High School Reunion

I was the third (ever) graduating class from the Perpich Center for Arts Education (then the Minnesota Center for Arts Education). It is a statewide, public high school for grades 11 and 12 with an emphasis in the arts. An audition is required and competition to get accepted is high.

I loved music but was poorly trained, my family was a hard working blue collar type, going back many generations. I was the first person to be able to read music, let alone play an instrument in as many generations. Even so, I nervously decided to pursue what I believed was my only shot to have a life in music that my family’s circumstances could afford. After several months of waiting, I received word. I had won the lottery.

The PCAE is sprawled out on the old Lutheren College in Golden Valley, the dormitory guarded lovingly by Mary P., small pond at its center, a magnet for geese. My class was a little over a hundred students divided between six artistic disciplines (dance, theater, literary arts, visual arts, media arts and music). Dancers moved about in smooth strides, long pale necks exposed below messy buns, chins up. Literary students sat against tree trunks, quiet and reflective, creators of countless worlds as they scribbled in their journals.

Music students. Well, most of the time you could find us alone in a practice room. Or maybe with a few others in a practice room. Our hours of work never revealed until the few minutes in performance where-- with hearts racing, stomachs churning, fingers hot with sweat or stiff with cold, praying we will hit that run, and for God’s sake, make your entrance-- it could be utterly glorious, or depressingly ho-hum. Both of which we had all experienced, always hoping for the former instead of the latter.

As my 20th reunion approaches, my inabilty to go, I reflect on my time there.

From my arts education, passionate men and women who lit us up, igniting us by their own bright torches, I learned the belief and driver that is at the heart of every artist; it is not about the having, it is about the contributing. That first you must find your passions, then you must fuel them, allow them to evolve, or you will loose the best parts of yourself.

What I gained from my academic teachers, who were every bit as passionate as my specialist counterparts, does not pale against my artist growth. On the contrary, they laid the copper foundation down, so I could begin to patina. Imagine:

Desks arranged in a large circle in Social Studies class, none of us able to hide, the teacher asking what we thought would have happened if the South had won the Civil War instead? Young students, stammering their resistance at the question, that’s not what happened. His rebuttal, but what if.

What they taught me was not so much the facts and formulas, although Mrs. Dorsey did try her best in math, rather the value of independent thinking. To identify, then break away from, ingrained societal norms and examine what I am presented in life with a critical mind. This one skill I have been able to use again and again, in countless situations. It’s allowed me to approach problems of all kinds with creativity, bravely and with optimism.

Since graduation, my life has turned out differently than what I thought it would be. Though I never made it as an artist, some have, and the weight of their laurels are just a tiny bit heavier, their crowns just a little bit brighter, as their successes are celebrated by me in proxy.

Homecoming Queen, Star Athlete, Nerd -- or Talented, we all had different names, back then. If we’re lucky, we have new ones that we’ve added on over time; spouse, parent, professional-- and other works in progress.

And if you’re really lucky, you have learned along with me from wizened men and women in Golden Valley, to never be afraid to ask, what if.

To learn more about the Perpich Center for Arts Education, go to www.mcae.k12.mn.us