’s really, really funny.
The fact that we don’t have a faculty adviser in the room while we’re teaching music is good for Hunter. His lesson plans would probably fall apart if you took away that element of danger. But it means that I have to be the responsible one, because I worry that if someone gets a concussion and their parents sue our school, this music program will definitely be canceled.
“Um, Hunter?” I call across the room. “Can you guys maybe get to the drum-pad part of the lesson?”
“Oh, yeah.” Hunter grins and tosses his hair back. He jumps down from the bandstand and jogs to the piano to grab his own drum pad, calling out while his back is turned, “Loosen up that grip, flam tap!”
So this is PMS. No, we don’t have a better name for it yet—and yes, I know we need one. For the past two weeks, Hunter and I have had fun talking about PMS in the hallways and having people give us strange looks, but I don’t plan on listing PMS on my college applications next year. The only person who could legitimately do that is Pam, who spends so much time with actual PMS that it’s an extracurricular activity for her.
Every Tuesday and Thursday, nine third-graders come over from the elementary school on a bus. Hunter and I walk them to the band room and give them lessons in drums or the flute. The room is back the way I like it—there’s music, laughter, and lots of noise; the instruments our kids rented are in the cubbies.
That day in the hallway, when Hunter told me we should start the music program ourselves, he surprised me. I had no idea he was that interested. When he and I asked our friends from band to help teach, all of them had either signed up for another class or liked having a study hall so much they wouldn’t give it up, which made me realize that Hunter had given up his study hall. Before our first lesson, he told me he’d never worked with kids before, or babysat, or anything, but our students loved him right away. He’s super-patient and so easygoing that he can even deal with No-Teeth Kid, whom I personally think could use some Ritalin.
Setting the program up wasn’t exactly the easiest process in the world, though. When we first met to go over the details, I brought a two-page to-do list, and he brought a bag of Cheetos.
“I think we should figure out instrument rentals first,” I said. “So we can put that information in when we mail out the permission slips to the parents.”
“Right, the instruments,” Hunter said. “Well, there’s a drum set in the band room already, so
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