The Instructor Did What?

Reflections From The Bell Curve: Dangling Conversations with Music Lovers

Tomorrow concludes the reprise of a six-hour Paul Simon class I first delivered eight years ago. Of the twenty-three people who signed up for the class, sixteen have taken a previous class of mine, either at the same college or elsewhere. 

Among the things I'm most grateful for is the unbridled enthusiasm this community of repeat students brings to every one of my classes. On more than a few occasions, their enthusiasm - combined with my inexhaustible passion for music - has helped unleash classroom antics that take me by surprise. Although I rarely regret appearing to be semi-possessed in those moments, I do sometimes wonder later what the newer students think about my manic intensity. 

For example, while playing the concluding song in last week's session, I discovered how effortlessly the swivel chair at the front of the classroom moved. With lots of space, my music-loving community all around, and the kinetic horn parts in You Can Call Me Al inspiring me, I was soon spinning around that room like a deranged Fred Astaire, the chair acting as Ginger Rogers, without high-heels. It wasn't until the drive home that I began imagining conversations newer students might have with others if they ever tried to recreate what they'd just seen. The instructor did what?