Life Transitions Offer Wisdom for Organizational Transition

By Jeremy Dittus, Marla Majett, Diane Slone, Kelly Williamson, Katherine Wood

It has been said that every person’s life is worth a novel. One of the differences between real life and a novel is that the novel is written down—completed—with all of its chances and changes resolved. In real life, change is ongoing. Whether small or large, most people spend their lives leaving one way of doing and being and entering another. In the midst of the change, we seldom name or pay much attention to the time in between. As the Suzuki Association of the Americas transitions from its first half-century to the next, several members reflect on life transitions, from geographic and cultural moves to transitions after death, retirement, and property loss. These authors offer glimpses of what can be tough and what can help.

I Do Believe That We Shall Overcome

By Marla Majett

Change is not always something that we readily embrace. It is occasionally marked by a crossroads where you have to make a major decision that changes the trajectory of your life. To make the transition successfully requires courage fueled by hope.

Like many others, my life has changed a lot over the past two years. My crossroads experience began with a text message I received from one of my brothers while I was recovering from pneumonia. My oldest brother was in the hospital with COVID-19. He had been on tour with his jazz band right as the country was shutting down due to the pandemic. When they returned, he was immediately admitted to the hospital.

My brother’s health declined, and he was put on a ventilator to breathe. We were unable to visit him during his transition. Our only connection to him on his final day was through phone calls. We could not even have a homegoing service for him. 

He was a multi-award-winning jazz musician who had the privilege of being mentored by jazz legends throughout his career, including Miles Davis, Dizzy Gillespie, Max Roach, Art Blakey, Chick Corea, and Clark Terry. Being part of their legacy is what drove him toward the road of excellence. When my brother passed away, it felt as if my personal link to the cultural heritage of African-American music slipped through my hands. 

As an African-American who has struggled with reconciling my presence in the world of classical music, the pandemic hit me very hard psychologically. I felt a level of guilt from losing the connection with our African-American musical legacy that my oldest brother represented. However, his spirit is still close to me as I have renewed my commitment to bringing cultural relevance to my teaching. He also taught me the importance of learning how to improvise while keeping the big picture in front of us. That is the very thing that allows us to manage life’s obstacles.

Despite the grief of losing my brother, I was desperate to push forward. Sitting at the computer teaching online was challenging as my heart ached and my gut burned in pain. It was still difficult to breathe. However, the positive support of other Suzuki teachers across the Americas not only made these transitions bearable—but gave me hope. 

In April of 2020, the world finally took notice of the racism that Black people continue to face through the death of George Floyd. As we were forced to watch everything unfold, it was difficult to ignore the racism that this man faced as he could not breathe.

The SAA Board held a town hall meeting to address the issues of racism in our own organization. I was among the Black teachers to share my challenging experiences as a former Suzuki student and now a Suzuki teacher. Again, the level of support from other teachers was overwhelming as people acknowledged that there were things about our Suzuki communities that needed to change. 

Numerous people called on the SAA to hire a DEIA consultant to identify ways our organization could improve for the sake of Black teachers and families. People also called for effective DEIA training for Suzuki teachers and diversification of the Suzuki curriculum. Although this has not happened yet in the SAA, I have resolved to do what I can through the work of Kulea Music Institute (KMI). 

Prior to the pandemic, I launched a nonprofit that aimed to create an empowering environment for both teachers and students—most notably those from the BIPOC community. In Swahili, Kulea means to lovingly nurture. Although it is based on the Suzuki approach, KMI is also committed to making music more relevant to students by using African-American cultural influences. Most importantly, KMI is led by a diverse group of people who understand the power of music to bring people together. As stakeholders of the African-American arts community, our group has a very important role in carrying out this vision. 

As the summer of 2020 ended, the pandemic was still raging, and music instructors were still struggling with online teaching. I organized an event through KMI asking Black teachers who were former Suzuki students to present their ideas to other teachers in an online seminar. Over 70 appreciative teachers attended.

Change cannot happen until one looks into the mirror and recognizes one’s potential. It also requires an honest assessment of oneself. The hardest part of this journey is evaluating oneself as we strive to remain true to our mission. Although we try to make changes for the good of the community, there are no guarantees that things will get easier—instead, we can expect more challenges. Making successful transitions requires courage and hope. It involves confronting our pain, releasing it, and burning it in the fire. As we take this transitional journey, we are guided by the wisdom of those who came before us—like Dr. Suzuki. 

The Kulea Music Institute finally had an in-person cello workshop for the first time since the pandemic began. The workshop took place in Atlanta, Georgia. The students had the experience of meeting Civil Rights photographer Jim Alexander and viewing a collection of his works. All of the instructors were Black.

The day ended with a beautiful concert as the Suzuki repertoire was accompanied by an accomplished gospel pianist who added improvisatory touches to the music. The final selection was “We Shall Overcome,” played in an improvisational manner by the students. The audience gave them a standing ovation. At that point, I sensed my deceased brother was close by, blowing into his trumpet the sounds of freedom. I could hear him ask, “Wouldn’t it be great for more young people to experience this level of hope?”

Reflections During Times of Change and Transition

By Kathy Wood

As the Suzuki Association of the Americas embarks on a period of rejuvenation with a new CEO, I’ve reflected on other transitions I’ve been through in my 45-year Suzuki career. A couple in particular delivered lessons that I believe will be helpful as we move forward.

A loss

The first major transition I experienced was when I took over the studio of a young Suzuki teacher who had just died of cancer. The parents and students were grieving. I quickly realized that, although I was the new element in the situation, I could not be the focus of attention. I had to be secure in myself and give those who had worked and studied with the teacher time to grieve before they would be ready to move on. My students and I honored their former teacher during every lesson.

There comes a moment in every transition when you realize that the old is gone and the new is inevitable. Reflecting on the elements of what you’re leaving behind can help you set goals for what’s ahead.

Another loss

A second transition happened many years later while I was the Suzuki program director at a large community music school. In close succession, we lost our executive director and our building, which had been the school’s home for nearly a century. The program directors were dealing with concern over the losses, but also fear: Would we be able to keep the school alive? Would students stick with us through the transition?

As the new board and program directors united, collective creativity flourished. The board raised $25 million for a new state-of-the-art building within a few years. We worked with faculty to encourage them to build programs in areas they were passionate about, including Music Therapy, an Alzheimer’s Choir, Songwriting, and online teaching that continues to reach students worldwide. These innovative new programs allowed the school not only to survive, but to flourish. When our former building was sold, 4,500 students were enrolled; currently, the school has 15,000 registrants. The programs we developed out of that intense crisis succeeded beyond what we could envision at the time.

Lessons learned

Change is often good and necessary. It can lead to innovation. It’s appropriate to grieve for what’s gone and reflect on the past, as well as to accept fear. Then, put fear aside so collective creativity has space to flourish.

A well-functioning group is supported when members feel empowered to use their individual talents toward a common mission. Our goals are like an unseen mountaintop. The switchbacks along the way allow us to get there even though we spend most of the journey zigzagging toward the peak. This journey requires patience, persistence, honest dialogue, transparency, courage, and trust.

The SAA can flourish, too, as we aim toward the mountain top. By working together, the new CEO, the board, and the membership can continue to develop a path forward to achieve Dr. Suzuki’s vision: a love of beauty through music and respect for all children. 

The Gifts of Transition

By Kelly Williamson

Like many people, I have experienced a number of major transitions throughout my life. The first occurred at five years old when my parents decided to move our family from Jamaica to Canada during a period of political instability and violence. They left their family, friends, and half a lifetime of memories; my sister and I acquired the same uprootedness without the security of identity and connection to some eight generations of our ancestors which my parents brought with them.

As immigrants do, my parents connected with other Jamaicans in Calgary. On road trips, we sang the Jamaican national anthem. At New Year’s, we would have a big party at my “Uncle” Tony and “Auntie” Cecille’s house, where all ages gathered together to eat traditional dishes. My sister and I amused ourselves by mixing drinks for the adults while the fathers took turns asking the elder ladies to dance. We may have grown up in Canada and made Canadian friends, but our hearts beat to reggae music. I have often joked that if someone cuts me, they will find that Scotch bonnet pepper runs in my veins! As we grew older, we saw several of our younger cousins in Jamaica struggle with a choice to leave, which was never theirs, and for which they never really understood the motivation. 

Perhaps this rootlessness made another transition easier, when I chose to move to Montreal when I was 17 to attend McGill University. It didn’t hurt that I also had a much stronger motivation to cut loose and find my own place.

As a child, I was very sensitive and shy and escaped into books, imagination, and reading through my mother’s library of piano music. In junior high school, I was bullied by a gang of mean girls for several months. I remember sitting in my chair as they surrounded and taunted me—physically, my body was at my desk, but my mind was as far away as I could send it. In high school, I participated in flute and piano lessons at the conservatory. I sang in three choirs, played in the youth and school orchestras, and thrived academically. Socially, I separated myself from my peers. Even when performing in the madrigal choir, I felt frozen inside—so much so that I got dropped from that group because I couldn’t open up to express the music on stage. As the mean girls had said, my face looked dead. I didn’t think I deserved to be invited to the parties the other music students would tell me about, although part of me wondered why I wasn’t asked.

When I moved to Montreal, it was a huge relief to get away from the baggage of those situations. However, I also decided that I was sick of feeling conspicuous and self-conscious. I was going to a different place, and I was going to be different. This transition was not only an opportunity; it was empowering—the permission to take control of my own life.

I decided to practically live in the common room at the dorm despite my own discomfort. That way, if some activity was going down, I would be part of it! I made friends and was included with the small group of mostly jazz musicians in the coed dorm. We went out to clubs to listen to music. I practiced every night in the basement of the dorm, where someone would regularly drop by to tell me that everyone was going for donuts or invite me to play hooky in some other way. I can’t even describe my gratitude and the subsequent changes in my confidence and outlook. I began to learn to trust people, and even to trust myself.

When my students are facing challenges of their own, I sometimes tell them this story. We have a choice with how we meet change—we can hold tight to what we knew, and even who we used to be, or we can lean into the transition. Maybe we can choose the manner or degree of our adaptation. Maybe we don’t choose to change, and instead, flex our muscles to change the world around us! Transition is always an opportunity for reflection, growth, and gaining new skills or refining old ones. It is never stagnant. It also takes time—that fact alone requires acceptance. But through times of transition, we find out who we are and what we are truly capable of.

Improvising Our Way Through Transitions

By Dr. Jeremy Dittus, Diplôme Supérieur

In the art of improvisation, we create music of varying moods, characters, and emotions. We need to put these different elements in dialogue with one another, and that brings up one of the most important and challenging elements in music: transitions. Without transitions, music would feel somewhat one-dimensional and lack excitement, direction, and drama. But transitions are tricky to negotiate, as any improviser will tell you. We require courage and conviction to let go of a musical idea and change to a new one; it’s a little scary and a little exciting all at once. 

As with so many things in the musical realm, the challenging nature of transitions rings true in our personal lives. Recently, my family uprooted from Denver, Colorado, and landed in Dallas, Texas. When my husband and I began to share this information, people responded with wide eyes and a bewildered tone, “But why?!” The truth is, as much as I loved our friends and the crisp mountain air, I craved a change in my own life. Though I cherished my students and the beautiful community in Colorado, I realized the need for a shift in my musical life to move forward as an artist, husband, and person. This transition would probably be bumpy, but I wouldn’t feel fulfilled living in the status quo.

When Dalcrozians improvise music for movement, movers can grow complacent if they move to the same style of music for too long, and they may stop listening carefully. Even without saying so directly, improvisers can see it when it happens. When I change from a lush, romantic style to something stark and austere, like the quartal-quintal palettes of Copland, the movement quality changes for the movers. They begin to listen differently and refocus their attention anew, not for any other reason than because of the change itself. When I return to the romantic-style music, it now feels comforting and familiar, like a warm sweater on a cold day. Movers compare what they hear and how they move; they notice new musical elements as a direct result of these transitions. In this way, transitions can welcome a breath of fresh air into the room while renewing the energy of the movers. Of course, transitions can be quite challenging for the improviser to negotiate, and sometimes the movers struggle with these passages. They need the support of the improvised music to guide them, colleagues to offer a helping hand, and confidence from their instructor that they can do it! 

My transition to Texas mirrored this behavior—from complacency to a new beginning. Though it has been decidedly challenging, I am grateful to my wonderful colleagues at the Suzuki Music Institute of Dallas for welcoming and supporting me and the Dalcroze School of the Rockies into its new home. My husband and I are also finding our way in a new city, meeting new friends together, and relying on one another in a way that has strengthened our bond. The transition hasn’t been simple, but it has been enriching, and I am thankful for the opportunity.

The SAA is feeling the rub of transitions right now. There have been and will be growing pains, bumps, and obstacles for sure. I hope that the SAA leadership will continue to listen and respond to members’ concerns while steering this massive, beautiful ship and keeping it on course. I hope that our membership will continue to rely on one another for support, find the courage and conviction to see through the struggle, and remain open to new possibilities. With open dialogue and a willingness to succeed, I believe that the SAA will emerge as a stronger and healthier community. I look forward to the process. We can do it!

There Is No ‘One True Way’

By Diane Slone

Others may think I’m addicted to transition. After all, in addition to multiple moves to and from Japan, my career has included jobs in eight different schools and Suzuki programs in the United States and Hong Kong.

Each of these moves has included both a transition to and a transition from, bringing excitement and curiosity, along with grief. In truth, I don’t actually think I’m addicted to transitions. I find them uncomfortable on both sides. Closure is not my favorite thing and I hate saying goodbye. While I am excited about what is to come, I also am aware that there is so much I don’t know. That lack of knowledge brings with it some anxiety and discomfort.

Curiosity is a good companion during a transition. That desire to learn is my fuel: What can I learn from this experience? What is the culture like in this place? How will it be different from what I’m used to?

In Carrie Reuning-Hummel’s Time to Practice: A Companion for Parents, she relays a story about learning how to help her daughter transition from one thing to another. Part of the process involves preparing her daughter for what will happen: “I’ll pick you up at X, and I’ll call to let you know when it’s almost time.” Another part is knowing what will come next: “After I pick you up, we’ll go to…” She also acknowledges that it will be difficult for her daughter to leave what she is doing.

As a teacher and director, I’ve experienced multiple transitions with students, families, and teachers. The best situations flowed along the lines of Carrie’s learning: the person leaving decided well in advance. Students, staff, and families had the opportunity to celebrate their experience with the person who was leaving, wish them well, and then begin to open themselves to the new experience and teacher.

Although I’ve moved between countries several times, the moves that have been the most difficult for me were when I joined the staff at a school or program where I was the only new person joining a team with its own well-developed culture and way of doing things. Everyone else was already part of the culture and understood how things were done, so no one thought to teach me. Since I was moving from Suzuki school to Suzuki school, none of us really realized that there were things I would need to learn…we’re all Suzuki teachers, so this should be easy, right? Because there was no process of transition, I spent quite a lot of time with my foot in my mouth, trying to figure out the “right way.”

Renowned Cello Teacher Trainer and former CEO of the ISA Gilda Barston once said something that I have found helpful with all types of transition. When speaking of transfer students, Gilda said that if all members of the Suzuki Triangle were doing their best every day, it took a year for a transfer student to become “hers.” By extension, if any member of the triangle was not fully engaged in the process, the transition would take longer.

Whether working with a transfer student, family, or staff member, I try to keep this in mind. I also try to be intentional about acknowledging where they may be in their process and where I am in mine. I provide consistent support and information and an understanding of the importance of the experiences that have brought them to our time together. Just as there is no “one true way” to be a Suzuki teacher, there is no one pathway or timeframe for transition. I try to be respectful of that—with myself as well as with student families and teachers.