To an audience, the conductor's technique and art are the most mysterious of all the orchestra. Whether it be a world-class philharmonic orchestra, or a youth orchestra of yet-blossoming talent, only a small part of the conductor's work is visible on-stage, glimpses seen perhaps now, as a wave of the hand or baton and maybe then, as a wild dance atop the podium. And the conductor must always perform turned away from the audience, appearing to the outside world as if his or her face were hidden behind a mask…
To an audience, the conductor's technique & art are the most mysterious of all the orchestra. Whether it be a world-class philharmonic orchestra, or a youth orchestra of yet-blossoming talent, only a small part of the conductor's work is visible on-stage, glimpses seen perhaps now, as a wave of the hand or baton & maybe then, as a wild dance atop the podium. And the conductor must always perform turned away from the audience, appearing to the outside world as if his or her face were hidden behind a mask…
For a moment, I had to pause and laid my baton on the pencil ledge of the music desk.
An old cliché maintains that Johannes Brahms' melodies in three are beautiful but that those in two are lackluster. I've never thought that a fair assessment of his music, though. The real problem is that Brahms' melodies in duple meter are just too demanding, sometimes even for the most talented musicians, to play well.
"Please, girls," I asked, looking straight at my two young bassoonists. "The opening mood of the the second movement is somber. Slow. D-sharp minor. Can you remember that? Think somber! Please?"
The marked tempo, Adagio non troppo, literally means "not too slow," but in practice, this movement tends to be conducted more largo than adagio. The marking "C" for common time calls for a slow, steady 4-beat frame, but with an orchestra of high school students, subdividing the meter into an 8-beat frame is almost obligatory. Otherwise, some of these overly eager young musicians will be just too hyperactive to play a slow movement like this.
I raised the baton again. The descending melody of the 'celli needed the contrast of its rising counterpoint in the bassoons. I gave the downbeat again and for just a moment was encouraged that we might get through the opening bars this time.
Not!
Teenage girls have this charming way of trying not to giggle by tensing their lips and their surrounding facial muscles. The effort usually creases their dimples and most often makes for an adorably cute effect. I see my teenage daughters do this and even my pre-teen son has copied the behavior, all of whom display the same dimpled smile after my wife. I love to hear them giggle when they don't know I'm listening. It makes me feel once again like that teenage boy who fell in love with this charming, giggling girl whom he would marry a decade later.
But not while playing Brahms!
This technique of controlling lip tension is known as embouchure when used to play the bassoon or any other wind instrument. And bassoonists of my own players' talent usually have tremendously strong and otherwise well-controlled embouchures.
My principle cellist sat there, staring at the two bassoon players. He was miffed. And rightly so.
The adorably cute creasing of dimples most often just precedes the build up of air pressure between a girl's cheeks until the labial tension breaks, sputtering into an uncontrolled fit of giggling. The ensuing chain of cause-and-effect, I had carefully noted this time, had first flowed from the bassoons, then diverged through the other woodwinds, until at last had curled into eddies throughout the orchestra.
This time I was sure it was the second bassoonist who had distracted the first. But I was also certain that they were giggling–well–antiphonally! It's almost like one was teaching the other how to giggle by the Socratic method.
I glared as menacingly at my bassoons as possible.
"You!–and you!" I said, pointing my baton at the first, then the second bassoonist, each in turn. "Let me hear each of you play that opening countermelody. One at a time."
I cued the first bassoon to play. She was a pretty girl with beautiful long hair and warm brown eyes, dressed very feminine, but demurely in a simple white blouse, plaid skirt, white hose and flat, black maryjanes. But on her it was absolutely correct. Her look screamed "sweet schoolgirl" instead of "teen hottie," although she would need to be no younger than the others just to be in this orchestra. Somehow, she seemed familiar to me, but I couldn't quite place her. Maybe from the orchestra last year?
As she played, natural roses filled her cheeks, her embouchure creating an effect in real time that most girls try to paint onto their cheeks each morning, hoping against all hope, that the rosy color might prevail throughout the day. Her passions flowed from her bassoon. But the passions were wrong for the music. Simply put, she was being silly when I needed sobriety, like she was investing in giggles today. And in my mind's ear, somehow I heard the Grandfather's theme for the bassoon from Sergei Prokofiev's Peter and the Wolf.
The second movement, Adagio non troppo, of Brahms' Symphony No. 2 in D Major begins in a very dark place. Tenebrous. It begins in a gloomy D♯-minor descending scale, but then quickly modulates to a majestic B-major, cheerfully warming us up as the music moves along. Yet, it's not giggling happiness, but the joy of consolation born of triumph, like the Resurrection coming forth after the Crucifixion.
I cued the other bassoon next. She had beautiful long, blond hair down to her waist and dressed more to the "hottie" end of the teen spectrum, her clothing showing off her delicately maturing feminine charms, just like any other teenage girls.
Just like my own teenage daughters.
And also, like my pre-teenage son.
So, why was I thinking about that right then?
My second bassoon played the same opening passage as the first.
"Girls–," I began, but a sputter-born giggle from the violas interrupted me. I turned my patented icy stare toward them.
"Sorry, Maestro!" their principal apologized, demurring so cutely that I had to concentrate not to start laughing myself. She then went tight-lipped. Yes, a violist needed to work on her embouchure!
"Girls," again I addressed my bassoon players, "now that's much better and almost what I need. But you're both still fighting the music. If you let the music flow as freely as your giggles, then you'll have it!"
I checked my clipboard with the roster. Since this was our very first rehearsal as an orchestra, I would have the usual task of learning all my musicians' names, on-the-job as it were.
"You're Toni?" I asked, making eye contact with the blonde bassoonist. She looked the more confident of the pair, so I had thought her the principal player.
"No, I'm Tori," she corrected me, then clarified by pointing to the demure, raven-haired girl next to her, "She's Toni." At least they didn't look anything like twins.
Glancing quickly at the roster again, I saw that Winifred, or "Winnie," was my principal violist and Paul the lead 'cellist. Happily for us all, Amy had returned this year, but this time as our concertmistress.
Paul was still miffed at Tori and Toni. The phrase looking daggers came to mind. The best way that I knew to handle that was to get everyone right back into the music.
"You're Paul?" I asked my principal 'cellist by way of introduction.
"Yeah!" he answered.
"Ready?"
"As ever!" Paul replied as tersely as I had heard any boy his age speak, as if he had to request permission in order to phrase a complete sentence.
Raising my baton again, I gave the downbeat and they played it the way I needed to hear it. The tones that Paul played blended nicely with Tori's and Toni's. Especially Toni's playing. It had been a year, but I still recognized his tone and style. Sure, he had come a long way but–
Uh-oh!
His tone and style? Toni? Tony? He had handled his part in Peter and the Wolf wonderfully in the Tri-State Alliance Junior Youth Orchestra. I had been disappointed that Anthony Schmidt's name had not appeared on the roster, since I had expressly requested that he be offered a chair in the orchestra. I kept hoping that "Antonietta" were either a misprint or perhaps a sister or a cousin with like talent.
Now I knew why I had suddenly been so worried about my son, David–or, for the new school year–Davida. I had "read" Tony. If I hadn't been apprised of transgendered issues recently, I could very easily have given away his "natural" gender with unpredictable consequences for everyone.
So, I signaled a cut-off.
"Everyone, it's time for a break," I announced. "Even with all the giggles, the Brahms is coming together more quickly today than I had expected. Take fifteen minutes and we'll start up again. Tori and Toni! Here! Now!"
Toni and Tori weren't giggling or even grinning as they approached the podium. I sat down on the conductor's stool. When they were close enough for a conversation, I held up my arms as if to beckon them into an embrace, but I was gathering them for discretion's sake and they came closer to share whispers with me.
"Listen up!" I whispered firmly to Tony, or Toni, about the risk he had taken. "Do you have any idea of how close you just came to getting 'outed'?"
"What?" Toni asked.
"He 'read' you!" Tori clarified the situation for her friend.
"I didn't recognize you until I had listened to you play," I told the teenage bassonist. "Your tone and style are unique and although it took me a moment, I remember how well you played Peter and the Wolf for me in the Tri-State Alliance Junior Youth Orchestra."
"Victoria–Tori?" I mused reading the roster. "He's in the same school with you now?"
"Yes," she affirmed. "But could you call Toni 'she'?"
"Oh, sure!" I promised. "But y'know, that was the danger. I was focused entirely on the music and I 'made' Toni, while all of you were playing. When I realized I had, I stopped us for a break. If I had addressed you, Toni, right then I might have called you 'he' before thinking it through. And Tori, you seem in on this."
"I started to Tori's school so that I could get away from the bullies at my old one," Toni explained. "And, well, we're dating. Besides, she's sorta like a 'coach' for me."
"A coach?" I asked.
"I show her how to be a better girl," Tori clarified. "I help her not only with dressing up, but also with speech and movement. Learning to be a girl is not all about clothes. It can be hard work."
"But it's a lotta fun!" Toni added. "And once I started, I couldn't stop doing it. I really think I'm more girl than boy."
I felt myself relax for a moment. So that's someone that David, or Davida, might need? A coach? I mused and then understood that maybe his sisters were filling that role for him? But a girlfriend? I hadn't even thought that he might start dating girls, even after becoming one. My own anxiety for my son seemed to relax just then. Maybe doing this might help David come out of his shell?
"Okay, but let me warn you, both, though," I said. "Paul, here, was staring at you enough to concern me. Now that I know who you are, Toni, I think that he may have 'made' you, too. He's from your old school, right?"
"Yes," he–she answered. "He might know me, but I don't think we were even there at the same time."
"In any case, girls, you're drawing too much attention to yourselves giggling all the time," I cautioned them. "Tone it down some. The look in his eyes suggested maybe more than merely annoyance from Paul. Have either of you encountered him before?"
"I don't think we ever met at school," Toni said. "We certainly didn't have any classes together.
"I don't know him, either," Tori confirmed.
I decided that I'd need to get some background on my new principal 'cellist. I certainly hoped that he didn't have any disciplinary record or anything like that to worry about. He played brilliantly and I felt uneasy that his very real gift might be compromised by hidden issues, lurking unseen at the edges of his blossoming life.
"All right, you girls," I said, although now that I knew that "Toni" was a boy–or that "Tony" was a girl?–it felt a little strange. "Go and enjoy the rest of your break!"
Toni and Tori dashed off whither teenage girls go during class breaks.
I closed my office door and sat down at my desk and laughed really hard.
On the wall over my desk was a cherished plaque bearing the smiling and frowning masks for comedy and tragedy of ancient Greek theatre. My wife Sabrina had presented me with it when I passed the Introduction to Theatre course that I had taken with her in college. She was proud of me doing so well in the course. She had majored in Theatre while I did, of course, Music. This was the only course in her major that I was able to take with her while in college.
What I had never anticipated is how important a skill that acting would prove when I began conducting these youth orchestras. Since college, my wife has talked me into attending a few theatre workshops and enrolling in other acting classes. And she has coached me well, too. On the podium, I have cultivated the image of a somewhat irrascible, slightly grumpy, serious conductor with a take-no-prisoners style. Inwardly, I am fun-loving and whimsical to a fault. What really upset me about Toni and Tori giggling was that I felt like giggling, too, and they had made it very difficult for me to keep a straight face. Keeping in full control of your facial expressions is a basic skill for a conductor. Never show anything on your face that you don't want to hear in the music!
So I have learned how to smile and to laugh behind the serious mask. I can also weep and suffer behind the happy one. For me, these are necessary professional skills.
Now, only a week or two ago, transgendered was, for me, merely an abstraction occasionally encountered while reading an educator's journal or a news magazine. Today, the concept applied to at least two kids in my life, one a gifted young musician, the other my own son. I didn't know what to think about all this.
What I did know is that when I hear music like what I'd heard Tony or Toni play, I don't care if the bassoonist wore trousers or a skirt. I'd do whatever it takes to push that young musician as far as he or she can go. So what if he were a boy in a dress? He–or she–was the best musician around. His or her gender identity was really not my concern. In fact, it was none of my business.
But David was my son. I didn't know how I would deal with this. Today, he went to school as a girl for the very first time. I have to admit, though, that he looked very cute in his schoolgirl's uniform. Sabrina told me that he was dressed entirely as a girl, all the way down to his panties and a matching training bra. I was worried about David doing this, but I'd never seen him happier. Maybe he'd be better off as another daughter? I didn't know. But I was afraid I would miss my son.
Johannes Brahms
Symphony No. 2 in D Major
II. Adagio non troppo
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9o19V7lUY70
Violoncello solo opening of Adagio non troppo from Brahms' Symphony No. 2 in D Major
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5LiA7CJ8NzM
To an audience, the conductor's technique & art are the most mysterious of all the orchestra. Whether it be a world-class philharmonic orchestra, or a youth orchestra of yet-blossoming talent, only a small part of the conductor's work is visible on-stage, glimpses seen perhaps now, as a wave of the hand or baton & maybe then, as a wild dance atop the podium. And the conductor must always perform turned away from the audience, appearing to the outside world as if his or her face were hidden behind a mask…
"Dad, how do I look?" my son's voice came from behind me. I turned around from my desk to see my two teen-aged daughters and a third girl between them, holding their hands. They were all wearing the uniform of St. Hildegard von Bingen's Academy for Girls, with the distinctive blazers and plaid skirts.
"Son?" I asked. "What are you doing dressed like that?" All three were giggling wildly at my expression. I didn't know that David could giggle like that.
"Dad, I'm just being myself, I think," my youngest "daughter" answered me. "At least I hope I am and I hope you're not upset about it, but I want to go to school at St. Hildegard's with my sisters this year."
"But that's a girl's school," I objected. "Would they even let you in there?"
"Boys have quietly enrolled at St. Hildegard's from time to time," my eldest daughter, Cecilia, informed me. "It's unusual, of course, but I've been told it's worked out well for the guys who've done it."
In truth, I couldn't imagine David ever enrolling quietly in anything.
"Of course, he'll have to keep to the same dress code as everyone else," her sister, Elizabeth, followed up giggling. "But then, that's the fun of it!"
Next, in a move that still puzzles me, David quickly stuck his tongue out at Elizabeth as he curtseyed to her and Cecilia, then both sisters whirled around, and joining arm-in-arm-in-arm with him, they all skipped off through the wide threshold into the parlor, singing and dancing.
"Mom!" Cecilia sang out. Then she chanted, "Daddy needs to talk to you!"
I was worried. First of all, David looked cute, in every way as cute as his sisters. Definitely, he'd been practicing. How long had they been dressing him up, anyway? That little vaudeville act that they just did had been rehearsed as well. So this was not new–I was only finding out now.
So grinning to myself, I just shook my head and resumed studying the score on my desk when my wife, Sabrina, came into my study.
"Honey? Did you want something?" she asked me.
Sabrina sat down in the chair beside my desk.
"David enrolling in St. Hildegard's?" I mused aloud, raising an eyebrow. "I suddenly discovered a third, younger 'daughter' here. What's going on?"
"I'm not certain," Sabrina admitted. "But they asked me to help them out just a few days ago."
"Help them out how?" I asked. "This was their idea?"
"At first, I thought that they were just playing dress up, kinda like we did a few times," my wife recalled, flirting at me with a smile. "But yesterday, they all came to me and asked if we would let David go to school with them. So first, I decided to call St. Hildegard's, to see if it were even permissible. I didn't want to worry you over it, if it weren't even a possibility. But I called the school this morning and the principal said that they had on rare occasions allowed boys to enroll at St. Hildegard's Academy for Girls when there had been good reasons for doing so."
"And are there good reasons for David to go to a girl's school?" I asked her. "Would he have to dress like a girl, if he did? But unless I miss my guess, he's counting on that, isn't he?"
Sabrina grinned at me. "Yes, he wants to dress like a girl, now. Finding out I might have a third 'daughter' was a little shocking for me, too! But I do like the idea of him joining us for our mother-daughter shopping trips."
"But seriously, why does he want to?" I persisted. "Did he tell you?"
"Yes," my wife answered. "In short, David sounds as if he may be transgendered. He told me how he feels and I think he could be. He says that he feels more like a girl than a boy much of the time. I promise to tell you more if necessary, but I told him that he needs to explain how he feels to you, himself. If he is transgendered, I think it's even more important that he be able to talk to us both about it, and I think especially with you. Are you okay with that?"
"Well, no, I can't say I'm okay with him being transgendered. It's not something that I really know about," I admitted. "But you're right, though. He's gotta be able to talk about it with us. And we all need to discuss it with him as a family."
"How do you feel about it, then, if he is transgendered?" my wife asked me, but I didn't know how to answer her. This was all very sudden. Sabrina had convinced me to dress up as a girl a few times when we were kids, and it had been fun for us both, but somehow David's situation might be different from merely playing dress up with his sisters.
Very different.
I had never even considered going to school in drag, although, if Sabrina had asked me to do it, I was so lovestruck that I very likely would have. But to me, David seemed to be doing more than just cross-dressing. There was this look in his eyes. I hadn't seen it until now, looking as if sadness were about to be overcome by some yet suppressed hope.
And I seemed likely to have missed other things about him, too. Moreover, even Sabrina seemed to have been taken by surprise as well. Normally she sees and hears all our children's subtler, hidden signals that I miss routinely. Only Elizabeth and Cecilia really understood, apparently, what their brother was thinking.
"Sweetheart, I really don't know how I feel, nor even what to think about it," I said. "I'm certainly not comfortable with it. This isn't simply like you dressing me up for fun when we were kids, is it?"
Sabrina smiled at me, blushing a little herself. "No, honey," she concurred with me, "it's much more serious than that. But I think that if David wants to explore being a girl, I can't think of a better or safer place for him than St. Hildegard's. We were thinking about a private school for him anyway."
"Yes, we were," I acknowledged. "And as silly as it seems, it might be a good solution to solving our longer term academic arrangements. But what if it doesn't work out for him there?"
"I don't know. I haven't really had enough time to think all this through just yet," my wife admitted. "Remember, this is new to me, too. But I'd say give it a try. You know how much Cecilia's and Elizabeth's grades have improved and they thoroughly like going to school and enjoy learning now."
"Hmm? Bree, let's take one more look at that information St. George's Academy sent us," I suggested. "I'd like to compare it with what we know about St. Hildegard's."
"You're seriously considering it, aren't you?" Sabrina asked incredulously. "I really thought you'd consider it too crazy."
"Well, I do consider it crazy," I agreed. "But David did ask me, along with Cecilia and Elizabeth. When we estimated the cost of sending him to a private school, we assumed St. Hildegard's tuition rates, so we know that we can afford it. And since the principal told you that they have allowed it, the idea may be practicable even if it is silly."
"You think it's silly?"
"Yes–but girl-silly, not boy-silly. Your distinction."
My wife smiled back at me. We hadn't mentioned that dichotomy in years. When we were in our pre-teens, she had told me that silly meant different things to girls and boys. She had wanted to polish my toenails. We agreed that it was silly, but not the same silly. During our debate, she made that point that among girls, silly is a good thing, implying whimsy, fun, giggling and many opportunities for enjoyment and even relaxation, whereas among boys, silly connotes stupid, in the sense of inappropriate or even irresponsible, behavior, hence a bad thing.
No, I did not let Sabrina paint my toenails.
"How much do you know about transgendered kids?" asked my wife.
"Not too much," I conceded. "It was one of the newer topics in our more recent diversity refresher course." I mused over it for a moment. "Y'know, I still need to get credit in continuing education for the coming school year. There's a weekend course entitled Understanding Transgendered Students that I could enroll in to meet the current training requirement."
"Could I take it with you?"
"I don't know why you couldn't," I answered her. "I get paid to take it and the Tri-State Youth Orchestra will cover my tuition and fees for it, although not yours. But still, certainly it would be important enough for us to budget for it. Now that I think about it, though, some of the course material might not be so interesting or useful for you to the extent it involves teaching specifically."
"Oh, I didn't think about that," she admitted, somewhat disappointed.
"But I do like the idea of us taking a course together. So, we need to look for courses that would more suitable for you, too. Civic groups often offer courses in diversity issues at the public library. We can check on the schedule there. And the university frequently offers courses and workshops for continuing education credit in all kinds of things. We should check their catalogue for offerings. Most employers offer diversity training of some kind. How 'bout at your own job?"
"I'll check on it tomorrow," she promised. Sabrina took her agenda out of her purse and opened it to a page and made a note of it.
"I'm just hoping we can figure out the right thing to do," I said.
"Honey, I'm confident we will. First, we don't need to decide it all tonight. There's still time to think about it. St. Hildegard's is holding a seat for David until I can call them back Monday. We'll have done our research and thought it through by Sunday. We can have a family conference and decide then."
"It's a plan, then."
That had happened barely a month ago, before the school year began. I pondered the situations that I faced at home and here, leaning back in an ergonomic chair, tapping my baton on the desk.
David had been quite happy living as a girl since enrolling in St. Hildegard's. He and the girls were getting along better than they ever had now that they studied together. Certainly the friction that had pitted brother against sisters was gone. How much of sibling rivalry is really battles over gender, anyway? I thought back to how I had gotten along with my own sisters. Sabrina had dressed me up a few times, but now I wondered if we should have let my sisters in on the fun as well?
Next I thought about Tony Schmidt. How was his–her?–situation different from David's? How were they alike? These were no longer mere abstractions or hypothetical musings anymore. One was my son–or daughter?–and the other a student with a promising musical gift.
I heard the students beginning to gather in the orchestra room for rehearsal. Then, there was a knock on my door.
"Come in!" I answered. The door opened. It was Paul, my principal 'cellist, wearing his instrument in a heavy, brown canvas bag, like a backpack.
"Maestro Thomasson, I got a message that you wanted to see me before rehearsal tonight?"
"Yes, I do. Please, take a seat." The boy slipped his 'cello bag off his back and put it down next to the chair and sat down.
"Paul, you're a wonderful 'cellist and I'm glad to have you as our principal this year," I acknowledged, hoping to soften the blow to come. Worried about his attitude toward our bassoonists, I had sent Paul a note via his school office that I needed to discuss an important matter with him. Sometimes a conductor needs to referee personal differences between musicians and Toni and Tori had complained after Paul's nasty looks persisted into the next rehearsal.
"Thanks, Maestro."
"But you may not be aware that your behavior at rehearsals since the school year began has disturbed other students and it's disturbed me," I informed him. "I noticed it the first week and then two other students complained after rehearsal Monday."
"But what did I do?"
"The students in question gave me permission to use their names," I prefaced my question. "So Paul, you've been staring at Toni like you wanna kill her. Sometimes at her friend Tori, too, but mostly at Toni. Why?"
"I–I'm sorry, I didn't know–I won't do it again."
"Paul, I'm not sure that will be enough," I told him. Moreover, I needed to find out what was wrong. "And you didn't answer my question. Why? Besides, I don't believe you don't know."
"I'm mad at Tony."
"Why? What do you have against her? What did she do?"
"Because I knew–knew about him when I was in middle school. That's right! I knew about him!" Paul sighed with exasperation. "Now, he's dressing and living like a girl, giggles and squeals in classes, and get's away with it. It's not fair!"
I noticed that tears were welling up in Paul's eyes.
"Well, I know about that. I've talked with Toni–with her. Please refer to her in the feminine, by the way. You wouldn't want her referring to you as a girl, would you?"
Tears were falling down his cheeks, now.
"Why not? Everyone calls me that, anyway. Or they call me gay or queer."
"I'm sorry about that," I tried to console him. "Has anyone in orchestra called you anything unwelcome?"
"No."
"Then, it's not everyone," I said. "And a moment ago you mentioned that something is not fair. What's not fair?"
"Tony went to see a doctor and then another doctor and then they gave him a letter saying that he can go to school dressed like a girl when he wants to and he gets to take pills that make him look even more like a girl."
"And why's that not fair?"
"Because Tony gets to do it, but I don't."
I know that I stared wide-eyed at Paul. He was now sobbing and sniffling. I opened a desk drawer and found a new box of facial tissue, popped it open and set it down on the desk across from me.
"Thanks," he squeaked. "I'm sorry."
"Don't be. Never apologize for how you feel. Besides, your tears seem perfectly real to me."
Another transgendered kid? Not at all expected. Paul didn't look to me like he'd have been mistaken for a girl. Not like Tony did two years ago. Not like David had since he was born. But to me, at least, Paul looked like a typical teen-aged boy. Who knew? Did anyone?
"Have you told anyone else?"
"No," the boy whispered. "I'm afraid to tell anyone at all. I don't even know why I told you."
"Maybe it's because you needed to?" I suggested. "It's gotta be tough carrying feelings like that inside you without letting on."
"It is." His eyes now looked at me, begging for me to offer him some kind of answer.
Not being a psychologist, I wasn't sure what to say next. Still, as an educator, students often sought advice on various matters from me. But somehow, I didn't think that he meant to tell me this. I had put him under stress by insisting that he explain his behavior and he had blurted his deepest, darkest secret right out as a response. A tenebrous secret.
Tenebrous.
Although I wasn't a psychologist, I was a musician and feelings were still a part of the job.
"Paul, at the beginning of the second movement of the Brahms, is that what you're feeling?"
He nodded. "Yes," the boy answered, still whispering, still desolate.
"Are you up to playing this afternoon?"
"I–I think so."
"All right. It's almost time to start rehearsal and we both need to get ready. But I want you to promise me two things right now."
"What?"
"First, that you'll apologize to Toni and Tori today for staring at them."
"Okay. I can do that. What else?"
"Promise me that you won't leave today until we've had a chance to talk again."
Paul looked down at the desk and grabbed a few more tissues. "I can do that, too."
"Then, let's get going out there!"
We spent about half an hour going through the opening movement of Brahms' Symphony No. 2 in D Major, working through some of the trickier details. In truth, Brahms' symphonies were not all that difficult technically, but the problems of interpretation could be considerably vexing, not only for myself as a conductor, but also for the orchestra. The range of expression required for Brahms spans the whole spectrum of human emotion. That was why I liked Brahms' symphonies. My students could handle most of the technical challenges without too much effort, but they really had to explore putting their own thoughts and feelings into their music, both as individual musicians and as an orchestra.
Fortunately for what was shaping up, Paul, as principal 'cellist, was sitting immediately at my right hand, since we used the standard seating for the modern orchestra, with the first violins to my left, with second violins, violas, and 'cellos, respectively, arranged clockwise.
We played through the beginning of the second movement. This time, Paul imbued more passion into it than I'd ever seen, heard, or felt anyone do before. He poured more of himself into it than maybe was wise. He was sobbing. Cheryl, his deskmate and assistant principal 'cellist was hugging him and I knew that it was time to break for a few minutes.
"Take five, everyone!" I announced. "Paul, Cheryl, we need to talk, now please…"
I left the podium, baton in hand, and the two 'cellists followed me into my office. Cheryl hugged Paul tightly before he fell into the chair across from me again. His deskmate remained standing. I closed the door for privacy.
"Let's make this simple," I said. "Paul, I don't think you can quite cope right now, so I'll be sending you home in a minute. Cheryl, you'll need to take over as principal for today and until Paul's ready. Go now, and tell the other 'cellists. They need to know."
"Yes, Maestro," the girl answered. She smiled at Paul and hugged him before leaving the office.
"Paul, did you have a chance to apologie to Toni and Tori, yet?"
"No, not yet," he admitted. "I had hoped to talk with them at break."
"Well, all things considered, I'll let you off the hook for it today," I told him. "I haven't handled this as well as I should've."
"No, it's not your fault, not at all," the teenager replied. "I need to talk with them today or I'll have to go through all this again when I do. I'm already upset and I really need to tell Tony why I'm jealous of him."
"Isn't that risky, Paul?"
"No more than anything else. I've got to tell them and a few other people, too. But they deserve to know now."
"Are you sure?"
Paul nodded to me as he tore some facial tissue from the box on my desk. I opened the office door and pointed my baton at Toni and Tori, beckoning them to the office with my free hand. Seeing the stern look on my face, they came into the office immediately and shut the door behind us.
"All right, everyone," I announced to command their attention. "What's about to be said in here doesn't leave this room. You all got that?"
They all nodded, first staring somewhat wide-eyed at one another and then at me. I pulled a couple of chairs over next to my desk and gestured for Paul to turn his to face them as Toni and Tori sat down.
"Paul, again, you don't have to do this today, but you've expressed a need to talk about it now. Do you still want to?"
"Yes, Maestro. I need to get through this now," he answered me. Then he turned to address Toni and Tori. "I'm sorry for staring you down. I know it made you both uncomfortable and I'm sorry for doing it."
"Why did you do it?" Toni asked him. "What did we ever do to you?"
Paul started crying again. "I knew all about you, Anthony Schmidt. I knew who you were back in middle school. I heard all the rumors about you and–and–I'm jealous!–I'm jealous because you got what I want to have–what I need. You see, Tony, I'm like you are–I–I think that inside, I'm a girl, too!"
An uneasy silence pervaded the room for a moment. Then Toni and Tori stood up and hugged Paul, still in his chair.
"All's forgiven!" Toni comforted Paul. "Why didn't you tell us sooner?"
"No wonder you looked so lonely all the time!" Tori added.
"You can be our sister now?" continued Toni. "What's your girl's name?"
"I don't have one," answered Paul.
"So, you really are new at this, huh?" Tori asked to confirm.
"Maestro is the only one I've told before you."
"You need to see someone professional about it," Toni advised Paul. "There's so much involved, but you've already taken your first step telling us and Maestro Thomasson. You need to talk to your counselor, the school psychologist, or the school nurse."
"Okay, everyone," I said. "I know this is big news for all of us, but we gotta get back to rehearsal, and I still need to say something else to Paul before he goes home. Toni, Tori, get back to your desks and I'll be starting up again in another minute or so."
"Yes, Maestro," they answered in near unison. I closed the door again and turned again to talk to Paul.
"You've been through a lot this afternoon," I said. "I want you to go home and rest up. Toni's right, though. If you think that you're really a girl, you need to talk with someone who can get the ball rolling for you. Make an appointment with the school nurse, psychologist, or your counselor."
"I'm just afraid of telling any of them about–about how I feel inside."
"Well, you told me. Now you've told Toni and Tori. Think about who you want to tell next."
"I'm still worried about telling anyone else."
"Paul, you really need to tell someone who's in a position to help you do something abou this. Now, if you need me to, I'll go with you to talk about it to anyone in your school that you want," I offered, looking him square in the eye. "Would that help?"
He seemed to drift off into space for a moment. "Promise?" he asked.
"Absolutely promise," I assured him, placing my hand on his shoulder. "You won't have to go alone."
Paul sighed and leaned back in his chair. His eyes were red, his face chapped from crying, and his shirt was dripping with perspiration. But he was also now relaxed. I'd never seen such a look of relief on a student's face before. He'd been carrying this burden inside himself for such a long time. Too long.
"Go pack up your 'cello for today," I told him quietly, with a smile. "Rest up for tomorrow. We'll need you back in full form as soon as you're ready."
Paul stood up and stepped to the door.
"Oh, Paul," I said as he was about to leave. "Remember, my cell phone and email address are on the syllabus for Orchestra. Call, text, or email if you need to talk. You don't need to go through this alone, anymore."
He nodded and smiled to me as he stepped out and closed the door behind him. Leaning back in the ergonomic chair, I tapped my baton on the desk.