The Drive

As the young child of a high school band director, you get toted around a lot of places.  From bus trips to random high schools to “twirling” a flag in the town’s Christmas parade, I had done it all. The summertime adventures of my father and I are, after all, how I learned the layout of a football field.  I knew that it was one hundred yards long and that eight marching steps equals five yards well before I knew the difference between an offense and defense.  Those adventures are also where he introduced me to the wonders of the orange Push-Pops (Flinstones, anyone?).

Though it was thrilling to wear that royal blue sequined vest and hear my name called on the loudspeaker during the parade, nothing surpassed the trips to the music store.  There were ice cold sodas awaiting me in the mini-fridge of the music room, which I would gleefully consume while crawling around the table as my dad listened to, examined, and chose which pieces he would teach that year.

One particular trip to that store stands out in my mind.  I sat in the back seat, belted in tightly as my dad drove through especially sweltering, muggy summer day.  The trip to the music store took us down a few backroads of Memphis and through neighborhoods I would not normally visit.

As we drove, I watched the children playing in the street.  Some adolescent, shirtless boys played pickup basketball, shooting the ball into the net-less rims of the neighborhood courts.  Young girls ran across the street unaccompanied and shoeless.  Elderly men sat in the blistering sun drinking from paper sacks.

“Daddy, why are all those people outside like that?  Don’t they know it’s hot?” I questioned.

Although I can’t remember what my father responded, I have a distinct memory of this event as my first realization that there were people living lives very different than the one I knew.  Anywhere I had ever been, there were nets on the basketball rims, shoes on the feet of young children, and grandpas usually were indoors watching reruns of “Hee Haw” and “Lawrence Welk”.

By that time, I had long ago determined that I wanted to be a teacher.  However, this event solidified my desire to teach underprivileged and underserved children.  I’m not sure why, but anytime anyone asks me why I teach where I do, my mind flashes back to that time sitting in the backseat of my dad’s silver Mazda on that sweltering summer day.

Note: This is part of the Slice of Life Story Challenge hosted by Two Writing Teachers.  Head on over there to find other teachers writing to improve their craft, as well as great ideas about teaching writing.

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Tags: band director, childhood memories, inspiration, motivation, school, teaching