I’ve been thinking lately about the things we do as music educators that are difficult to measure, document, or even name. They rarely appear in lesson plans or assessment rubrics, yet they may be some of the most important parts of our work. One of my teachers, Chris Rosenberg, used to ask our ensemble, “It’s not a blues. It’s not a bop…WHAT IS IT?” He wasn’t looking for another label. He wanted us to listen more deeply. Lately, I’ve found myself asking a similar question about teaching. If it’s not simply differentiation, belonging, inclusion, or social-emotional learning…what is it that arts teachers are actually doing every day? We have developed an impressive vocabulary to describe good teaching, but I sometimes wonder if those words are all pointing toward something larger.
Some of that work is surprisingly ordinary. It looks like making the effort to pronounce a student’s name correctly, even when I stumble. It looks like remembering a student’s pronouns, understanding how they learn best, or recognizing when someone needs a little more encouragement than correction. From the outside, these moments can appear performative or procedural. I don’t think they are. Like learning a new musical language, caring for a community takes practice. We make mistakes, we adjust, and over time those intentional choices become habits. That, to me, is where belonging begins—not in perfection, but in the willingness to keep showing up to do the work.
In the music classroom, this work often happens through decisions that no one notices. A teacher chooses repertoire that allows one student to experience success while asking another to stretch beyond what they thought possible. The same piece of music can meet students in very different places, and shaping those experiences is both an artistic and deeply human act. I think of these as invisible acts: the quiet decisions that communicate to a student, I see you. I believe in you. There is a place for you here. Students may not remember every rehearsal or every lesson, but they often remember how it felt to be seen, challenged, and trusted. Sometimes those quiet decisions become the reason a young musician chooses to stay.
When I think about this, my mind goes back to fourth-grade choir. I don’t remember every song we sang, but I remember how safe that room felt. For a little while each week, I could stop worrying about everything else and simply make music. Looking back, I realize that feeling didn’t happen by accident. Someone created it through countless invisible acts of care, intention, and trust. I don’t know that I have a perfect answer yet for these questions or the right words for this concept. Perhaps that’s the point. Like Chris Rosenberg’s question, maybe the answer isn’t another label but an invitation to listen more deeply—to our students, to our colleagues, and to the quiet work that makes our classrooms places where young people know they belong.
Maybe that’s the question I’ve really been asking: if it’s not just belonging, or care, or trust, or any of the other words we use, what is it?
Ed Castro's Blog 