The Music Room: Where Care Should Happen, If It Doesn’t Already

I want to begin by re-engineering the first question. Instead of asking, “What role does music teaching and learning have in developing a sense of care and a recognized sense of our humanity?” I want to ask: What do you care about? What makes you feel human? And where does that show up in your music teaching? Because what you care about—or don’t—tends to show up in the way you lead people and manage things in your classroom. Your humanity, or your disconnection from it, also shows.

A sense of care is different than just— care. A sense of care means something is perceived; it feels like care might be happening (Noddings, 2013). But perception sits in a tricky place. Is this moment something I recognize as familiar, or is this something newly revealed because I have not experienced it before? Before we even get to care—which I believe is personal—there must be a climate that allows care to be activated by the teacher and sensed by the learner. I define school climate as the emotions and dispositions a school generates on a macrolevel, mesolevel, and a microlevel. So I ask: What was the climate before things got ICE cold? Was it already cold? Did you feel socially, emotionally, and physically safe? Were students treated fairly and equitably? Was engagement up and disruption down? If things were trending in a positive and healthy direction before fear entered the room, then care was not only being enacted—it was being recognized. And that recognition signals belonging. Belonging means deep connection—to people, to place, to purpose (Powell & Menendian, 2016). When I belong, I see myself in the curriculum, in the pedagogy, in policy, and in the learning space. That is not accidental. That is designed.

Rehearsal and Performance Patterns

Music education is one of the few places in school where humanity is rehearsed: breathing together, listening in or across the room, taking risks in front of others, while interdepending on one another (Allsup & Benedict, 2008). That is not extracurricular; that is human formation. When a student hears their home language sung with respect, or when a rhythm from their culture is treated as intelligence, that is recognition (Abril, 2013). When their story becomes worthy of rehearsal, that is recognition that says: You are human. I see your humanity.

Past and present. The threats and actions of ICE have deeply impacted many communities, which for some feels new and triggering. However, in some sociopolitical circles, both locally and nationally, there are people who are fully supporting the inhumane exploits of ICE that are endorsed by the current Federal administration. For me, it feels like activation. I am a native of Memphis, TN, which has been experiencing a National Guard presence over the past few months based on a mandate by the Federal administration to lower violent crime. Contrary to the narrative disseminated by the Federal administration, the Memphis Police Department and local city officials reported a decreasing crime rate well before the Federal Administration decided to engage. I hear the frustration in my mother’s voice. She is a longtime Memphis resident, and an educator who will be 84 later this year. She is a source of strength and wisdom for me. Throughout my lifetime, she has shared her stories of living in the segregated South, the Civil Rights Movement, the assassination of Rev. Dr. Martin Luther King, and how the National Guard occupied Memphis in the 1960s. Now, children in Memphis have to get to school by navigating armored tanks, among other things that have been used by the government to create social dysrhythmia and pacification in the community— a similar sentiment and energy as the Civil Rights era. As a Black man from Memphis, seeing National Guard presence in my hometown and then living through ICE surges here in the Twin Cities— I do not experience that as abstract policy. I experience it as a pattern.

I live in the northside of the Twin Cities, and have for many years. Our culture of “nice” has been disrupted by mourning the murders of Renee Good and Alex Pretti. Like many of you, ICE has been in my neighborhood, positioned near my daughter’s school, in front of my house on a Sunday morning before 9am. An ICE agent wrongfully shot a man a few blocks from where I live. Peaceful protesters were targeted by ICE at the Bishop Henry Whipple Federal Building near St. Paul, and at Roosevelt High School in Minneapolis where I used to teach. ICE waited for school to dismiss, then forced their way onto school property without a warrant, and sprayed yellow CS Gas among the students and teachers. In several school districts in the Twin Cities area, ICE presence has been reported. Some districts decided to operate with the option for students to do virtual learning due to safety concerns and what many families and communities have described as state violence and domestic terrorism. I have also not forgotten— and continue to mourn— the murders of George Floyd, Philando Castile, Jamar Clark, and others who were harassed, brutalized, and murdered by the police in the Twin Cities. 

State violence is not new to Black and Brown communities. So what some call fear, I call recognition— or in Queen Latifah’s words: “It’s just another day living in the hood.” Systemic oppression is not a malfunction; the system functions as it was designed to function (Glaude, 2020). And yet, this moment is not just a crisis moment. It is a revealing moment. Whiteness as a system of protection and exclusion has shaped how schooling operates in the United States (Givens, 2021). From my perspective, it harms everyone—including white people— because it subversively normalizes segregation and optimizes unhealthy forms of individualism. Systems that promote domination tend to decay our collective whoness—the ways we are human together (West 1993/2026).

The Love Movement

A Tribe Called Quest greatly impacted how I process the next phase of music education with The Love Movement. This is not just a liberation movement; it is a love movement— not abstract, but “on point, all the time.” I love people. I love learning. And I love both enough to keep fighting.

What does that look like in music education? 

• Student voice in curriculum design. 

• Expanding repertoire beyond the conservatory or Western European canon. 

• Protecting rehearsal space as psychologically safe. 

• Flexibility when fear impacts attendance and focus. 

• Self-care for teachers, so we are regulated enough to lead. 

• Using technology as a tool for creativity and expression.

• Joy as resistance, curiosity as disruption, and belonging as policy—not slogan. 

Perhaps these things should have already been happening. Maybe this moment is a wake-up call.

If you feel the frustration in my words, that is fair. But please also see and feel the hope, because I believe in the power of hope. I am reminded of the words of philosopher Lupe Fiasco: “Anybody ever wonder when they would see the sun up? Just remember when you come up, the show goes on.” The show goes on—not because we ignore fear, but because we build climates where care is real, and humanity is recognized—and rehearsed.

https://www.decolonizingthemusicroom.org/connection-and-community