Sing On, Miss. Kinch

The waning hours of summer vacation are slowly slipping away as some of the middle school boys carry on the tradition of home-run derby in the tennis courts, and a few of the football players begin to set up for their morning triple sessions. If you were to walk down the main hallways of Lansingburgh High School, you would most likely hear the echo of your footsteps, and the vacant noise of students not-so-thrilled about the start of a new school year. In the far-off distance though, down the one, long corridor that connected the middle and high school , you might hear the faint echoes of a few dedicated, perhaps rather silly students as they sprawled out on the floor practicing breathing through their diaphragms by imagining that they were sucking through straws. You would probably hear giggles and claps as about 15 students sang, in perfect unison, “One bottle of pop, two bottle of pop, three bottle of pop, four a bottle of pop…”all while trying to hold their composure together for their chorus teacher who took this warm up very seriously. Now over 15 years later I can't even remember what the name of this summer activity was called, we were all participating in a sort of summer singing camp preparing us for the upcoming school year. While most students were savoring their last few moments of summer, we were gladly giving up those warm, sunny mornings to spend time with a woman who was devoting her well-deserved, and very precious, summer break to help each of us improve. Miss Kinch, later known as Mrs. Shepherd, was the type of teacher who never even thought twice about sparing her last few weeks of relaxation -- precious weeks whose value are now only truly evident to me as a teacher myself. She did not do this for the money. She did not do this for any type of recognition. Miss Kinch did this, and so much more, because it was in her soul and because we were her priority – or at least she made us feel that way.

As a student, there is so much that I didn’t realize. Now, as a teacher, I am overwhelmingly aware of the dedication so many of our Lansingburgh teachers possessed – dedication that exceeded far beyond the classroom lessons they were supposed to be teaching us. I only vaguely remember the majority of what I learned within the walls of eight classrooms I would visit throughout a school day, but I do vividly remember the memories that occurred outside of those walls. Memories like going to the “all-nighter” in the gym and then attempting to make it through the All County performance the next day. Memories like learning swing choir choreography in our matching t-shirts, and trying to secretly spell out words with our S for soprano and A for alto t-shirts (use your imagination ). Memories like bringing take-out into the auditorium and sitting on the floor for hours as we watched the various actors and singers belt our their parts on the stage at musical rehearsal . Memories like going to Thatcher Park for an all-day picnic with all of our friends, celebrating another successful school year. Memories like fighting over sitting on her fluffy couch in her classroom, or standing around her piano fearful that she might realize we hadn’t completely practiced our part the night before. Memories like laying on my bedroom floor, listening to cassette tape after cassette tape of Miss Kinch’s voice, signing all of the voice parts to all of the songs, giving us yet another opportunity to be our best. Memories like being the elite group of upper-classroom who were allowed to go over to her house for a special holiday gathering, equipped with soda and snacks, and ready to reminisce about the last year gone by. Memories like being on stage with my Brigadoon co-star when neither of knew our lines for the MAJOR scene from Brigadoon and we nearly lost our lives under the stage lights (metaphorically of course).

While all of these memories have been swirling throughout my head over the last two days, there are two memories that just keep coming back to me. Yes, I will always remember the picnic days at Grafton State Park with the entire chorus, and the laughs after school in Miss Kinch’s classroom. But, there is one memory in particular that is an absolute defining moment in my life. A moment for which I never thanked Miss Kinch – although she never would have accepted the thank you, coyly laughing it off in that way that she always did.

Defining Moment: If you had asked me as a seventh grader if I ever would've stood on stage as a senior and performed in a musical in front of everyone as the lead of the play, I probably would've laughed in your face. In fact, if you had asked me that as a junior in high school, I probably would've said the same. I participated in our school musicals from 6th grade on, but I never really expected anything more than being “Girl 2” or the random townsperson who sang in the chorus and skipped across stage at some unimportant moment in the performance. I didn’t believe that I was “lead” material, and I certainly didn’t believe that with all the amazing talent we had at Lansingburgh High School, that I would ever amount to much more than a member of the chorus. And, honestly, that was okay with me. But, as I entered my senior year of high school, I figured I would just give it a shot. I distinctly remember having a terrible cold and knowing that my frog-like singing voice was never going to cut it for the part of Fiona McClaren – the part I so desperately wanted, but knew I would never get. In the grand scheme of life, that small decision that Miss Kinch made probably wasn't something that she thought too much over. Here I was a student who had been faithfully devoted to the school musicals since 6th grade. I remember talking myself out of it because I knew that I wasn't going to get it. I didn't think that I deserved it. I didn't think that I was good enough to pull it off. I knew, or at least thought I knew, that there were plenty of other people who deserved it more than I did. I don't think that she’ll ever realize that the small gesture of writing my name on the cast list next to Fiona McLaren is the single moment in my life when I finally felt like I was really good at something. I even remember second-guessing it and thinking that I must've only gotten the part because I put in my time. And that was enough for me. I knew this part was for a soprano voice, something I certainly was not, and I truly believed that she was going to regret her decision.

At the first rehearsal, she took me aside and forewarned me that this would be a challenging part for my alto voice, but that we would make it work. And then, as I sat at the piano with her, hour after hour, after the regularly scheduled rehearsal, following her lead to sing scale after scale, slowly training my voice – she made a joke. I remember her stopping in the middle of playing a scale on the piano, staring right at me and saying, “How the heck have you been a soprano this whole time? Holding out on me, huh?” And then we carried on. One little joke. One little statement. Even to those reading this right now, it might not sound like anything of relevance, but here was me, the shy, self-conscious high-school me. A girl who had only ever been mediocre at anything she did. Here was someone telling me that I was better than they had expected. It was one moment of my life. It was one silly statement that she jokingly said in passing. It is THE moment where my confidence in myself changed. Just from one, silly joke. I hear that same sentence even now as an adult in my head. I think of this sentence in my own teaching when I realize the impact one, little sentence might have on the course of a student’s life. A sentence that was just a sentence to her, but everything to me. A sentence for which I never thanked her – but again, a sentence for which she would not have wanted thanks. The thing is, she did this all the time. She made all of us better. And sometimes it happened because she demanded it out of us, and other times because she scared it out of us, but either way, there was no doubt that every single person that was in her presence became better than they were before. Whether they became a better singer, a better musician, a better actor, better dancer (of the box step ), or just a better person, Miss Kinch made it her life’s work to instill not just a love of music, but a love of ourselves.

Honestly, though, what I now remember most about Miss Kinch is something I didn’t truly grasp until I started this career myself. Miss Kinch loved us. She did not just like her job, she did not just do her job, and she certainly never just went through the motions. She was tough. Really, tough. But she was tough because she knew each and every single one of us was capable of being better. She made each of us be better. Even though most of us did not go to pursue musical careers, she made each and every one of us better people by forcing us to realize what we were capable of – even if we hated it at the time. Not everyone adored her all of the time. And I think that was part of what the draw was to her. She didn't care if you liked her. In front of us in the classroom, she wasn't interested in being our friend, and she certainly wasn't interested in whether not we liked what she was doing. She was interested in us being the best. She was interested in us being better than we were the day before. THAT is what I mean when I say she loved us. She loved us like we were her own children – children she held up to incredibly high standards. And you know what? We usually were able to achieve those high standards because she would settle for nothing less. She expected a lot out of each and every one of us. And on the days where we were feeling like we just couldn’t do it, she'd laugh her soul-soothing laugh and smile her big smile that would overtake the room.

Two days ago the world lost one of its most influential people. I can’t even begin to imagine the number of students who possess similar stories to mine. In a thirty year career, I can’t even begin to grasp how many lives she touched just by one single statement, or one single joke, or one single memory. Rebecca Shepherd, always Miss Kinch to me, impacted my life in ways that I didn’t even realize until I was a teacher in front of a classroom myself. The fact that she organized a picnic for all alumni last summer, just to reminisce, is testament to how much she truly loved her job, and truly loved us. There is no way to ever really express to a person how much he or she meant to you, but I hope that somewhere up in heaven Miss Kinch knows the legacy she has left behind. I will be forever grateful that I wound up at Lansingburgh High School and can say that I had her in my life. Rest in Peace, Miss. Kinch. Until we sing again ...