I recently was invited to participate in a Musical Petting Zoo. Do you know what a musical petting zoo is? Neither did I. Upon further inspection it was explained that, no, the students don’t touch a violin bow or feed peanuts to a tuba. It’s really a chance for young children to try different instruments in a fun atmosphere to whet their appetite for future lessons and musical endeavors. It sounded like fun and an easy way to earn a little extra cash. Little did I realize how “whet” the day was going to be.
As a flutist, I showed up expecting to work with mostly girls around 8 years old. The front office gave me two flutes, one with a curved headjoint that makes it easier for short arms to hold comfortably. My former flute teacher, who works for the organization hosting the zoo, provided me with my own clunker flute to play so that I didn’t have to risk injury to my personal baby. I was also given a bag full of antiseptic wipes, sprays, and cloths. Yum. It didn’t take a genius to realize that these kids were going to be blowing my way.
My first surprise once the actual zoo was underway was that 8 years old was pretty much the maximum age of any child that walked into my office. It was more like 4, with several 2 and 3 year olds wanting to try the “fwute.” And by “try” I really mean, walk in, hear the sound of the flute, stare at me with these big, unblinking brown eyes, and then run away when I asked them any question. “What’s your name?” “Would you like to hold the flute?” “How old are you?” After a few tykes ran out I had a courageous three year old, dressed in an abundance of pink tulle and no older than 3, gaze up with me with huge brown eyes and answered my first question: “Bella.” Bella wanted to try the flute. She was so delicate and doll-like, with long eyelashes that stared at me silently…it was precious. I spoke to her softly and helped place her hands on the instrument and then gently placed the lipplate under her bottom lip. I imagined there would be no sound, or just a gentle “piff” as she lightly blew. She was so petite, her lungs couldn’t have been bigger than my iPod nano. She looked at me once more with those worshipful eyes, took a breath, and…
…And this is when I realized it wasn’t all fun and games at the petting zoo. Sweet, innocent, perfect little Bella’s gentle grip tightened immeasurably around the body of the flute. Before I could do anything she stuck the entire lipplate in her doll mouth and produced a hideous “shhhreeeeeeeehhhhhhhkkkkkkkk!” In the process of sending fast air through the flute (instead of blowing across), she somehow managed to soak me in the process. This is most puzzling as her mouth was wrapped entirely around the top of the flute, with seemingly no leaks, but I still felt the spray of a small waterfall as she continued to make these barbaric sounds as fast as she could draw breath. By the time I wrenched the instrument away and wiped my eyes, Bella looked at me dolefully, as if to say, “I was in the midst of discovering my life’s purpose and you’ve just put a halt to my creative genius.” Her parents cheered enthusiastically, celebrating the “joyful noise” their little angel had just made. Bella handed me her paper full of pictures of various instruments and demanded “Sticker!” to put under the flute. I gave her the sticker and she tripped out of the room in her little ballerina outfit, venturing on to bigger and better things, like the trombone. I wiped down the flute (and myself) with antiseptic and braced myself for the next visitor.
Repeat the previous paragraph ad nauseum and you have my afternoon. There were Bellas and Ellas and Sabrinas and Serenas and Vivians and Megans and Annabelles. The line was at least 4 deep all day. Surprisingly, there were also a few Sawyers, Roberts, and even a Sherman thrown in there too. I had kids with face paint, and kids with balloon hats, and kids on leashes. Perhaps the highlight of the whole afternoon was working with Tommy, who was a, a-hem, husky young man around the age of 7. By this point I had the kids sitting on a chair in an attempt to contain their “enthusiasm.” Tommy was one of those guys whom you could tell was really interested in trying the instrument, but was determined not to let it show. He slumped in his chair and shot me this look that clearly said, “Yeah, I’m here, but you can’t make me do anything I don’t want to.” And at this point the News 10 NBC cameraman walked into my office to capture some precious moments for the evening news. I encouraged Tommy to sit up tall, like a man, and talked him through the steps needed to produce sound. He blew, we adjusted, he blew again, I dried myself off, he blew, the cameraman moved in for a closer shot (I’m sure they could see the droplets on my face and sweater). The fleeting image of my brilliant pedagogy being broadcasted for the entire city to see quickly dissipated as the humor of the situation washed over me. No, I wasn’t going to be seen as one of the city’s finest young music teachers. More like one of the city’s most unfortunate souls. Suck-ahhh!
In retrospect, I actually really enjoyed the Petting Zoo. This is a wonderful illustration of how much I dislike my current job. To be sprayed, sneezed, and licked on all day isn’t exactly most people’s idea of a grand time, but I laughed more than I have in a long time. (I’ll let you know if I still feel that way when I get hit with a case of toddler-induced pestilence and plague later this week…)
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