Rehearsing harmony in discordant times: A theory of critical hope

Music teachers understand that we deal in hope. We hold aspirations for our students and ourselves. We hope that students get inspired by our performances and rehearsals together. Hope in certain circumstances can feel active and have direction, while in other cases it is more of a feeling that envelopes and comforts us. We always look to hope because we understand how disarming hopelessness can be. 

I have thought about hope more in recent months as political unrest and tensions reach a critical mass of sorts. It reminded me of a similar moment in my teaching career.

I woke up early one Wednesday morning in 2016 to get ready for my day of teaching orchestra and guitar. I noticed the remarkably grey sky and thought about Obama’s words the prior evening: “No matter what, the sun will rise in the morning”. I let out a defeated laugh and made it into my classroom. No sun today. I noticed that a significant number of my students were absent that day. I later found out that many of these students missed class because they feared the newly-elected president would rip them apart from their families. I distinctly remember the deep breath I took in from my nostrils. Perhaps things will get better in four years…

This current political landscape has compelled me to think about the role of hope. Anti-trans policy, ICE raids, various genocides, and other forms of oppression aim to dehumanize us and consume our ability to hope. This reality pushes me to wonder what good is hope if it is gone when it is needed? Has hope become a euphemism for joy? Was hope a blanket I threw over my head to hide what was occurring around me? These questions led me to the work of Dr. Jeffrey Duncan-Andrade. 

Dr. Duncan-Andrade developed a concept of critical hope to combat what he describes as false narratives of hope. False hope can take several forms including hokey forms of hope, the kind that rely on myths such as pulling oneself up by their bootstraps and that individual decisions lead to better and worse outcomes. This hokey hope is built on the disregard of systemic factors that give some people advantages over others. The other forms of false hope can be best described as mythical hope and hope deferred. Both of these instances require someone else to do the “saving”. I cannot recall the last time, or even a singular time, as an educator where these tactics have worked. 

Critical hope is active, practical, and holistic. Duncan-Andrade identifies three forms of critical hope. He first identifies material hope arguing that students deserve, and must have, access to the concrete resources and agency necessary for success. Socratic hope consists of the willingness to face harsh truths and engage in critical self-reflection. Duncan-Andrade goes as far to say that “to show the sermon, rather than preach it, is the essence of Socratic hope” (2009, p.188). The third form of hope he identifies is Audacious hope which consists of a collective belief that solidarity in the face of harsh circumstances produces humanizing collective healing. These forms of hope are not mutually exclusive, but are interconnected and reflect what a holistic investment in hope can be. 

As music educators we are quite familiar with some of these forms of hope. We fully understand our students cannot be successful in band if they do not have an instrument. So we find a way to maintain that material hope. Many of us have also experienced the transformation of some students when they dive into a life of music. We have the audacious hope to know that music has transformative potential. Socratic hope is a bit harder to navigate in the classroom, it requires educators and students to identify and understand systems of oppression despite the discomfort it may carry. This socratic hope requires love, solidarity, sustained struggle, and a shared sense of humanity. 

I want to return to Amy’s initial questions for this panel of individuals. She asks what role music teaching and learning have in developing a sense of care and recognized sense of humanity and how to function under threats and fear of ICE occupation. One thing I want to center is that music educators are artists. Teaching is an art. Communication is art. And our musical abilities are another manifestation of the many artistic qualities we can offer our students and community. Our artistry allows us to do several things. We can use music to help our students and communities heal, we can use it for truth telling, it lets us resist, and to “see” into the future. Said differently, we can access a realm of imagination and freedom dreaming that is not possible elsewhere. 

These moments of joy happen in community. So now, more than ever, it is important for us to connect with one another. One way I chose to build these connections was by inviting community members into our class that can share and discuss topics I felt I was unable to adequately communicate. A little under a year ago I was able to invite artist-activist Anaís Azul to lead a performance and reflection event at my institution. We wanted to center reciprocity in this exchange so we opened the event to all students and community members. 

Anais’ performance gathered an eclectic audience, consisting of students from my institution, various community based groups, and students from other institutions were also present. Anaís grew up as a Peruvian Born and California-raised individual. Their work led them to become a Fulbright scholar that learned their Indigenous Quechua language and the Charango, a stringed instrument culturally tied to Peru. They used the performance to talk about their relationship with nature and the land, but also talked about the forced displacement and genocide of Indigenous Peruvians and how this knowledge motiviates them to seek social justice for all people facing displacement.

Having our local community and neighboring institutions share space with us was powerful and something that could only happen because of Anais’ presence. There was a segment for questions and reflection after the performance. This was a moment where a socratic form of hope took form. There was a portion in the reflection I asked faculty and staff to leave, it was meant to be for the community and students. We were able to discuss fears and hopes related to ICE, surveillance, genocide, and worsening political divides. The moment was deeply cathartic, with many people saying they had felt so isolated and silenced and that this experience let them lower their walls. Students were able to better understand how these systemic forms of harm are connected. Further, they were able to experience a shared sense of humanity. 

In these discordant times we have the opportunity to musically express our values and commitments to our students and community. I want to leave you with the following takeaways:

1. Hope has its most radical potential when it takes the form of a verb. It requires fiercely supporting students to provide them with the tools and agency needed to succeed. Critical hope occurs in the community, meaning that we can support one another when rest is needed. 

2. We are members of our community, not saviors. These experiences are not new for many of the groups that are adversely affected by ICE brutality and government overreach. Depending and trusting their insight and listening to the needs of our communities allows us to support. 

3. Invite community knowledge into the classroom. Inviting guest performers and community speakers provides opportunities to learn about stories that are often marginalized. 

4. Create opportunities for uncomfortable conversations. The music repertoire we program often carries rich socio-historical histories. Using these histories as starting points for conversations provides an entrypoint for Socratic hope to manifest. Move beyond representation by exploring the histories, communities, struggles, and possibilities connected to the music students perform. Questions about power, appropriation, resistance, and cultural lineage are part of musicianship.

Duncan-Andrade, J. (2009). Note to educators: hope required when growing roses in concrete. Harvard Educational Review, 79(2), 181–194. https://doi.org/10.17763/haer.79.2.nu3436017730384w