When I was in the 8th grade I went to the state band championship. I was overly hyped about my accomplishment. I had just gone to the state science fair for my ingenious project, “Does second hand smoke effect your heart rate?” I placed second, I believe (I’m an if I’m not first, I lost type of person) and won an award from the American Red Cross. I didn’t get first, but I still felt unstoppable. I was determined to win first place for my clarinet solo too.
I was first chair clarinet playing the trumpet music for our selections. Our trumpet section was small so our band director added me and one other clarinet to the trumpet section.
I practiced my solo every day after school for about two hours, I was striving for perfection. We were to be moving to Anchorage at the end of the school year and I couldn’t wait. In my mind, winning the state solo competition would make my goal a reality. I was determined to go out with a bang by winning the solo category. I wanted to leave my mark on Dillingham in some way, make them remember how great I was. Not that I was the tormented Black girl.
I always had this need to be the “equally as good as Reecy,” Mookie. My older brother walked on water. He woke up daily and chose to be good, whilst I woke up and chose other options……regularly. I chose the clarinet like he did, thinking it would get me some points or something. Just so we are clear, I really wanted to play the drums. My playing the clarinet did nothing positive for my home life. I still found myself in trouble, often. But, I digress.
My parents dropped $500 on my brand new Selmer clarinet. Nobody could tell me a thing. They made sure I was aware of the cost, to ensure that I was very aware that me not playing it was not an option. Especially after how hard I went to get them to purchase my clarinet. I was stuck.
Before I dive right in. Let me provide a little backstory. My band teacher was a fun, jovial woman. She allowed students to call her by her first name. She actually insisted that her students did. When I first got into band class, I was 11 and in the 6th grade. I was the only student that called her Ms. Mason. She didn’t like it and would call me out for it in front of the class, daily. She insisted for months that I call her by her first name and I refused. My father didn’t play those first name games. He’s old school and from Henning, TN. I was not going to allow her to get my butt whooped. Nope and nope.
After growing tired of my refusal to conform, she called my father. She called and told him how I had refused to call her by her first name just as my older brother did before me and how she would greatly appreciate it if he gave me permission to call her Julie. He reluctantly gave in, although he was upset with me that my teacher called him to ask such a thing. What you don’t do in Black households is blindside your parents. He initially thought that I had put her up to it. I had to defend my name and insisted that she was just crazy (in my opinion) and called on her own accord.
I looked forward to band class every day. I was a proud member of the band and grew to love my band teacher. It was the one class that I felt close to normal in. So, when Julie informed me that she had hand picked me to compete in the solo category for state, I was beyond honored. I was determined to make her proud as well as myself and my family.
Julie assigned the song that I was to ‘WOW’ the judges at state with. She chose Dixie as my selection. My white band teacher that was from Texas, assigned the only Black student in her band, Dixie to play at the state competition. I was none the wiser.
I had heard it played throughout Gone With The Wind, but at 13, in Bush Alaska, with white washed history and mostly white educators, I was not educated on the history of the song. Instead of my usual time at the police station “helping”, I went home to practice every day, for about two weeks. I hadn’t told my dad what my solo song was. He had poured himself into work even more after him and my mother separated. We were also still grieving and recovering from Uncle Tony’s murder having occurred a few months prior.
One day, my dad came home early from work and I was in my bedroom practicing. The door swung open and he shouted, “Mookie! Why are you playing Dixie?! Why on earth are you playing THAT song?!” I froze, I was shook. I knew his tone and body language was off. I didn’t understand why. I told him that Julie chose it just for me because it was a more difficult song to play, and I was playing the trumpet part.
He sat me down and gave me a lesson about the Civil War. I immediately felt sick to my stomach. The competition was the next day and I couldn’t change my song selection now.
I wanted to quit. I didn’t want to play it. My dad hugged me and told me it wasn’t my fault and left it up to me if I would compete in the solo competition. I was angry, I went to Julie the next day and shared how I felt. She acted surprised, but she wasn’t. I played the song and I won first place. In hindsight, I wish I hadn’t competed. In hindsight I wish that my father had taken that anger he had upon hearing me playing that song and let Julie know just how out of line she was. Instead, he did what the chief of police was supposed to do and keep the peace.
I stopped playing the clarinet after that. Julie recently posted an ‘apology’ to her former students on Facebook. She posted it along with a photo of herself in a hospital gown in a hospital bed with an oxygen tube in her nose. She halfway apologized to her former students “for any wrong I did,” my sister texted me after seeing the post and asked if I prompted it. I didn’t, it was curious though. She has never apologized directly to me. We only became connected on Facebook about three or four years ago and she deleted me at one point (I know I make her uncomfortable with my posts about racism) but sent me a new friend request earlier this year. Why did I accept? Because, I knew I’d be writing this piece and she needs to read it. I don’t accept her half ass indirect apology from her hospital bed, I am not obligated to. She had an obligation to me as her student, she was trusted and instead she inflicted trauma by being a selfish, proud, white Texan.
Educators have a huge job and not adding trauma to your students should be at the top of your list. Julie isn’t an all around bad person. Just as many people like her aren’t. She is active in her church, directs the church choir, loves animals, fears God and is a proud American. But, guess what? Julie has racist thoughts, tendencies and belief systems. And, Julie was trusted to educate BIPOC children.