In the after-New-Years school semester of 1966 I had the job of teacher's aide to the Music teacher in the Roma (Texas) elementary school. This is a school on the border with Mexico--just 1 or 2 blocks from THE river. They had a large percentage of migrant students which fluctuated in and out through the year. The migrant kids were all levels of learning: some almost as far along as the bright permanent residents; some unable to recognize English words and didn't care--but required by law to attend school, so they came with dead eyes and took up space.

The grade system was as follows: Students were put into the grade level that was usual for their ages. Each grade had a series of sections: Sect. 1 was the brightest, busiest, ahead-of-their-level, kids; Sect. 4 was the dead-eyed bunch who didn't seem to care and might have been asleep behind those dull, black orbs.

As each class entered the music room, the teacher stood by the door nodding to the students, smiling. As they left, same thing, but he'd mutter in my ear and indicate unobtrusively, "That one", or "Watch her".

The students in each class responded to the music, the Section 4s the slowest. Eyes would brighten, backs would straighten, teacher's movements around the room would be watched, participation would increase. They were tested weekly in their academic classes and progress was noted. I personally saw kids who went from, say, 5.4 to 5.1, and the Sect. 4 of each grade was almost empty by the end of the semester. Some of the teachers told me they held their breath every semester, because the Music teacher was way beyond retirement age, and noone seemed to be willing to bury themselves there to do the job, and they recognized how important the music class was to rescuing their poorest students.

As exciting as the job was, I learned that I don't have what it takes to be a teacher. Seeing the job from (sort of) the inside like that gave me much more respect--for teachers and music.    Tw