Buzzing Reed- Classical Music & Clarinet Culture

Lip pushups anyone?

During my deeper explorations of clarinet playing, I stumble upon tiny techniques which have huge effects on playing. One of these is the importance of a firmly supported lower lip. (The upper lip has a different function, which I will address in another post.)

Since the lower lip is the only contact with the vibrating reed, its importance is obvious. It is especially critical to control of the reed in technical passages, when the reed must jump around with precision.

Any serious player has thought about this. Yet it is often forgotten when a clarinetist has achieved a certain level of competence. And while students may have been instructed in various embouchure formations, the importance of the lower lip may have been lost in other efforts.

I tell my students that the reed is like a puppy needing to be trained. And the embouchure, particularly the lower lip, is the leash to control it. If it’s too loose, the puppy runs wild. Too tight and you choke it.

Let me clarify what is NOT involved in the use of the lower lip. Jaw pressure is NOT to be increased as the lower lip is tightened. Throat muscles are NEVER tightened.

I’ll start with the assumption that you know how to form a basic clarinet embouchure: chin flat, corners pulled in towards each other, cheeks pulled in against the teeth and gums.

If you say the word “Ewww”, with pursed lips, your lower lip should bunch up. Pull that bunched up lower lip into your mouth and form and embouchure. Say “Ewww” again, more emphatically. Tighten that lower lip in and together as much as you can, and a little more. Keep your chin pulled down.

The critical part of this musculature is the tension between the pulled down chin and the pulled up lip. Think of two arrows pointing up toward the reed as the direction of the lower lip. See the following illustration.

clarinet embouchure with direction of tension of lower lip

While doing the above exercise, check in with jaw and throat to be sure they didn’t come along for the ride. It’s harder than it seems to tighten your lower lip muscles without engaging those others unnecessarily. For that reason, I suggest the following exercise.

Form the embouchure as suggested above, place the clarinet in your mouth in ready position. Close the embouchure around the mouthpiece. Take a breath and DON’T play. Exhale through your nose. Keep the embouchure formed, concentrate on the lower lip pulling in and up. Relax your jaw and throat exaggeratedly.

Do this several times. Each time take note to relax the following in addition to jaw and throat: behind the eyes, forehead, sinuses, neck, shoulders, hips, knees, feet. You may enjoy this exercise and wish to continue for many breaths. Be careful not to hyper-ventilate.

Now play some slow scales, taking care to maintain the above achievements as you play.

Happy Music Making!

[This post includes a wonderful personal story below, worth reading, even if you are not interested in clarinet mouthpiece angles]

Each person’s mouth, teeth, jaw and lips are different. Each musician must find the optimum placement of vibrating part in their mouth to obtain the best sound and flexibility. Position of the instrument in relation to the mouth is critical.

Oboe and bassoon players play double reeds double lip. The reed vibrates on top and bottom (two reeds tied together), and the angle they play the reed tends to be more or less straight out from their mouth, allowing the reed to vibrate equally top and bottom without having to adjust their jaw un-naturally. Flutists can and must adjust their jaw according to pitch requirements, and their lips have critical role in optimizing sound.

But the clarinet mouthpiece is a hybrid between a solid apparatus, such as a flute or trumpet mouthpiece, and a completely vibrating one, such as oboe and bassoon. The clarinet mouthpiece is a set parameter, but the reed must be controlled carefully by the embouchure to create optimum sound and flexibility.

So what angle is best for the clarinet mouthpiece in the player’s mouth? It depends….

The mouthpiece “facing” is one factor. The facing is the extremely subtle opening of the mouthpiece which allows the reed to “flap” against it, creating the sound. The shape of that opening is variable from mouthpiece to mouthpiece. Some are very open, some are close, some are long (open far down the mouthpiece) and some are short. And all combinations between. So the player’s interaction with this opening via their embouchure, is critical. (I don’t use the word “critical” lightly!)

Now we address the player’s mouth. Several very famous and extremely influential American clarinetists, namely Daniel Bonade and Robert Marcellus, had severe over-bites, meaning their front teeth stuck way out over their bottom teeth. In the day before orthodontic braces could correct these issues, the player had to find a way around the limitations or peculiarities of their mouth. Those two famous players found that holding the clarinet at and angle very close to their chest allowed them to accommodate the reed’s optimum needs.

Other players with different mouths need a different angle, and should not imitate how another player looks. Yet their influence was so great that a young player would naturally try to “look” like that great player in order to sound like him.

The bottom line is the reed’s vibration. You can feel it and hear it if you pay attention. I tell my students, “feel the reed vibrating all the way down the reed, beyond your mouth” to encourage freedom of air and sound. In short, open your mouth slightly, and naturally, form an embouchure (without tightening or moving your jaw), stick the clarinet mouthpiece in, and play. Now, without changing your jaw, move the clarinet angle up and down, and listen/feel. Find the “sweet spot” where the reed is free, but you have control.

Since I began to experiment with double tonguing and circular breathing, I have had to seek a more “optimum” angle to allow maximum reed flexibility. This ended up being somewhat more “out” from my body than before. After you read the story below, you’ll see how important the angle can be.

I recently had a fascinating discussion with Arne Running, a freelance clarinetist and composer living in Philadelphia, about these issues. (You can read about him at his website http://www.arnerunning.com/) I would like to quote his story below to elucidate the importance of finding the best “functional” angle between your mouth and the mouthpiece you are playing.

First a bit of introduction. About a year ago, Arne wrote me an email after hearing a broadcast of the Columbus Symphony playing live from Carnegie Hall in New York. He was generous in his comments, and we have stayed somewhat in touch. He reads my blog, and heard some of the recordings I posted recently. He wrote again to me asking, “When I hear this, and also your Debussy Rhapsody which I listened to last week, I wonder why you are doing so much experimenting with mouthpieces and reeds these days; whatever you were using then sounds pretty ideal to my ears.”

I answered “You help me to re-ask that question. Why do I fiddle with equipment? Changing my setup can undermine my stability when I don’t stick with one long enough to get used to it. I went back to my Lelandais yesterday and it feels pretty darn nice. Thanks for reminding me to get my act together and settle down.”

He answered, “Actually I have been a serial equipment switcher all my life, too. As I may have mentioned the first time I wrote to you, I have always struggled with sound production issues… I think I finally found the key for me. (And equipment was not part of the solution.) Lots of things came together. And I credit a year’s worth of Alexander lessons for being a part of it.”

I asked him to continue and fill in the details of his story. You’ll also see how teachers, even famous ones, often do not solve critical problems of use. I attempt to address such issues with each student, adjusting my recommendations to balance the strengths of different players.

I graduated high school as a player who played music with almost no awareness that there was an instrument in my hands—it was 90% ecstatic immersion in the music, in the feelings expressed by the music. I headed off to the New England Conservatory to study with Rosario Mazzeo, who at my very first lesson proclaimed that he would make me into “one of the top 4 or 5 players in the world” (italics mine). So I felt confidence in his confidence. What caused him to feel that way was my technical and musical fluency. It was only gradually that various sound production faults began to be clear to him, and especially to me.

By the end of my junior year at the Conservatory, I was really unhappy with tonal impediments and went to Philadelphia to study with Anthony Gigliotti for the summer. At last I had found what I was looking for: he spent little time on musical issues, but instead focused on anatomical issues (medical diagrams of the diaphragm and lungs, etc.) and on equipment issues (scraping mouthpiece baffles, etc.). I was sure this approach would get to the root of my sound production problems.

I returned to Boston to finish my senior year, but hurt Mazzeo’s feelings by finishing the year with another teacher. Upon graduation, I eagerly headed to Temple University to get a master’s degree with Mr. Gigliotti. I loved him and thought for sure I was in the proper hands. But again, my technical and musical fluency must have masked my sound production problems, because they didn’t seem to be a matter of concern to Gigliotti.

At the conclusion of my Master’s recital, Gigliotti confides that of all the Curtis recitals he had heard over the years, mine was “second to none.” (You do not forget words like those….)

So then it was audition-taking time. Off I went to Montreal, Milwaukee, St. Louis, Baltimore, etc. Some successes in early rounds, but no job. And my shortcomings were becoming clearer and clearer. But I did have a job playing principal in the Pennsylvania Ballet orchestra, so I had a modest career.

Then came the “nervous breakdown” at age 30—a “classic” age area for persons to have crises (as I have learned from reading many biographies). I thought I was the worst failure ever. I quit the Ballet after a run of exhausting Nutcrackers, put my clarinets under my bed, and breathed a sigh of relief that that part of my life was over.

Three months later, my career ruined (what can demonstrate mental instability more than quitting a job mid-season?—I guess Sarah Palin knows a thing or two about that!), I dragged my clarinets out from under the bed and started playing purely for my own personal pleasure—and not to please a teacher or a conductor or a critic or an audition committee. Gradually word got out that I was playing again, and soon I was back in the freelance scene, but with an entirely different attitude. It was at this time, though, that I fell under the spell of all the great “vibrating” clarinetists in England in those years (1970s).They played with so much more flexibility and freedom than here in the U.S. But my intuitions about sound production were still very distorted and immature, and I totally misperceived how the British players were achieving their tonal freedom. My attempts to replicate it were very misguided and only resulted in further tonal deterioration.

This mode continued until perhaps the mid 80s. At this point I finally found a “teacher” who could be at my side at nearly every rehearsal and every concert, to give me honest, objective feedback about sound and tuning and response. This teacher gradually, over these many years, has helped to nourish more accurate intuitions about sound. The teacher’s name? SONY!

Yes, taking a portable recording device with me to rehearsals and performances has enabled me to put two and two together in the way that normally gifted sound-producers do intuitively at a young age.

Along the way, the path was littered with many dozens of different mouthpieces, ligatures, embouchures, reed fixing experiments, etc., etc.

So, what did I discover this summer that seems to be the big new key? Sorry to disappoint you, but it is simply this: clarinet angle. Not having had good intuitions, I have always held the clarinet as I saw demonstrated by most of the great American players. Daniel Bonade, who had an extreme overbite and thus held the clarinet very close to his body, set a precedent which would influence successive generations of American players. (Whenever I saw a fine German or English player holding his instrument out almost like an oboist, I always used to think, “how can they play like that?” And by the way, why DO oboists in general hold their instruments at a higher angle than we clarinetists? Do they instinctively know something we could learn from?)

One thing I should say here: For the past 15 or so years I have gotten into all sorts of weird siting positions, including holding the bell with my knees, convincing myself that I didn’t have normal mouth muscle strength and that was why I couldn’t achieve the embouchure functioning I was looking for. Even after becoming hyper aware of Alexander Technique principles beginning a year ago, I still felt I couldn’t play standing or sitting “straight” with no support for the instrument other than embouchure and thumb.

This summer, I went for it! I sat in my chair in a balanced, poised Alexander mode, I brought the clarinet to the embouchure (not the head to the clarinet), with my arms moving unimpeded and naturally, and lo and behold, the clarinet came in at a decidedly higher angle than before.

Don’t we clarinetists all feel that the center of the lower lip should have the sensation of forward “movement” down the reed as we play—thus enabling the reed to be “spring-loaded” on the facing, rather than pinched? Because of my particular bite, if I hold the clarinet closer as before, the forward momentum of the lower lip causes the reed to be pressed UP against the facing of the mouthpiece, thereby restricting (pinching) the reed’s vibration. When I use the new slightly higher angle, the forward momentum of the lip is able to travel DOWN the facing, creating a situation where the reed is “spring-loaded” and eager to spring away from the facing. Finally! After so many years of “faking” decent sound, response and pitch, at last I am beginning to experience what normally-gifted sound producers discover in their teens or twenties.

Here is a wonderfully coincidental postscript to all this: Just last week I ran into Ronald Reuben, the great former bass clarinetist of the Philadelphia Orchestra. He was eager to tell me his latest discovery about playing the clarinet. “Artie Shaw!” he exclaimed. “I finally figured out how Artie played like he did!” And then he proceeded to mime moving his imaginary clarinet to a higher playing angle. I, of course, excitedly confided that I had recently discovered the same thing. I asked Ron if he literally had begun holding the instrument STRAIGHT out, as Shaw did, and he said no, just higher than before. I asked if he was utilizing the higher angle only for jazz playing, and he said no, it was for everything.

Well David, this is all much more than you asked for. Sorry. I just felt like writing it out as a cathartic exercise.

But truthfully, and I think I told you this when I first discovered your blog, your honest revelations about your own journey have been inspiring for me. Thanks.

I think it’s a wonderful story, and it illustrates the life changing importance of finding the right clarinet angle for YOU. Play around with it. Don’t imitate the way someone looks. Listen, listen, feel, think! And trust.

For the new year, I’ll begin with a brand new reed. Old reeds are like old shoes; they feel great but are probably bad for your posture/playing.

I am a firm believer in plopping on a fresh reed and going with it. If it’s in the ball park, play it for the day. Use good habits of support, embouchure and air flow to compensate for any limitations the reed shows. I recommend this experiment for practicing, not performances, though that could be attempted if a higher challenge is desired.

Happy New Reed to All!!

David

(The following story was submitted to the Columbus Dispatch for their First Person column. I hope it will be printed in the next week or two. It is a heavily revised, more accessible version of my previous post, “Why I am a musician“, with several new paragraphs.)

The powerful symphony we are about to play, and my ability to play it, seem to come from somewhere beyond human capabilities. Yet it highlights my humanity and my frailty, my nobility and my baseness. It reaches across ages and shows me how history and art have formed me and the civilization I live in.

Who wouldn’t want to be inside Einstein’s head, or Picasso’s or Martin Luther King’s as they thought and felt their great deeds? My life’s commitment is to get into composer’s heads and recreate their great music for others.

The first note we play is a commitment to our colleagues, the audience and the music. Egos may clash off stage, but conflict disappears as the conductor raises his baton and we come together to go beyond ourselves.

But a lot happens behind the scenes before the concert.

My clarinet’s reed is the heart of the instrument’s tone; it must be perfect if I am to perform with utmost skill. I carve a tiny piece of wood off the base of the reed. Almost nothing. I put the reed back on the mouthpiece and fasten it with the ligature. I form an embouchure and play the scale I repeat hundreds of times a day to check reeds. The raspiness has gone from the reed’s vibrations. Now it has a bell-like ring through the instrument. Ahh!

After two hours of working on reeds, I am tired. Add several hours of rehearsals today and that’s a full day. But I haven’t finished. I still need to review sections of tonight’s music. I need to be sure the reed will resonate in the low register for the famous opening clarinet passage of Tchaikovsky’s Fifth Symphony. The clarinet’s dark, brooding low notes are perfect for the mournful melody.

Why do I do this? I smile as I ask myself. ‘Because I love it’ might be one answer. But that’s not quite it. It’s more like an itch that needs to be scratched. Since age 12, after hearing a recording of the instrument (Robert Marcellus), I had the “ring” of the clarinet’s tone in my head, an ideal to strive for.

As a child I always enjoyed science, especially botany, chemistry and physics. I also enjoyed music, perhaps because it seemed a bit like science to me. I began studying piano at age 6. During one of my first piano lessons my teacher had me face away from the piano and listen as she played various chords. I was to identify their happy and sad qualities. It fascinated me that a few musical notes could render such varied emotions.

Upon returning to the US after growing up abroad as a Foreign Service Diplomat’s kid, I was treated like an alien by other children my age. When I was introduced to clarinet in the 6th grade, I latched on to it as something secure and knowable. Over the years clarinet became my identity. While other adolescents grappled with the meaning of life, I strove to climb the mountain before me: mastering the clarinet. I competed in and won many competitions to hone my skills. My parents never had to push me to practice. However, I often took criticism hard, as it exposed my fervent desire to be the best.

10,000 hours of practice is the only way to master an instrument. Like an athlete wishing to win the Olympics, I constantly strive for machine-like perfection with an all-too-human body and life. Beyond practicing clarinet, I have worked a great deal behind the scenes to make it seem “effortless” on stage. I exercise regularly and I have studied various techniques for focus and poise.

Of course, playing the instrument alone is still only part of this process. I am a clarinetist because I love classical music. I’ll never forget playing Brahms’ fourth Symphony for the first time, age 17, at the Interlochen Summer Music Camp, an intensive “boot camp” for aspiring young artists. Brahms’ gypsy spirit shone through the almost tortured discipline of his North German Protestant upbringing. I related to the conflict of those emotions; freedom emerging from limitation. That sense of balance in conflict, and other such ideas learned from music, have fed my attitudes in life.

Being able to communicate music directly to an audience is my dream come true. A live performance reflects a unique snapshot in time and, like sports, happens in real time. And just as the excitement of a supportive crowd can urge a team to victory, an audience affects a performer with its attention and enjoyment. The smiles of listeners inspire me to fresh new depths of expression and heights of emotion.

Many in the audience probably think they know how this piece will sound. They have undoubtedly heard it in recordings. But tonight they will enjoy a fresh, new journey through this rich music, as performed by me and my fellow musicians. Maestro Hirokami brings down his baton and I am fortunate to be able to recreate the sad beginning of Tchaikovsky’s Fifth symphony. The end is never clearly known, and tonight I somehow sense that the ending of this symphony will be more optimistic than usual.

I carve a tiny piece of wood off the base of the reed. The shaving isn’t much larger than one or two hairs of daily growth on a man’s face. Almost nothing. I put the reed back on the mouthpiece and fasten it with the ligature. I form an embouchure and play the scale I repeat hundreds of times a day to check reeds. The raspiness has gone from the reed’s vibrations. The difference is huge. Now it has a bell-like ring as it pings through the instrument. Ahh!

After 2 hours of working on reeds, I am tired. Add five hours of rehearsals today and that’s a full day. But I haven’t finished. I still need to review specific sections of this weekend’s music. And the reed I just fixed might not make it through five minutes of playing, with the time spent on it lost after that.

Why do I do this? I smile as I ask myself. “Because I love it” might be one answer. But that’s not quite it. It’s more like an itch I have to scratch. From age 12 on I had the “ring” of the clarinet’s tone in my head, an ideal to strive for. Such a goal is elusive; it shifts and hides moments after being within your grasp.

Reeds are part of the problem, but so is being human. I am not a machine. I have to eat and sleep. I get tired. I have good days and bad. Yet the goal is always there; to outdo myself. Like an athlete wishing to win the Olympics, I strive for perfection with an all too human body and life. I may not always achieve it. But the striving tenures me to strong and tenacious character.

Of course, playing the instrument alone is only part of this puzzle. I am a clarinetist because I love music. Why do I love classical music so much?

As I ponder this question, my ear wanders to a CD I have playing of Bach’s Goldberg Variations performed by Andras Schiff. It’s a new recording for me. I have at least four recordings of this piece by different performers. Each player creates something fresh with their interpretation. So while the music is very familiar to me, it sounds new in this pianist’s hands.

Bach’s variations are accessible, dancelike and intimate, humorous and poignant. One in particular, the 26th, breaks my heart each time I hear it. I hang on every note. Schiff’s version is surprisingly feminine and coquettish, but with amazing facility and control. The tone of the particular piano he plays is also exquisite.

This brilliant music, and the performance, seems to come from somewhere beyond human capabilities. Yet it reflects human emotions in a crystalline way. It says something to me which I cannot articulate. It tells me who I am and who I could be. It reminds me of my humanity and my frailty, my nobility and my baseness. It reaches across ages, like sculpture or painting, and shows me how history and art has formed me and the civilization I live in.

Classical music offers a place of sanity in a harsh world. It clears the haze of daily life and allows us a glimpse of the thoughts and feelings of great people and a connection to our higher selves. And of their vulnerabilities. Who wouldn’t want to be inside Einstein’s head, or Picasso’s or Martin Luther King’s, as they thought and felt their great deeds? Well, I do. My life’s commitment is to be the instrument which recreates the vision of great composers for others.

Unlike painting or literature, classical music is experienced directly in time. Though I enjoy recordings of great pianists and orchestras, I relish hearing one as it happens. A live performance reflects a unique snapshot in time, much like sports are reality in action. Just like the excitement of a supportive crowd in sports, the audience affects performers with their attention and enjoyment. In a live performance, the history of today day can cue a great performer to fresh new depths of expression and heights of emotion for those listeners.

Orchestral performances are an intersection of many parts. First you have the music itself and the history of its style, something like recreating Van Gogh’s Starry Night. Then you have the particular orchestra and conductor, the “repainters”, if you will. Each member of the orchestra brings their own ideals and experience to the table, which then has to amalgamate into one voice. Then there are the acoustics of the hall, and the audience’s interest. It comes together each time to form a unique experience. When it all gels and the energy builds towards perfection, a particular performance can become an epiphany for all concerned.

Back to my own life and career. I may fix numerous good reeds at home, but few withstand the test of playing in my hall. The acoustics are deplorable, sadly, for the orchestra and especially the audience. This is not a concert hall, but a movie theater. It is not meant for the subtle voice of great music. I need a dense, resonant tone to carry my musical intentions to the odd corners of the cavernous room and the ears of listeners. Dozens of hours of work are usually spent to find the right reed for the hall, one which responds in the weather of that day and the demands of that night’s music.

Recently, I have been experimenting with other aspects of tone production, especially mouthpieces. When I first got this job 18 years ago, I had a great combination of reed type and mouthpiece which fit perfectly with the hall. I thought it was all the practicing I had done before winning the audition. I was naive. When that mouthpiece warped, ruining it, I searched for a decade and never found one with such beauty of tone. In the process I became a better musician. But it wasn’t without its cost in tens of thousands of dollars and countless hours and stress. Somehow I wonder if it’s worth it. I warn students of the gravity of choosing a music career.

All this thought and activity is before I play a note in a concert. In a live performance, a musician is naked. Even beyond practicing clarinet, I have worked a great deal behind the scenes to make it seem “effortless” on stage. I have studied various techniques for focus and presence in order to overcome fatigue and stress from so many hours of repetitive practicing. In truth, much of my daily life since age 12 has been working toward the present performance. The goal may be ideal, but a human plays for it. Personally, I play better when I know I am being heard and appreciated. A great conductor helps bring my focus together, and a great audience.

When the concert finally begins, the first note is a commitment to the rest of the piece and to my colleagues. Egos may clash on and off stage, but conflict usually disappears as the conductor raises his baton and we come together to go beyond ourselves. All my work may or may not pay off this time. Even the best athletes fall.

Is it worth it? All this for the love of great ideas!? I guess that tiny shaving of reed is worth a great deal to me.’

Yesterday I gave my first masterclass to a bunch of 8th graders. Ultimately, I’m fishing for new private students. In Columbus, it’s not enough to be the best player in town. There are several other area teachers who canvas and solicit individual schools and who are willing to teach on site. Parents love this, since they don’t have to shuttle the kids to lessons halfway across town. I won’t be doing that, but I’ll give master classes free in all the middle schools to introduce myself and show my abilities. Then, if a student becomes serious about studying privately, they’ve already been introduced to me as a possible choice.

The teacher at this middle school impressed me with her spirit and enthusiasm’s for her job. She follows each student’s development from 6th grade on. She has also turned down offers to teach higher grades because she loves teaching the middle school ages. I learned a lot from talking with her.

I admitted to her I had not done this before. I’ve taught privately for most of my career, and I’ve coached a few woodwind sectionals for the local youth orchestra. But in that case, the material is the music they’re working on, not a group lesson in clarinet technique, and not 22 8th graders. So I was a bit nervous.

I had scribbled some notes about basic clarinet technique: how to hold the instrument, how to breathe, forming an embouchure, etc. The truth is, I work on these basics every time I play. I kept the descriptions as clear and direct as possible, without under-rating their importance.

8th graders are at that in between age, neither children nor young adults, but some of both. Since I don’t have kids, I have little experience with them. Most of my private students have been high school age. I decided to start off very honestly, and told them I had not done this before, and that I would appreciate their indulgence and feedback. I also told them that I myself practice the basics everyday, even though I’ve played clarinet for 30 years. I showed I was willing to meet them at their level, with some valuable advice to offer. It seemed to be a good way to start. Whew!

I tried to make eye contact with most of them as I spoke. There were 22 students in the class, so I scanned the individual faces every few seconds. They knew I was watching.

After a brief warm up and a quick lesson about hand position, I singled out two students with particularly good embouchures, and had them demonstrate for the class. Those two felt honored to be in such a position.

As the class progressed, their attention occasionally slipped and I adjusted accordingly. For the most part, they were attentive. Once or twice, one boy chatted with a friend while I spoke. I gently asked his cooperation in allowing me to speak un-interrupted. His teacher went over and stood behind him. I barely noticed this at the time, but the reason became apparent later.

Near the end of the class, during a question period, he asked an impressive and valid question: Why does his breathing become more labored after playing a few phrases of music in succession? I answered the question with an appropriately complex answer; many factors, including the reed, embouchure and breathing skill, affected the ease of breathing.

After the class, his teacher brought him up to me to continue the discussion privately, which I was happy to do. We had a good talk, and eventually figured out that his mouthpiece had been damaged, and was causing undue resistance, causing his labored breathing. He seemed happy and comfortable talking to me.

In my follow up feedback discussion with his teacher, she gave me encouraging feedback; I had involved and engaged the students, no easy task at this age; I had chosen the right level of language, neither condescending nor babying; and I had adjusted to changes in their attention by shifting to a game or contest to bring them back. I was happy with the success.

But the icing on this gratifying cake was this. She explained to me that the boy who had asked the question had developmental problems, specifically in relating to men. Apparently, he had to be sequestered for belligerent behavior when a male substitute teacher taught the class. Somehow I had engaged him at a level he could trust. We had each overcome a block; he in relating to a man, me in relating to an 8th grader. I can’t imaging a better reward for an hour’s work.