By Amelia Armstrong

Amelia Armstrong is vocal director at Platteville High School. She began her teaching career in September of 2004.

I returned from my doctor’s appointment just in time to rehearse my third-hour choir. My colleague was covering for me in case I was a few minutes late, so when I rushed in and started to address the class, she hung back to hear the news. Now it’s important to know that I am someone who refuses to watch sad movies because I hate to cry in front of other people, but as I stood there and told 40 juniors and seniors and my good friend that I had a nodule on my vocal chords and would not be allowed to sing or talk for a week, the tears were trickling down just to spite me. It must be every teacher’s worst nightmare to cry in front of his or her class, but as I explained the diagnosis and asked for their patience and support, they listened. They listened like they never had before, which would continue into my dreaded “Week of Silence” and teach me more about my students and myself than I ever imagined.

In my third year of teaching, during the first week of October, I was the music teacher who was not allowed to talk. Between teaching high school choir, directing the musical, and a church gig, I had to orchestrate this carefully. I chose to zip my lips after directing my church choir on Sunday morning, and return to the land of the loud just before their rehearsal the following Sunday. I was confident I had the willpower to make it through the busy week, with a bag full of “voice substitutes” to help me get my work done. My arsenal contained a computer and speaker, whiteboard and markers, a giant notepad on an easel, and enough scratch paper to make my hometown of Wausau proud . I was ready for the storm.

That Monday, my third hour choir sang through warm-ups, sight-reading, and repertoire rehearsal with almost no extraneous chatter. They sat with round eyes and pricked ears, just waiting to see how I was going to handle not speaking. I’m not sure if they expected me to cheat, or if they weren’t sure this was all real, but at the end of the hour, I overhead someone say, “Like, nobody talked during the entire class period. That was so creepy!”

I had started the week with my first toy, a computer with voice technology to speak for me. I typed in rehearsal plans ahead of time, and the friendly female robot-voice would croak out my instructions. Of course, the kids and I patiently waited as the machine stumbled over composers’ names and German pronunciation, not to mention the fact that the small speaker’s best effort was still lost on rows three and four. By Wednesday, this method was rejected by my students, who by this time were very efficient at reading my lips, decoding my notes on the whiteboard, and guessing the meaning of my wild gestures like a crazy game of Pictionary.

Knee deep in musical rehearsals in the evening, I used sign language letters to indicate rehearsal markings in the score, clapped rhythms we struggled with, and decided that whistling did not fall under the “no talking or singing” clause. I even survived our cast photo shoot, effectively communicating the poses I wanted using my face, my arms, and that handy whiteboard.

At school I was coping…using email to communicate with colleagues, and writing a thousand notes a day to answer student questions. At home, I was a mess. Not being allowed to sing myself but still teaching my students to make beautiful music made me ache inside. I was missing such a huge part of myself, and was down in the dumps the entire week. My husband, family, and friends were incredibly supportive.

I tried to put on a good face at school, but like all high school kids, my students could tell the wind was not in my sails. As the week trudged on, they listened to each other, watched my every move, and even “translated” for their classmates when one of them understood my meaning first. By Friday, they were reading announcements for me, speaking my lesson notes out loud, even counting off as we started a new section. They rose to the occasion, and I was so impressed. I remember thinking to myself that I should shut my mouth and let them take charge more often.

AND SO SHOULD ALL OF US! When I returned to my talking self the following week, I had my classes do a writing assignment describing their feelings and frustrations during the “Week of Silence.” I asked if there was anything they excelled at as a choir during that zany week, and to my delight, many of them said, “We listened so much better.” They were right, and I was reminded how powerful silence is as a teaching tool.

Silent rehearsals are not a new phenomena in the music education world. In fact, many directors do several silent rehearsals a year simply to remind students how capable of listening they can be. Silent lessons are an effective way for all teachers to refocus the energy of the class, and completely engage students in a way we often neglect in our audio-assaulting world. During a silent lesson, nobody wants to be the one student who isn’t watching and misses something important or cool. All eyes are on you, what you’re going to do next, and how you’re going to get them to learn without ever saying a word. It’s magic, and it may be the best lesson I’ve accidentally learned so far.

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Posted April 12, 2007