A Haze of Nostalgia

I am sitting in Classroom 3-1, helping a student with her speech for the upcoming speech contest, when the familiar strains of "For the Beauty of the Earth" come wafting from the band room, across the courtyard, and through the open window of the class. My head jerks up. I could have sworn I had heard this song last week at band practice, too, but had convinced myself otherwise. Now there was no mistaking it. Yes, it was "For the Beauty of the Earth," all right. A moment later, the song ends, and another takes its place. This time, it is "It Is Well With My Soul," the old hymn that I've loved since ninth grade. I try to concentrate on what N is saying. But my attention is wavering. The lyrics keep running through my head. After the song finishes, the students start to play a classical song I don't recognize at first, until I hear "Be Still My Soul," and I realize it is Sibelius's "Finlandia." Tears of nostalgia start to prickle my eyes. I interrupt N.

"Why is the band always playing American hymns?" I ask the English teacher beside me, who seems a little taken aback at my sudden change of subject.

"They're hymns?" she asks. "They just use them to warm-up. It's for practice with long sounds."

"But they have lyrics!" I insist. "I used to sing these songs all the time!"

She smiles politely and motions for N to continue her speech.

After practice is over, I return to the teachers' room. I take out a sheet of paper and write a note to the band director, Ms. N.

"I LOVE the music you play!" I write in neat English handwriting, hoping her English is good enough for understanding. "They are famous songs in America. I want to cry because they are so beautiful. I feel nostalgic. Thank you!" As I raise my head and put the pen down, Mr. K, the art teacher who teaches me Japanese and who just today told me I was sitting incorrectly at an assembly, comes by. "What are you writing?" he asks in slow, imperfect English.

"I love the music!" I exclaim, showing him the paper. "I want to leave a note on Ms. N's desk."

"No," he contradicts me, taking the note. "Come with me." He starts to walk out the door. I follow, pleading, "But she's in the middle of practice! She's busy! I can't interrupt her!"

Either he doesn't or chooses not to understand me, because we keep walking down the hall, across the sector that connects the two sides of the "H" shaped school. When we reach the band room, he knocks on the opened door.

"Suminasen," he excuses us from the doorway. The students stop fiddling with their instruments and look at us. I half-heartedly wave at all of them, wondering what to say. "Come here a minute," Mr. K asks Ms. N. She, confused, leaves her post in front of the band and steps into the hallway. I stand behind Mr. K, bow, and say I'm sorry to interrupt practice.

"Daijoubu, daijoubu," she says, waving her hand at me. It's okay, it's okay. She peers at the note Mr. K is holding in his hand. "What is this?"

"Jaimie-sensei wanted to tell you something," he says in Japanese, and hands the note to her. He reads it in English. When he gets to the "I want to cry" part, her mouth flew open and she looked up at me, worried that the tears were negative.

"Because it's so beautiful!" I reassure her. "I love it!"

Mr. K explains the note to her in Japanese, just in case it didn't make sense in English. A slow smile spreads across Ms. N's face. "Thank you," she tells me in English. I smile, say, "Thank YOU," and turn to go.

"Come in!" she exclaims, and motions to the door. I get up on the stage at the front of the band room, now facing a large grand piano with a cover over it, and a roomful of middle school students holding their instruments. They are all staring at me. The ones who have seen me in class are smiling or giggling.

"You play so well!" I tell them. "I love to listen to you!"

Mr. K repeats my praise in Japanese. The students giggle some more. Some manage to look proud.

Ms. N has fumbled around for a stool, and now sets it on the stage in front of the students. "Sit," she tells me, and I sit. She quickly steps to the front of the room and flips through the practice book. "Number Eight!" she calls to the students.

They find the piece in their own books.

“One, two, three!” she counts, and the music begins.

It’s a junior high school band. On average, the students are 13 or 14 years old. I am not listening to the London Orchestra. How is it, then, that this group of children playing some practice piece in their textbook, makes music that swells around me and causes tears fill my eyes so that the entire room blurs around me? I hope my glasses hide my eyes and surreptitiously sneak one finger, then another, under my eyes before my mascara runs. The song ends.

I smile, clap, and yell, “Bravo!” The students smile nervously.

“Number Fourteen!” Ms. N calls out. There is a rustle of pages being found and smoothed. Another song is played. I control myself better this time.

When it ends, I stand up. “Thank you so much,” I tell everyone. I am not lying. These kids that I see for only 50 minutes a week can do such beautiful things.

As Mr. K and I walk down the stairs back to the second floor, I tell him thank you again. “These songs just make me so happy,” I tell him as we reach the floor. “When I was litt—” I stop talking but keep walking. “When I was—” I start again. My voice breaks. I cover my mouth with my hand. “I played the piano at ch—” Suddenly I’m not capable of speaking. Tears are streaming down my cheeks. “I’m sorry,” I whisper. “I'm okay.”

“I’ll see you tomorrow,” he says, somewhat awkwardly, and disappears down the hall. I sniff a couple of times and open the staff room door. At 5:00, not many people are left. I keep my head ducked down as cross the length of the room to where my desk is. As I gather my belongings, Mr. T, my supervisor and the head of the English department, looks up from his desk across from mine. “Jaimie-sensei—?” he asks without asking, concerned. I manage a smile. “I’m okay,” I say. I grab my bags, “Shitsurei-shimasu” everyone, and walk quickly to my car.

The strains of some unknown song float down from the band room and accompany me through the parking lot to my car.