His name was Jack King. Actually, I’m not sure if it’s “was” or “is.” After a person passes on, goes to glory, dies, is their name still theirs? I’d say yes because when I say the name “Jack King,” for me he’s still alive in rich memories from a half century passed.
He was my high school band teacher. His wife, Becky, taught English, and in my four years of high school, they transformed my life, and I was just one of many.
As I write this Monday, Jack’s funeral is today. Wish I could be there. I just couldn’t swing time away from a job at a critical point. Hope he and Becky know that I’m there in spirit.
Jack came to Dalhart High School during my freshman year. He took a somewhat ragtag group of semi-motivated musicians and turned us into a band to be proud of—winners all around. He did it not with discipline and threats, but with this innate ability to make us, as individuals and as a band, believe in ourselves. It wasn’t “rah, rah, rah, we have to win.” It was “rah, rah, rah, achieve your personal best.”
When each of us sincerely sought that personal best, we became a winning band, something greater than the whole of its parts. He also gave permission to make mistakes and to learn from them rather than feeling shame or regret.
I remember once, it was either district or state marching competition, judged on the quality of our music and marching on a university football field. It was rather intimidating after performing on humble high school fields. We had uniforms that would be old-fashioned today, heavy and worn over street clothes, pants held up by suspenders.
With thousands watching from the stands, judges from some obscure location, one set of suspenders failed. We’d just started marching when one young woman’s pants fell to her ankles showing the gym shorts beneath. She marched right out of them, ignoring their very existence. That whole routine, she never missed a step, a perfect performance.
I don’t think there was a person in that huge stadium who will ever forget her performance, overcoming adversity so she wouldn’t fail her fellow bandsmen nor the director we all admired. She faced a huge public humiliation that would likely send most teenagers off the field and sobbing in the locker room. She did her personal best.
When Mr. King showed the film of our performances in the band room, we cheered for her.
As I recall, we won that competition.
Right now, in this nation it feels a whole lot like our suspenders failed. It’s like we dropped our pants and the worst of the soul of our country is exposed for all to see. Too often they aren’t just observers but victims suffering the brunt of that ugliness.
Many nights I lie awake, wondering what I can do, analyzing if I’ve contributed in any to this impasse, this horror of the present and future stain on our history.
Then I got the news about Jack King, a mentor from my past. I remembered to strive for my personal best. If enough of us make that our goal, magical things can happen. Maybe a ragtag nation can still come together to create something better than the sum of its parts.
Stand up, speak up whenever you can. For our own sake, strive to forgive, but don’t forget. Ignoring harsh realities is to surrender to those fueled by cruelty and greed.
Jack King taught me to do my best and not give up. Now, I share that lesson with you. I hope it helps.