Apologies for this being on Lux's website - this was just the easiest way to share this message. This was originally sent on Wednesday, March 11.
Hello Chesapeake Choir Families,
Mr. Napoli, here. For most of you, this is probably your first time hearing from me in quite a while—I’ve been out since Monday, and unfortunately am going to be out for the rest of this week, as much as it pains me to say. But that’s not why I wanted to write to everyone at 9:30pm on a Wednesday night.
I wanted to say something to our kids, since I won’t really be in the classroom to talk things out with anyone, so parents, if you don’t mind, please make sure you show this message to them after you’ve read it! It’s going to be very long, because I have a lot of things to say (as I’m sure many of us do), and because this is addressed to, and affects, something I’m very very passionate about: our community as a choral program.
Everything this week has been a little insane, and that’s putting things lightly—I’m out for the entire week, big events that we’ve been looking forward to for months are being cancelled left and right, and generally it feels like the rug is getting pulled out from under our feet everywhere we turn. I imagine a lot of you are feeling a lot of what I’m feeling: hurt, angry, sad, maybe a little betrayed. I’m not here to tell you that you shouldn’t feel that way. In fact, in many ways, it’s good that you’re feeling this, and most of all for this single reason: it means you care.
You care that the last weekend of the musical was cancelled because you poured your heart and soul into it, because you watched your friends put everything they had into learning choreo, putting sets and lights and sound together, and memorizing lines and songs maybe a little more last-minute than they meant to be. You care that the Orlando trip was cancelled because you’ve built a community with people new and old throughout the school year, and you were ready to go down and spend some time with your best friends and maybe even get to know some other awesome people. You care that our concerts are in jeopardy because we’ve been working our tails off for the entire school year honing our technique, creating a community, finding our group sound, learning to read music, learning new and challenging pieces, and helping each other through the hard stuff. You care because you’ve worked hard for what you have and because that hard work has brought you all together as a family.
If there’s one thing I want you to remember from all of the madness, it’s this: All of the things you worked hard to create—better technique, better friendships, rebuilding a community with a new teacher and director, bringing in new singers and helping them out, forming new friendships, creating our group sound and polishing performances—we haven’t lost any of those things. In fact, as cliché as it is, literally no one can take that away from us. As stressful as preparing a concert is, it’s those moments of struggling together beforehand that make the concert feel as amazing as it does. That process, that struggle, is what makes choir what it is. It’s the dumb little things that nobody thinks about—the outrageous answers to attendance questions, the moments we repeat the same thing over and over and over again JUST because Napoli is obsessed with that one stupid vowel, and those moments where it finally clicks and he screams “YES! DO THAT EVERY TIME!” like a 12-year-old pre-pubescent boy—it’s those things that make us who we are, and what we do. It’s our passion for music and wanting to know and learn and do more. It’s the relationships we build together through making music.
So we can spend all of our time sitting here and blaming people and saying, “well they could have done this and then we would’ve been able to make that performance work still,” or “if so-and-so hadn’t said this then we’d still be able to go,” but realistically none of that matters. What matters is why we chose to do this in the first place, why we’re upset, and why we care so much.
I’m promising you all right now, that even as I’m stuck at home unable to be with you guys, that I’m going to work like crazy to give us something that’s worthwhile to work towards at the end of the year. All I’m going to ask in return is that you work alongside me. I’ve got some ideas, but they’re only going to work if we’re working as a team, and if we use the relationships and musicianship and technique that we’ve built this year and make that last push towards the end of the year. I’ll work my butt off for you if you work your butts off for each other.
I’m so incredibly grateful that I get to work with this community of students, parents, guardians, siblings, family, and friends. You are all amazing human beings, and I want to thank you in advance for your trust in a time of unbelievable uncertainty. Take care of each other, and I’ll see my choir peeps (yes I just said that) as soon as we can.
~Napoli
Hello Chesapeake Choir Families,
Mr. Napoli, here. For most of you, this is probably your first time hearing from me in quite a while—I’ve been out since Monday, and unfortunately am going to be out for the rest of this week, as much as it pains me to say. But that’s not why I wanted to write to everyone at 9:30pm on a Wednesday night.
I wanted to say something to our kids, since I won’t really be in the classroom to talk things out with anyone, so parents, if you don’t mind, please make sure you show this message to them after you’ve read it! It’s going to be very long, because I have a lot of things to say (as I’m sure many of us do), and because this is addressed to, and affects, something I’m very very passionate about: our community as a choral program.
Everything this week has been a little insane, and that’s putting things lightly—I’m out for the entire week, big events that we’ve been looking forward to for months are being cancelled left and right, and generally it feels like the rug is getting pulled out from under our feet everywhere we turn. I imagine a lot of you are feeling a lot of what I’m feeling: hurt, angry, sad, maybe a little betrayed. I’m not here to tell you that you shouldn’t feel that way. In fact, in many ways, it’s good that you’re feeling this, and most of all for this single reason: it means you care.
You care that the last weekend of the musical was cancelled because you poured your heart and soul into it, because you watched your friends put everything they had into learning choreo, putting sets and lights and sound together, and memorizing lines and songs maybe a little more last-minute than they meant to be. You care that the Orlando trip was cancelled because you’ve built a community with people new and old throughout the school year, and you were ready to go down and spend some time with your best friends and maybe even get to know some other awesome people. You care that our concerts are in jeopardy because we’ve been working our tails off for the entire school year honing our technique, creating a community, finding our group sound, learning to read music, learning new and challenging pieces, and helping each other through the hard stuff. You care because you’ve worked hard for what you have and because that hard work has brought you all together as a family.
If there’s one thing I want you to remember from all of the madness, it’s this: All of the things you worked hard to create—better technique, better friendships, rebuilding a community with a new teacher and director, bringing in new singers and helping them out, forming new friendships, creating our group sound and polishing performances—we haven’t lost any of those things. In fact, as cliché as it is, literally no one can take that away from us. As stressful as preparing a concert is, it’s those moments of struggling together beforehand that make the concert feel as amazing as it does. That process, that struggle, is what makes choir what it is. It’s the dumb little things that nobody thinks about—the outrageous answers to attendance questions, the moments we repeat the same thing over and over and over again JUST because Napoli is obsessed with that one stupid vowel, and those moments where it finally clicks and he screams “YES! DO THAT EVERY TIME!” like a 12-year-old pre-pubescent boy—it’s those things that make us who we are, and what we do. It’s our passion for music and wanting to know and learn and do more. It’s the relationships we build together through making music.
So we can spend all of our time sitting here and blaming people and saying, “well they could have done this and then we would’ve been able to make that performance work still,” or “if so-and-so hadn’t said this then we’d still be able to go,” but realistically none of that matters. What matters is why we chose to do this in the first place, why we’re upset, and why we care so much.
I’m promising you all right now, that even as I’m stuck at home unable to be with you guys, that I’m going to work like crazy to give us something that’s worthwhile to work towards at the end of the year. All I’m going to ask in return is that you work alongside me. I’ve got some ideas, but they’re only going to work if we’re working as a team, and if we use the relationships and musicianship and technique that we’ve built this year and make that last push towards the end of the year. I’ll work my butt off for you if you work your butts off for each other.
I’m so incredibly grateful that I get to work with this community of students, parents, guardians, siblings, family, and friends. You are all amazing human beings, and I want to thank you in advance for your trust in a time of unbelievable uncertainty. Take care of each other, and I’ll see my choir peeps (yes I just said that) as soon as we can.
~Napoli