"Thursdays with Katie Herman" (excerpt)

Yohana stood square in the doorway, solidly planted to the ground by her large bare feet-the sight of which forced our noses into a defensive curl before the stench even reached our nostrils. We were Isaac’s fourth grade class, shoeless and standing in the hallway in a silent straight line, and it was time for Dalcroze.

We slowly filed into the room, each of us dully dangling a soprano recorder in all of its beige plasticky glory. I held mine loosely between the very tips of my pointer and thumb and silently willed someone to bump into my hand and cause it to slip and crash onto the floor; chipping and cracking it just enough to render it useless and sparing me the discomfort of sitting with my stomach in knots as I waited and desperately hoped not to be called upon to play “Hot Cross Buns” for the entire class.

We all took a seat in a circle on the scuffed-up hardwood floor and placed our recorders gently down in front of us. We sat with our eyes closed at first, “centering ourselves”. Goosebumps slowly popped up on my bare forearms and I could feel the hairs stand up straight and lean longingly towards the warm hallway outside. Yohana never turned on the radiator. Concentrating hard, I tried to mentally block out the cold and after a few minutes, just as my goose bumps had finally eased back down, she had somehow silently stood up. Immediately, a complex clapping pattern erupted above our heads as she skipped around the circle screaming in her heavy Russian accent, “Saltate! Everyone saltate!”

One by one we slowly rose to our feet and began to half skip/half leap behind her hopelessly trying to imitate her surprisingly fluid movement. We went around and around in a circle, until she abruptly stopped at her original spot with recorder in hand. Each of us nervously bent down and lifted our recorders from the floor, being sure to watch our fellow classmates and take on a slightly slower rising pace, so as not to be the first one fully standing ready to be called on to play. But someone always had to be the first and it didn’t really matter who looked ready because she was an on-the-spot kind of woman.

All eyes were peeled on her veiny right index finger as it circled above her head, ready to ruin some poor kid’s day. It swirled and twirled and came thundering down like the hand of God upon us. My eyes instinctively closed for a second and when they had opened I found myself staring straight at that veiny finger, and the whole class was staring straight at me. My hands shook as I drew the recorder to my mouth. I took in a shallow, futile breath and slowly I began to play.