![]() In my mind, there were two types of people: people who created music and people who consumed music. My life had an accompanying soundtrack - Glenn Miller, go-go - that played in my head constantly adding new songs, sounds, and rhythms as I was introduced to them. I couldn’t imagine how someone could even exist without music. My first memories involved music, including standing on a bed and conducting the “Hallelujah” chorus on Easter. She couldn’t possibly mean that they listened to no music. Some other Muslim students’ families seemed to support their child’s participation in music class. Their family believed music and dance were to be used only during worship. They were practicing Muslims from Somalia. Silence once again filled the room but this time it was Neema’s mother who filled it, explaining the beliefs of her family. Did she also speak other languages? What language did she speak at home? Though I said nothing, my confusion must have shown on my face. What was her family’s culture? What were their religious beliefs? I had heard her speak English. I realized that I knew very little about Neema. There were thousands of thoughts in my head, yet I could think of nothing to say. I used movement activities, not dances, and no one was ever forced to move if they were uncomfortable doing so. Images on my walls were representative of the musicians around the world. I carefully chose the music that students listened to and performed. What behavior? What had I done? I had always tried to be respectful of families and culture. Neema’s mother looked at me and said, “That behavior is not allowed in our culture.” I was still struggling to find the problem. She was singing little songs and dancing when she thought that no one was watching. Isn’t this what all parents want? Slowly she went on to tell me that she had noticed changes in Neema’s behavior at home. Why didn’t Neema’s mother look pleased? Her daughter was happy and doing well. I don’t want my daughter to take this class anymore.” Then she said, “That’s what I wanted to talk to you about. I finished by saying that Neema was a wonderful student who I enjoyed having in class. I realized that she had never looked me directly in the eye when I was speaking. I mentioned her shyness when we sang and danced but added that she always tried. I discussed her helpfulness, and how she always answered questions when I called on her. Uncomfortable with the silence, I began to tell her about Neema’s accomplishments in class. ![]() Although she had requested the meeting, she did not immediately begin the conversation. ![]() Unsure how to greet her, and not wanting to offend, I smiled and gestured for her to take a seat. When Neema’s mother arrived after school to see me, she was wearing a blue head covering. I followed the checklist provided for conferencing with parents: Say something positive about the student, give an anecdote about the student’s behavior in class, discuss one area for improvement, then finish with a hopeful statement about the future. And worry.īefore the meeting, I mapped out all of the things that I would say. What could I have done wrong? Reluctantly I made an appointment to speak with Neema’s mother. Knowing what it felt like to be the “other,” I worked hard to ensure that all of my students saw mirrors and not just windows in the classroom. As an adult, I was often the only African American in predominantly white settings. Growing up, I was the Baptist student at the private Lutheran school. I filled the curriculum with music from diverse genres and cultures to promote inclusivity. ![]() I had been trained in culturally responsive teaching and was working as an equity liaison. My experience with their parents was even less. My previous experience with first-generation students had been limited. Some students’ families have immigrated to the United States. In contrast, this school is racially diverse with about 60 percent of students qualifying for free and reduced lunch. I had previously taught in a largely affluent white community. New to the school, I wondered if the problem was my teaching style. Had I missed something? Bullying, teasing, or something worse? When her mother requested a conference, I immediately became worried. She was a bit shy, but she seemed happy to come to music class. Neema was a happy, well-mannered 4th grader with big bright eyes who seemed ready to learn.
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