by Dan Caro
Heartbroken, I went back to class and took my seat across from Mandy. I looked to her for some kind of explanation, but none ever came. That girl never so much as looked at me again, even though we sat near each other. Fortunately, she moved away the following year, but she left an indelible mark on my heart.
So by the time I reached high school, I was understandably uncomfortable around girls my own age and fearful of showing my feelings. Yet the young women in the gifted music class were so nice to me that I began to feel more at ease in their presence and ended up becoming friends with all of them. We studied hard together and learned a lot about musicality … but being the age I was, my mind was naturally not always on the music.
There was one girl in particular who caught my fancy. Fight it as I may, I couldn’t help but develop feelings for her. I didn’t know what the heck to do with those feelings, so I asked some of my buddies what they thought I should do. The consensus was, since it wasn’t too long until Valentine’s Day, I should buy flowers and a card and ask her to the school dance.
It was, as they say, déjà vu all over again. My pals’ advice hurled me back across time, through emotional distress, to the disastrous Valentine’s Day swing-set episode with Mandy. But even though that grade-school wooing attempt had been scratched into my heart as a complete and utter failure, I was willing to risk history repeating itself and hope for a better outcome. After all, I figured, I’m older now, accomplished in my music, and somewhat settled in my once-troubled soul. I can do this! I need to do this!
I mulled over my options for a week, and then I made my move.
HER NAME WAS HELEN, AND SHE WAS GORGEOUS. She had shoulder-length red hair, a face that would make anyone gaze in awe, and skin so perfect that it shone like expensive silk. Like Mandy from the fourth grade, Helen sat directly across from me in our little classroom “closet.” But unlike Mandy, she wasn’t the least bit shy; and when Helen spoke to me, she always smiled in such a way that I was convinced she liked me as much as I liked her.
On Valentine’s Day I bought a big bouquet of red roses on my way to school. Once again, I made sure that I arrived in class before anyone else. I placed a card (store-bought this time) and the flowers down upon my intended’s chair, and then I waited for everyone else to arrive.
The other four girls and Mrs. Gillan filed into the room and, as each one passed by Helen’s chair, a little smile crossed their faces. They all knew that Helen didn’t have a steady beau, and they were excited that she’d received flowers from someone. I acted completely nonchalant, intending to keep my status as a secret admirer safely intact until Helen opened the card. There was a new sensation bubbling up from within me that I can only describe as part delight and part terror.
A few minutes later, Helen entered the room. She picked up the bouquet, pressed it to her face, inhaled deeply, and smiled with her entire being as she opened the card. She appeared a little shocked as her eyes darted across the words, but then she put the flowers down and came over and gave me a big hug. It was the closest I’d been to a girl physically in years, and I was a little befuddled by the contact.
I couldn’t judge the expression on Helen’s face, but as she pulled away I thought I noticed the glimmer of a tear in her eye. Something told me this wasn’t a tear of happiness, however; even though she thanked me again for the wonderful flowers, I had the feeling that something wasn’t quite right. Sure enough, for the rest of the class Helen was not her usual carefree self, and I felt a wave of discomfort creep over me. I couldn’t shake the feeling that perhaps I’d made a blunder—on Valentine’s Day yet again!
After school, I dug up the nerve to call Helen to see what she had to say about “us.” The news was just as I’d feared: She only wanted to be friends. She liked me very much, but she didn’t feel “that way” about me and wasn’t interested in pursuing a romantic relationship. As I hung up the phone, I could feel myself sinking into a fitful depression. How was it possible that I could have forgotten the lesson Mandy had beaten into me so many years before? Had I learned nothing about the folly of pursuing a girl on Valentine’s Day? What the hell was I thinking?
I had the entire weekend to get my dejected spirit together again for Monday’s class. Thankfully, seeing Helen wasn’t as awkward as I’d imagined it would be. She was as sweet as pie to me, as if nothing uncomfortable had passed between us. I, however, needed a little time to fully regain my composure and recover from the humiliation I’d experienced. In fact, it took me several weeks to get my head together. But it could have been much worse if I hadn’t had all sorts of other inner turmoil to occupy myself with.
I mean, with all of the questions I was still wrangling with about the Catholic faith, the existence of God, the purpose of life itself, and the difficulties I had to overcome trying to establish myself as a professional musician, Helen’s rejection didn’t really overwhelm me in the end. But it did add to a lingering depression that would follow me throughout high school, especially where girls were concerned.
I was playing music all the time and thriving with the Rain Dogs, but a part of me felt like it was missing. I needed more than mere social interaction; I wanted a girlfriend. Unfortunately, I wouldn’t find a girl of my own until later on in my life. Patience has never been a strong suit of mine, but sometimes the universe teaches us that the more we hurry, the longer we end up having to wait for what we most want.
NOT LONG AFTER MY SECOND EMOTIONAL Valentine’s Day massacre, the gifted music program expanded into two classes. Helen was moved into the other class, but Cathy joined our small group. Thank goodness I’m a slow learner when it comes to women because, even though I kept striking out, I kept going up to bat to try again.
I developed a huge crush on Cathy, as I had with Helen—and just like Helen, Cathy told me that she just wanted to be friends. Fortunately, this time I was smart enough not to broach the question of going steady, or even going on a date, on another Valentine’s Day. I’d waited until the end of the school year to approach Cathy, which meant that when I was rejected, I didn’t have to sit beside her for the rest of the semester. I’d also have the entire summer vacation to privately lick my wounds.
I thrust my energies back into music again and told myself to forget about girls and focus on being the best drummer I could be. I was still messing around with pot and booze (being in the world of jazz and rock ’n’ roll, I was exposed to them both a lot), but I did my best not to fall too deeply into that hole. In fact, when it came to marijuana, I realized that I really didn’t need it to fit in. I’d honestly never liked it that much anyway, often smoking it just because everyone else around me was. I’d been using pot for quite a while by this point, but I now made the decision to knock it off completely and forever. Music would be my drug of choice, and nothing would ever match the high I got from practicing hard or playing well.
My relationship with my parents was still on shaky ground when it came to school, but it was slowly improving. I now look back and thank God that I had my music to lead me through whatever darkness I encountered. Catholicism wasn’t working for me anymore, and the large questions about life still rang incessantly in my mind. I continued to harbor a smoldering nugget of anger toward God that I’d been forced to grow up so different.
So many kids my age were concerned with looks and how they appeared, and I doubt they ever took a moment to place themselves in my shoes. I couldn’t blame them for the things they thought were important. Even if what they valued seemed petty and shallow to me, who was I to judge? I’m sure they had their own doubts and were struggling to live up to who they thought they should be, or who others expected them to be. It was normal, really.
At a certain age I realized that I’d never be the same as any of them, ever. That’s how I came to embrace a forward-moving life, using my music to pave the way. As I moved forward, I began to see that being burned had been a gift. If there really was a “road less traveled,” then my accident had put me on that road.
Higher Learning
They say that when a student is ready, the teacher appears. Soon I was to be both student and teacher.
After graduating from high school, I enrolled in Southeastern Louisiana University (SLU). It was about 30 miles from home, which meant that I could commute. I’d learned to drive by this point, which had given me much more freedom. I was now able to get to gigs on my own and could cruise around and have quiet time to think when life became too hectic.
I’d also been asked by the director of bands at SLU to audition for a scholarship. He didn’t pass out such invitations often, but he did ask me to try out after visiting my high school near the end of my senior year.
The night before the audition, I was nervous. I was required to play a timpani piece; a snare-drum solo; and the marimba, which is similar to a xylophone. I’d never played the marimba before, so just prior to the audition I sight-read a short piece, figured out how to conquer the instrument, and nailed it at the performance.
A few weeks later, a letter arrived telling me that I’d been accepted and they were offering me a full scholarship! This was a great help since most of my income came from doing odd jobs at my dad’s office, the occasional paying gig, and giving drum lessons at a nearby music store.
I hadn’t been in a great frame of mind when I started giving these lessons. When I was onstage, I felt alive; away from my drums, I was still having trouble dealing with the hassles of everyday life, which would get my spirits down. But I’ve learned that to be a good teacher, you simply need to be open to the positive energy in the universe. In doing so, sometimes even the teacher becomes the student.
MY FRIEND RANDY OWNED A MUSIC STORE, and he asked if I’d like to get paid to teach some of his customers to play the drums. Needing the money, I figured, What better job could there be than to teach people the thing I love most?
Things were going along fine, until one morning when Randy called up to say he had a very special student for me. He requested that I come down right away, so I raced down to the shop. On my way inside, I practically tripped over a guy in a wheelchair who’d positioned himself in the middle of the doorway. I remember being annoyed that he was in my way and I had to squeeze around him to get inside to my student.
“Danny, I’m glad you’re here,” Randy said as I entered the shop. “I want you to meet your new student, Al. He’s here for his first lesson.”
I looked around the store but didn’t see anyone except the irritating guy in the wheelchair. Turning back to Randy, I shrugged my shoulders and held out my arms, oblivious. “Where?”
“Right here. Danny, meet Al.”
I looked down at the guy sitting limply in his wheelchair a few feet away. I nodded blankly in his direction, then put my arm on Randy’s shoulder and steered him toward the back of the store. “Are you serious, man?” I whispered in his ear. “That guy is my student? You’ve gotta be kidding! What are you thinking?”
“You said you wanted to teach drums, didn’t you?” Randy retorted, once we were out of Al’s earshot. “Well, Al wants to learn to play drums. He’s your student; you’re his teacher. So go teach.”
My next complaint echoed words I’d heard about myself a thousand times: “There’s just no way … I can’t teach the drums to somebody who barely sits up and drools all over himself. Just look at him! The guy’s paralyzed!”
“What’s the matter with you?” Randy asked in disbelief. “Don’t you remember what it took for you to learn how to play? Do you think the world thought you would be a great drummer one day?”
I bit my tongue and put my ego in check, but maybe not enough. For some reason, I was angry that Randy would even think to ask me to teach drums to a person who probably couldn’t hold the sticks much less beat out a tempo. Sighing heavily, I looked my friend right in the eye and said, “All right, I’ll give it a shot. But if he doesn’t respond, I’m done.”
I wandered back over to Al, introduced myself, and vowed to make the best of it. I wheeled him to the far end of the store and into the practice studio where I’d set up two drum kits—one for the student, and one for me. I watched him as he sat in his chair admiring the set before him.
Al was a quadriplegic. On top of that, he wasn’t able to talk—he had a computer with him that he typed on by moving a plastic stick along the keyboard with his chin, which would then “speak” whatever he’d typed in. Where the hell was I supposed to begin? The man couldn’t sit in his chair without sliding toward the floor; the idea of him just holding a drumstick seemed out of the question.
Over the course of that first hour-long lesson, we didn’t even try to play drums. Instead, we just got to know each other a little. I figured I had to know what had happened to him, what his ability was, and all that kind of stuff before I set up a game plan.
I asked questions, and Al typed his answers. Listening to the mechanical voice of his talking computer, he told me the following: he’d been in a car accident ten years before; he was left paralyzed below the neck, other than some slight use in his lower arms and left hand; he was unable to speak; and, moreover, he’d suffered severe head trauma that left him with the mental capacity of a ten-year-old. The more he told me, the more I thought, Man, I better give this guy his money back… .
But when our session was over and Al’s nurse/ assistant arrived to pick him up, I asked her to bring him back again the next day. That’s when I finally let him attempt to hold a drumstick. Al had been a guitar player before his accident, so he did have some musical sense buried deep inside his near-lifeless body. Maybe there was hope after all! (Or, I hoped there was hope.)
During that second session, Al was able to hold the stick with his left hand. But his grip was so weak that, as I watched him attempt to tap on the snare, I became immediately discouraged. I wanted to be a better teacher—wanted not to feel the way I was feeling—but I couldn’t help myself. I was afraid that I couldn’t help an individual with such severe limitations play an instrument again.
When Al left that second day, he hadn’t made one solid drumbeat during our hour together. I went to talk to Randy. “I don’t think I can do this. It’s too much … the guy can hardly hold a stick. He can’t do anything,” I said flatly.
Boy, did Randy give it to me good when he heard that. “You’re the most selfish person I have ever met,” he shot back. “Don’t you remember all the help and support you got when you began? You couldn’t hold a stick in the beginning either—not for an entire month!”
That did it. I flew out of the store, jumped in my car, and burned rubber out of the parking lot. I went home and locked myself away with my drum set and played for hours, until every muscle in my body was aching and screaming for me to stop … and I kept going.
All the while I was thinking about Al, my own humble beginnings, and the world I’d carved out for myself on the music scene. Here I was, certainly not the picture of perfection, being judgmental about someone who I had more in common with than with many so-called able-bodied people. Had I so quickly forgotten my own struggles as a beginner and become so arrogant and ignorant?
I flopped down on my bed, exhausted and sweating, and looked up toward God or whatever force was out there in the universe. It was time to find my humility again, or I’d never be able to move on with my own growth—emotionally, professionally, or spiritually.
The next day I went to Randy and apologized for my behavior. I thanked him for pointing out the level of my selfishness and asked him to book Al for more lessons. In the coming months, I’d teach my student the same way I learned, figuring out how to hold the drumsticks in a way that would work for him.
I told Al that there wouldn’t be any actual drumming at first. We were just going to focus on his life force, on finding a way for him to move the necessary fingers just enough to hold on to the stick—in other words, to accomplish something that most people would consider impossible. I knew that I just had to get Al to see the big picture, one
tiny pixel at a time. If I could, then over the course of our lessons he’d finally find his way: he’d discover his own sound, his own tempo, and maybe even a new life. It was the least I could do—the most I could do!—to help a guy who just wanted to play the drums.
For months we barely made any progress, even though all I did was try to get him to focus on moving his fingers. We tried everything, eventually even employing some meditation techniques I’d taught myself. It might seem a bit loony, but tapping into all of the positive energy we could find really worked.
One morning, after spending four months trying to get a finger on Al’s left hand to move, it began to twitch. At first I thought it was a spasm or something, but I could see in his eyes that Al felt it, and that he knew something momentous had just happened. He began to weep, and a surge of joyous energy ran up my spine and buzzed through my head.
Within a month or so, my student was holding a drumstick and even tapping the drumhead a few times. It was remarkable, but the drumming became secondary to what was really going on: a sort of spiritual healing that was transferring into this man’s atrophied muscles and bones. By the end of the year, Al had defied all of the doctors who’d told him he’d never walk again—he had actually gotten up and was able to move around using a walker! Before long, he was even starting to speak. They may have only been monosyllabic words, but they were words nonetheless.
In the years to come, I’d often look back at Al’s desire to play the drums despite the fact that so many others, including myself, had said it was impossible. He’s the perfect example of the student teaching the teacher, and a testament to the power of positive thinking—something I was going to have to do a lot of myself in the months ahead.
ONE OF THE MOST FRUSTRATING walls of discrimination I’d face in my life was erected in the very place where personal freedom and open-mindedness are supposedly most encouraged—college.
