Learning about teaching

"The Phonograph" 2008


I frequently get asked the question why I am doing a Doctorate in Music. The answer is always the same – I want to be hired to teach composition at a university level. “Why?” is the question which almost always follows the first one. I also have an answer ready – I actually love teaching.

Having a Doctorate seems to be the only requirement to obtain the dream teaching job at a university, professional success coming a distant second. The ability to communicate effectively your knowledge, let alone your wisdom, to the younger generation (also known as teaching), if considered, is frequently the very last issue to be taken into account, after the ‘people skills’ which the job applicant uses to entice his or her peers. If we ignore Aristotle’s statement that examples are not proofs, my above generalization can be disputed (albeit not easily), however one cannot deny that in the world of Academia, the single sheet of paper with the words “Doctor of Music” printed on it embodies the magical key which opens the Door to Good Salary…

… in North America, that is. In another world called Eastern Europe, University professors with multiple doctorates from multiple countries such as my parents, exist on the very bottom of the economic ladder. For this reason immediately after I decided to become a university professor, I had to reach another decision, namely, to wait until I am of age, and to emigrate.

I have been in music school since age five. At twenty-six I have matriculated in five music schools, graduated from three of them with five degrees in four majors, the Doctorate being the single degree I have not yet obtained. I have had eleven teachers in composition, at least ten in music history and thirteen in analysis. I have been through at least five different systems of music theory, the defendants of most claiming theirs was the only “right” one, therefore forgetting the semantics of the word and changing its meaning to “law”. This brief outline should give you an idea that there is nothing which can happen in a classroom or private lesson setting which can possibly surprise me.

My father has explained to me that one doesn’t go to school for learning per se. “If you want to learn”, he said, “you go to the library, you read a book, you learn. You don’t need a school for that. You go to school to learn about people, to meet people, to interact with people, to get a diploma in order to find a job, to network, to seek out professional opportunities. If people went to school to learn, most would have probably cared about learning and wouldn’t have been so uneducated.”

So I set myself the task to go to school to learn about teaching. I have observed my teachers very closely to learn what to do and what never, ever to do.

Since I was three years old, my nanny, Aunt Nezabravka, came to our house daily. She put my at the piano, she spoke to me in German, she taught me math by making little board games and reading music by drawing music staves in the snow. She came to our house for twelve years, even though for the last five we could not afford to pay her. From her I learned my first subconscious lesson about teaching: selflessness.

In 1994 I traveled with my then composition teacher, “A.” to Japan. Two works of mine were to be played by an orchestra in Tokyo. He was invited not only to coach me how to run a rehearsal, how and when to talk to the conductor, but also, to protect me, a thirteen-year old girl. “A” disappeared the day of my arrival. Later did I find out he stayed at the Bulgarian embassy and took care of his own works being published in Japan at the expenses of the event I was invited to. I did not see him again at that trip until Fate put us next to one another on the return flight to Europe. As I walked to my seat I began screaming in the plane “You are not a gentleman, you are not a good person, you are not a good teacher, and I never ever want to see you again!” Sitting silently next to this man for the next twelve hours I took the opportunity to draw my first conscious conclusions as to what defines a “good teacher” and to draft my first two rules:

1. Put the interests of the student before your own.

2. Never abandon your student in need.

I added more rules to these two when two years later I found myself with a piano teacher, “B”, who never came on time, never paid attention to what I was doing and interrupted my playing whenever she had to make or accept a phone call or whenever someone came in. Aunt Nezabravka had to become my chaperone to assure I wasn’t witnessing anything a child shouldn’t and that I at least did play through my repertoire. Rules 3-5 became as follows:

3. Show up on time.

4. Pay at least one hundred percent attention to the student.

5. Respect the sensitivity of younger people and children and don’t take advantage of them. They will realize it.

One incredible woman, pianist Milena Mollova, rescued me from “B”. Her dedication, passion and love for what she does not only rekindled my passion for making music, but also taught me one lesson about teaching, the importance of which cannot be overemphasized:

6. Make it personal.

It is personal, just as Michael Corleone said in “The Godfather”. Everything is personal. The illusion that there is a border between personal and professional can be maintained for good manners, but only when both parties realize that how personal the teaching-learning process is, how intense and how private the intellectual exchanges can be, can the true magic of learning take place. The really, really good teacher will care enough to invest the very best and very personal in the student and will take the successes and failures of the students very, very personally. Milena Mollova taught me a new level of caring.

I derived rule No. 7 from my solfège and music theory teacher for thirteen years, Rossitza Pravcheva. She taught me everything I know about ear training and developed all my skills. I only stopped lessons in 1999, right before I began my studies in the United States. Rule No. 7 states:

7. Always push your student to new horizons.

The most shining example of teaching genius that I have encountered, my mentor and hero Richard Cornell, the person whom I call “the Greatest Man Alive”, truly defined the Teacher with capital T for me. In 2000 his example revealed to me what defines a great teacher:

8. In a student-teacher relationship, everything, everything, and this truly means everything, must be about the student. The teacher’s side, the effort, the planning, the thought, the risks, the sacrifices, must remain unspoken.

Richard Cornell gave me as many composition lessons per week as I ever cared to request, even if the request came by phone at midnight for the following morning. My requests were shamelessly selfish; my hunger for more and more lessons grew unsatisfying; This man didn’t flinch at my obsessive desire to learn everything there is ever to learn in the shortest possible amount of time at the expense of his time: he was not offended when I called my homework “insultingly easy” and when I openly manipulated him into giving me extra lessons by doing extra work. He taught me three independent studies, defended and promoted my works sometimes at immense detriment for himself, and supported me in every academic and professional endeavor, composition-related or not. I think about him every single time I am about to teach. Studying with Richard Cornell taught me everything I wanted to know about the kind of teacher and the kind of person I wanted to be.

Nobody was ever to match up to Richard Cornell, but ever since, I did add a couple of teaching rules to my list.

Rule 3, revised: Show up, period. Even if it is simply to say “I am sorry, we can’t meet today” or “I am so sorry I kept you waiting.” If you don’t show up thrice in a row your young student may begin to feel devastated, heartbroken and abandoned (see Rule No. 2).

9. Don’t underestimate your student. They may know much more than you dare to assume.

10. Don’t say to the student “You won’t understand”. If the student doesn’t understand it is usually because the teacher explains well. A good teacher will change the nature of presentation to make it understandable for students.

11. Don’t constantly try oh-so-hard to impress your student. The student will think you are pitiful and it only makes you look stupid.

12. Don’t call you student’s region of origin “under-developed countries”. It may actually not be true.

13. Don’t say that composing is a man’s job in a mixed-gender class. The younger generation is less sexist and would stop trusting you. Forever.

14. Come prepared to class. While it is possible to improvise in a beginner’s level class, a class full of Doctoral students will know you didn’t prepare.

15. When a student sends you an e-mail with questions, reply to the questions instead of sending an e-mail back correcting their English and not replying to the questions. This one doesn’t need explanations, I think.

McGill University has given me an incredible opportunity to apply the lessons I have learned about teaching, and I am very grateful for the opportunity to teach regularly since 2004. And while the Door to Good Salary is still firmly closed I am allowed to peak through the keyhole. McGill University has also given me the opportunity to learn about the incredible amount of red tape associated with teaching. The staggering amount of bureaucracy, invisible to students, can exhaust even the most enthusiastic teacher.

McGill’s teaching contract consists of a single letter-sized page listing the course number, the course title and the amount which the instructor is to receive. McGill does not inform first-time instructors about their rights and responsibilities, and does not provide any information about health insurance, school regulations and requirements. The lonely sheet, which is my teaching contract, lists six rules “Ancillary duties” (SIC!!!), among them attending instructor’s meetings and abiding by all Schulich School and University regulations. Navigating through the red tape implied by these seemingly harmless points has proven a Herculean task, as McGill University does not volunteer any of the information which is necessary for following the above instructions and it only surfaces when a seemingly small contradiction develops into an enormous problem. I am not surprised that many long-term university professors become indifferent to what becomes essentially a bureaucratic day job for them. It is easy to lose the poetical and philosophical meaning of Teaching in the day-to-day troubles.

Teaching remains a vocation, a calling for selected inspired persons who are willing to selflessly commit themselves to the guidance of students. Lighting the flame of knowledge cannot simply be achieved by simple dispersing of information; rather it requires the magic touch of a person enlightened in mind and noble in spirit, a person who can assist the student to discover their inner self and their calling. I consider myself extremely fortunate and honoured to have had two true teachers: Richard Cornell and John Harbison.