I blanched at the smashed cars, screaming sirens, and Flight for Life helicopter that blew up grit and twisted the air. Meanwhile, from the sidelines, huddled in eerily quiet groups, teenagers bore witness to the carnage.
Each spring during prom week, firefighters, actors, students and my fellow faculty members enacted this scene on the high school football field.
It was a theater of death.
The afternoon was intended to shock some, remind others and beg all to refrain from driving drunk on prom night.
The students’ stadium behavior was unlike any other time. No shouts — friend to friend — across the yard lines. No dance moves, pulsing, swaying atop a bleacher bench. No face paint or crazy costumes.
Familiar with surly sneers and sassy hair flips, I barely recognized the reverence I observed. Apparently, even teenagers were susceptible to a shrieking reminder of vulnerability.
The event lasted an hour, and then I returned to teaching music, theater and dance.
Most of my days involved warmups, harmonies, accompaniments and concerts. It seemed so important. In retrospect, perhaps more important were the counselors’ tips about individual students: ”She’s fragile right now.” Or ”He was bullied at his last school.” Or ”He needs a place like choir.”
Most people don’t see schools as life-saving institutions, but I sometimes witnessed life’s most fragile moments: The student who overdosed. The student whose car skidded on ice, leaving them with a halo screwed to their skull. The student who triggered a 7 a.m. faculty meeting where I received a script to break news of his suicide to my freshmen, all of whom seemed much too young for such words.
After each event, I felt the pull to nurture and parent. To mitigate the pressure to be thin. To erase the bullies’ taunts and mean girls’ scorn. To create a safe space, if only for a few hours, because experience taught me some kids might hold a tenuous grasp on life.
Some of my choir kids sang all four years. I worked with their dads in the scene shop. I sewed with their moms in the costume shop. I attended cast parties in their rec rooms, and when we toured, I checked for booze in their New York City hotel rooms. Some weeks, I spent more hours with students than with my family.
In any long-term relationship, secrets are shared. That’s what happened in the circle.
Circle began 30 minutes before every musical theater show — a time to rev up for the performance. A few sopranos would gather at the piano. Soon, altos, tenors and basses added on. The more that joined in, the stronger the smell of sweat on polyester, foot funk in Capezios and the burned singe of hair left too long in a curling iron. After warmups, everyone, including me, sat cross-legged on the floor.
Seniors took over with pep talks, secret rituals, last-minute reminders and a pony dance.
But with each consecutive show — as long days, late nights and early mornings accumulated — stress loosened the tongue’s filter. Encouragement turned into confessions, and reminders gave way to personal truths. The kid who rarely spoke might talk about the scars inside their wrist. One of the leads might share her struggle with anorexia. The loud, arrogant boy might tell the group he’d been depressed.
Music’s power is documented to enhance intellect, promote emotional development and increase well-being. But there was also value in the group itself: the camaraderie within sections, the fellowship from long, bumpy bus rides, the goodwill in singing for senior citizens.
Even with support, some kids failed to make friends. They reverted to past behaviors and were expelled. Or their situation precluded change: unstable home life, substance abuse, neglect.
There were successes too. They may read as insignificant or normal, but for at-risk kids, small wins were victories. The boy who graduated and attended college. The girl who found friends and then helped another student fit in. The young person who filed for legal emancipation and lived independently.
The Journal of Child Psychology and Psychiatry reported in 2023 that “school connectedness [is] related ... to lower likelihood of suicide attempts.” Circle convos provided anecdotal evidence: the quiet kid, the leading lady, the confident-but-depressed boy often thanked the group for friendship and acceptance.
As for drunken-driving accidents, the Insurance Institute for Highway Safety reports 65% fewer teens died from auto accidents in 2023 than in 1975. I’d like to believe nationwide drunken-driving simulations like the ones we did at my school contributed to those statistics.
Since my retirement 10 years ago, pressures on kids have only increased: the social media bullying, the allure of drugs and alcohol, and the societal expectations of success.
Pressures have increased for educators too, with a far-right drive to limit speech and turn teachers into little more than robots who dispense facts. School boards and politicians attempt to control classroom content through gag orders on positive signage, pronouns, books and language.
The far-right has it wrong. Teaching is about more than facts and figures, and teachers care about more than academic progress. They keep a stash of protein bars for the kid with no lunch. They stay past the bell when a tearful student asks for advice. And in many states, they remain alert for abuse or neglect because teachers are lawfully mandated reporters. Teachers know a caring relationship promotes motivation, engagement and positive behavior — and that’s when learning happens.
Despite challenges, the teachers I know still welcome every student, encourage independent thinking and honor individuality. They still chaperone prom, contact the psychologist about vulnerable students and organize college essay workshops. They consider not only math, science or the arts, but also the silent struggles and unseen battles — the equally essential elements of education. The teachers I know are already planning next spring’s preprom enactment or next winter’s musical — each night preceded, as always, by a circle.
Nancy Jorgensen is a Wisconsin-based writer, educator and collaborative pianist. Her essays appear in Next Avenue, Ms. Magazine, The Offing, Wisconsin Public Radio and elsewhere. Her most recent book is a middle-grade sports biography, “Gwen Jorgensen: USA’s First Olympic Gold Medal Triathlete” (Meyer & Meyer). Find out more at NancyJorgensen.weebly.com and follow her on Instagram @NancJoe.
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