A Very Elementary Christmas

“Let’s get this started,” the music teacher mumbles into the muted microphone she’s holding. “So we can get it over with.”

Well this should be good.

I’m in the gymnasium at my nephews’ school, sitting on a folding chair next to my sister-in-law and roughly one hundred other parents, all of whom have been summoned to the annual Holiday Sing-Along on the Friday before Christmas break. We’re facing a shallow stage decorated for the event; a lumpy snowman leans against the wall just past stage-right, three white bags stacked on top of each other that look as if they’ve been stuffed with trash collected from the hallways. On the opposite side sits a version of Frosty sold at most Home Depots this time of year, all perky and lit up, his face frozen in a smile like he’s trying to show off.

I already have notes.

I was told there will be two performances; kindergarten through second grade will sing first, followed by the third through fifth graders. As my nephews are in first and third grade, we’re one of the lucky families who will get to stay through both performances.

The younger kids begin to fill the stage shortly after the doors open and the adults file in, quickly grabbing seats and lining the back wall. I spot the top of my nephew’s head in the far corner of the stage, surrounded by a gaggle of other students tugging at the holiday sweaters and antlers and bright vests their parents no doubt wrestled them into earlier this morning.

Each child, except for the kindergartners, holds a stapled packet of papers on which I’m assuming are printed lyrics, even though they’ll be singing well-known holiday songs and not the full Broadway score of Hamilton.

They couldn’t memorize Jingle Bell Rock?

Behind my nephew is a second grader inexplicably clad in an inflatable Christmas tree costume, his tiny head occasionally peering out of a plastic window cutout located just underneath a golden star that sways slightly each time he shifts his weight. I have no idea if this costume is part of the show or just a bold outfit choice for the day, and judging by the quizzical expression on his face every time he surfaces, neither does he.

After the rousing introduction from the music teacher, a fifth grader steps forward to read notes off a music stand, welcoming us with slightly more energy than her teacher had mustered. The parents applaud enthusiastically and the first graders stand to sing.

For the first half of the first line, they manage to stay with the karaoke track before a majority of them race ahead, leaving any sense of beat or rhythm in their wake while the music teacher stands placidly in front of them, swaying her hands as if she’s conducting a four-piece string quartet at a nursing home and not close to forty seven year-olds.

I’m confused.

Growing up, my music teachers were animated and boisterous and took any performance we had dead-seriously; sure, we may have been performing in the school’s stuffy gym, but we were made to feel like it was Carnegie Hall and we practiced like it was our job.

Because it was, and it most certainly was our music teacher’s.

In fourth grade, I was cast to play a disgruntled mall Santa in our holiday show, which I vaguely remember involved a song about how I despised having to deal with kids and their sticky fingers. By the end of the night, my character discovered the magic of Christmas, following the same redemptive arc as Ebenezer Scrooge, only with less abject poverty. We practiced for weeks during music class; first in our classroom and eventually in the school’s small auditorium, and I turned in a performance I’m pretty sure was used as a model years later by Billy Bob Thornton.

Singing and acting and performing are important, and not just because they provide an outlet for kids like myself who would go on to star in world-renowned productions staged entirely in our basements. There’s a reason child development experts recognize performing arts as an integral part of any well-rounded education and after watching close to two hours of what looked more like bored carolers, I’m genuinely astonished how a school in one of the more affluent suburbs in the country hasn’t been overrun by parents clad head to toe in Vouri demanding to see an original piece penned by the creators of Frozen every year.

Or at the very least that their kids be off-book.

I pick my nephews up from school later in the day and as they climb into the car, I ask them how their performances felt.

“Good,” they say from the backseat.

“I saw you and mom,” the youngest one says. “I waved at you.”

I smile and tell them I was so glad I could be there, because moments like these go by far too quickly and before I know it, they’ll be old enough to write critical essays about their nephews’ arts education, most likely held in the metaverse.

On our way back home I think of all the sing-a-longs we’ve had together throughout the years, most recently to the Wicked soundtrack I’ve been playing on repeat every chance I get. Because the good news is no matter what happens at school, Uncle Travis is around to help show them what a performance should actually look like.