Last night was the much-anticipated annual Holiday Program for the private Catholic elementary school I've been working with. Given the prominent location for this particular school and it's relationship with one of the oldest and most historic churches in Chicago, it is quite the event.
My job was to run many of the logistics while the music teacher conducted. Thankfully all of the classroom teachers were in charge of corralling their own individual classes, so I was mainly in charge of the boys' and girls' choirs and one accomplished second grader who played the violin on several pieces with the instrumentalists.
Piece of cake. But if that were the case, it wouldn't merit a blog post...
In the morning rehearsal where the children actually performed for the kindergartners, one First Grader (FG) threw up on the way back up the side aisle. Thankfully, I was not in charge of said FG. When the time came, I collected all of the boys' choir boys and attempted to get them into a line and keep them quiet while the second graders sang their numbers at the front of the church. Much to my dismay, my direction, reasoning, shushing, and evil-eyed stare hardly warranted a side-long look from the 10 boys under my charge. When one of the third grade teachers walked pointedly over--finger raised, eyes narrowed--the boys withered under her glare and strict order to "get it together!" and her accusation, "totally inappropriate!" She winked at me as she walked back, but I felt shamed nonetheless. What happened to my assistant principal days when a mere raised-eyebrow look through a classroom window was enough to silence even the most rambunctious class?
On my cue I walked the boys down the aisle and ushered them onto the steps, then went back to line up the 40 girls in girls' choir. Once they were also successfully on stage for the mixed choir numbers, I headed back to listen to the sound. As I listened, I noticed one of the Boys' Choir Boys (BCB) slowly disappear into the sea of children. Heart racing, I put on my superhero cape and walked quickly (but calmly) to the front of the church to rescue the slumped-over BCB. All of the boys around BCB were looking at me wide-eyed as I knelt to look at him. He had not fainted, but his face was white as a ghost and his eyes were glazed. I got him out of the group and instructed him to sit on a pew with his head between his knees. At that moment the song finished and I had to run back to the choirs to lead the boys off and back to their classes. I came back to BCB and walked him back to the back of the church, had him lay on a pew, and got the principal to call the nurse. While I sat with BCB, the music teacher ran over, saying breathlessly that she needed me with the girls' choir--none of the girls knew where to go!
I got the girls safe and sound to their classes, and the rehearsal ended. Oh God, I thought, if this is a preview for tonight, I'm in trouble. I spent the whole day strategizing for just-in-case emergencies.
When the doors opened 30 minutes before the program, I literally had to leap out of the way of the crazed parents in all of their finery who bolted in to get the best seats in the house and throw coats over adjacent pews for their grandparents, second cousins, neighbors, etc etc. Just before the concert started, the mother of the 7 yr-old violinist came to tell me that contrary to the rehearsals (which she attended. All of them.), she would not be leading her daughter around from place to place. She was relying on me to take care of her. Ok, I said, smiling politely.
The show began without a hitch. BCB and FG stayed home. The first time I guided the violinist down the dark aisle, she was so nervous and fidgety that she had to sit down halfway there. I coaxed her up to the stage, and then later almost lost her as I led the boys' choir down one aisle and the second graders filed off the stage down the opposite. I went racing down the church aisle after her, knocking over the second graders in my way as I went, and I almost crashed into her and her mother coming back down the aisle. Her mother had her lips pursed as the put the girl's hand in mine and said firmly, "She almost got all the way back down the stairs. Guide her, please."
Retort, I did not. Last night I was a yes man.
One little Girls' Choir Girl (GCG) in the front row cried through the entire 2 girls' choir pieces. I sat on the floor in front of the first pew right in front of the choir, and called her to me. She sat down with me, and I made her take deep breaths. I thought she was nervous. I sent her back up to sing, but she kept crying. I called her back down, and this time her mom appeared next to me. It turned out that GCG's sister is also in the choir and when GCG found her family in the audience, they were all looking at her sister and not at her. (Poor thing. She's probably a middle child.) She got up to sing the last verse of "Bleak Midwinter" -- "What I can I give him, give him my heart," but the daggers in her eyes were something fierce!
To close the concert all the children sang together, "Let There Be Peace On Earth," and it rang out sweet and clear. Nobody fainted. Nobody threw up. Nobody missed their songs. All was well, and for a moment there was peace on earth. At least in that little slice of Chicago.
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