Occupation, or Not

And in the end...

Chicago Public Schools 1998-2012

It wasn’t long after the Chicago lunch handshake with label head Danny Goldberg keeping eleventh dream day on Atlantic for the El Moodio record that I made a promise to myself. If our third major label record did not significantly surpass the first two in sales, I was done. That said, i was extremely optimistic. We all were. Beet put us on the map in a big way, and we couldn’t have been more pleased with the label, the sales, the exposure, the entire experience. Lived to Tell was a commercial letdown, barely surpassing Beet in sales, but we felt we fulfilled everything artistically, getting lots of critical love, enjoying our most successful tours ever, and after all, the label and everyone we worked with had dissolved around us leaving us on a lonely island. We had done our best.

For El Moodio I thought 100,000 in sales was a reasonable expectation and goal. We had the record we wanted to make in the can. The label knew what it was getting and expressed excitement and loyalty. I still felt pressure. Janet and I had a baby on tour, and it was easy and fun enough for a while with great nannies, a motor home complete with dog and support from band mates, but our son was two, and not loving some of the longer drives. My pre-show routine often included getting him to sleep instead of my usual long head clearing walks. It was amazing and memorable, but exhausting. I wouldn’t trade it for the world, Matt! If we were going to keep doing this though, I needed to see some positive results from the label. We were more than keeping up our end. For whatever reason, that I see no reason to analyze here, the record fell flat in the old sales department. By the end of our European tour, on the Fourth of July, in the Netherlands, on the eve of returning to the states, I was at peace with the decision to pack it in. Playing music professionally on a major label and promoting it all on the road was over, at least for me. No need to end the band, just get off the roller coaster. Be a dad. Get a J.O.B.

I set out to be a teacher.

Why be a teacher? I knew more what I didn’t want to do, which was to go back to the business world. My sister was a teacher, and she liked it, and most importantly, I could see myself in a classroom. I mean, how different was the lectern from the stage? I loved reading and learning. The biggest motivator for me though, was to get benefits. Matt had a very rare medical condition and we had no health insurance. I had no savings plan. The teaching profession offered everything I was looking for, and the summers off would afford an opportunity to play music. High school here I come!

If I knew then what I soon would come to learn, I would probably never have started. It turns out that my business degree from U of Kentucky did little to set me up to teach. Even after getting certification from the state of Illinois, the only subject I would be qualified for in a high school would be an intro to business class, and I knew that would severely limit any job search. I decided to go for a K-9 certificate. It would be a long haul. Because of my business/ psychology focus at Kentucky, I had few of the general education classes needed in addition to the necessary education courses to get certified quickly. I did it. Methods of teaching this and that, and intro to theories of theoretical what not made up most of my course load which I completed at Northeastern University in Chicago. I took a bunch of courses at Harold Washington city college to get the cheapest credit for Oceanography, Astronomy, Chinese History, and Biology to satisfy some of what I needed for my certificate. I even needed a phys. ed credit, and took a swimming class through DePaul. It took about three years to get it all done, including classroom observations and student teaching.

I was still working three nights as a bartender, which along with a baby who awoke at dawn meant that Warren Zevon’s, “I’ll Sleep When I’m Dead” played on repeat in my head. Janet and I mostly had to hand off parenting duties out of necessity. She was killing it with Freakwater and touring a fair amount while waiting tables at The Wishbone. I was killing it with the books. I have to say that I enjoyed the return to academia very much. When I see waves at the beach I can now explain how the height is affected by the shape of the ocean floor as well as why intrinsic motivation is better that extrinsic rewards for learning. It almost killed me though, and definitely left a marriage thread bare. There was one month when Freakwater was on tour that highlights the worst of it. Somehow in a twenty-four hour day I would get Matt off to his Montessori school near Irving Park and the lake, drive to Berwyn and student teach a full day of sixth grade, pick up Matt and drive to his speech lesson at Northwestern. Drive back to Wicker Park for dinner and get the baby sitter set up (or Janet’s wonderful mom who sometimes came in from Louisville), work at the Rainbo and get home around 3 a.m. Get up and do some version again. It wasn’t always that crazy and hard. There was a lot of joy mixed in. I was tired but happy. In the end, I was a certified teacher in Illinois and I would soon be employed as a Chicago Public School teacher.

My last big student teaching assignment was a spring semester gig in an 8th grade classroom at Albany Park Multicultural Academy, which in 1997 was located in the northeast wing of Von Steuben high school, a Chicago asbestos-dusted relic of another century. My mentor teacher was a wonderful former gymnast in a second career. She was supportive and helpful, and for the first weeks, my job was to observe how she ran her classroom. Most everything was done on paper back then, with attendance and grades tracked in a large binder. Lots of chalk. When it came time to teach my first lesson (all about El Niño) I used poster paper and cut out pictures to accompany my lesson. Things kicked along pretty well as I got to know my students. APMA was extremely multicultural as the full name indicated, and there were probably twenty or so nationalities represented in the two classes I saw. 95% were low income free lunch kids, mostly Spanish speaking recent immigrants, but also whoever else had been displaced in the world, so that meant Vietnamese, Bangladeshis, Bosnians, Somalians, and Iraqis.

Toward the end of the semester, my mentor teacher’s father died. On her bereavement leave there would be a substitute, but she told me to take the lead, that I was ready and capable. I was thrown into the fire, ready or not. The sub was taken aback, but ultimately saw it as a much easier paycheck to sit back and watch the newbie flounder. We had just started reading “Of Mice and Men”. Steinbeck. One of my favorite stories. It was fun to read aloud, students popping up to read with me filling the gaps. One of my students, a confident, talented Black young lady handed me a note one morning. It was from her mother. The letter asked me to excuse her daughter from participating in the book because of offensive language. It’s crazy, but this may have been, in my first time leading a class, the most challenging situation I’d ever encounter. I consulted the principal who advised that I read the word because it was literature and a time honored classic. I explained to the girl and the class that I would read the section with the offending word, that I did not condone its use, and that sometimes literature reflects uncomfortable eras in our history, but we should present it transparently. I read on. Mistake one of many, many, many to come. When I read the final pages of the book aloud, even though I knew what was coming, I wept. I wept because I was reading the incredible scene of George’s final moments with Lenny, and jeesh, it’s an indelible human moment from Steinbeck’s pen, but I wept mostly because I was experiencing it with a group of fourteen year olds who were reading it for the first time. It hit me hard.

At the end of my run before my mentor teacher returned, there was a school-wide awards assembly and each classroom teacher would announce the awards for their class. I was a ham. I called their names out like the announcer at the Bulls game. I had a lot of fun with it. After the semester was over, and I was looking for a job, I submitted my resume to APMA. The principal looked at me, told me she loved how I had taken over the classroom and carried myself at the assembly, and on the spot asked if I wanted to be the school’s new Art teacher. Um, I’m not an artist. But, yes!

First day of school. Mr. Rizzo. A summer of preparation. What would I teach? I repeat, I’m not an artist. Five different rooms a day. 35-45 students per class. 280 students total. Art on a cart. I walk in, teacher leaves for their prep. Why are you late? Resentment. Everybody’s favorite art teacher gone. I’m in. Who’s he? Swipe in. Go to first floor. First day. First class. Math/Social Studies home room teacher sees me. Tell her I quit. He walks out. I go upstairs to break the news. You’re the new home room teacher in 101. Teach math!? No, stay with art. Go back downstairs for first class. I’m Mr. Rizzo. This is Art. Blank faces. Roll my cart. Elevator to the third floor. I’m Mr. Rizzo. This is Art. Blank faces. Walk home. Look in mirror. I’m Mr. Rizzo. Blank face. Tired.

I’ve never been so tired in my life. I had also never been sadder. Just before the start of the school year, a new career ahead, I also found myself alone. Janet had moved out. She was with someone. I was so absorbed in getting ramped up to be a teacher that I didn’t have even the slightest inkling my marriage was at risk. I didn’t see it coming. Stunned. I found a new apartment across from River Park a short walk to school. Each morning, as I crossed the bridge onto the Von Steuben campus, I wiped tears from my eyes. Swipe in. Get the lesson ready. Load the cart. Thirty-five kids cared not a lick what I had going on. Take my eye off the ball and they would eat me alive. On many days I was still the main course, and they chewed me up and spit me out. I’d scrape myself up at the end of the day to drag my ass back across the river. Matt remembers the days we spent together in the bachelor pad as magic, and I suppose it was. He wouldn’t let me dwell on sadness either.

Since I wasn’t a skilled artist of any kind, the principal suggested I teach a fine arts “overview”so I created a curriculum that would include a bit of everything. I had a scholastic arts monthly magazine for inspiration. Some of the memorable things we did:

-Romare Bearden themed collages, cutting images from magazines and gluing to 11x18 poster paper

-a music lesson where I led students through whole, half, quarter, eighth, and sixteenth note hand clapping. In groups they created notated hand clap compositions that varied note values and could be read and played.

-a project in which I gave students clear film strips for them to create hand drawn cels that would run through a projector as a thirty second “film”

-a Winslow Homer inspired watercolor project. The principal had some of the best professionally framed and permanently hung.

We took field trips to the MCA, Art Institute and Terra Museums.

All told, it was an amazing year. Not everything worked smoothly, but the students responded to this sad, weird guy who tried to make it fun. I worked my ass off. At the end of the school year, the principal granted my wish to get my own home room, teaching language arts and social studies. Only seventy kids to worry about. I can still remember waking up on a beautiful June morning, birds singing outside the window, Wimbledon on t.v., walk over to River Park to hit some tennis balls, have some lunch, and still a few nights at the Rainbo behind the bar. One of the customers I had leaned over the bar to chat with about Nabokov and Dylan was still gorgeous and friendly, and look at me, single with the summer off. Hello, Mary. Albany Park Multicultural Academy, I’d see you in September.

At the beginning, it’s all about classroom management. A new teacher can barely breathe in the first few years trying to keep up with it all. I’d pour over the seating charts trying to create the perfect table groups. New teachers gauge classroom management by how noisy the class is. I could stun a charging rhino with my shush. Once, I silenced a noisy whole school assembly with my sshhhhhissh. Silence is not the indicator of success though. I taught with a fellow who shushed so many times during the day that it became a tic. In regular conversation, away from students, he still inserted shushes unconsciously. They had become a part of his speech.

For the first five years of my career, I wanted to quit by February. Classroom management was too hard. It was too hard to keep that many kids tuned in. Many found it a special challenge to get under your skin. Many could care less about what you wanted. Raise your voice and it just took them to the familiar battle that they had at home. Power struggles. And then, one day it kind of clicked. Of course it wasn’t overnight. But, I did come to the realization that I was not desperate and ready to quit. I was having fun. In the summer of 2002, as my mom was dying of cancer, I took part in a three week professional development workshop. It was all about cooperative learning and planning engaging lessons. In education, we use words all the time that we see on the page but seldom think about what it actually means. The key is to ask yourself what that word looks like in action. Engagement is one of them. When students are engaged in learning they are fully participating. Teachers like to think that students are engaged because they themselves find the topic fascinating or entertaining. They think students are engaged because their eyes are on the teacher or in a book or completing work quietly. Nope.

I have a few things I brainstormed here that I would consider useful to any teacher, experienced or newbie. Teaching is a profession. It is a practice of expertise no different from other practitioners. In practice, self-reflection and learning should never end. It is a difficult profession. It connected me to other humans in a way that surpassed singer/audience or any other job relationships I had in my life. It is the most wonderful of gigs.

It’s not about you. Ever.

I was sometimes asked if my students were impressed by my having a music career and band. Overwhelmingly, the answer was no. Kids are often curious about who you are in “real life” but are by design egocentric. They are immersed in their own lives in a way that leaves little room for others. They come to the classroom with unique experiences and knowledge. Instruction should always consider them first. It’s a common conversation of a group of teachers sitting around to include the statement starting with, “My students really loved that lesson!” Please. You may have really loved it and there may have been a number of students who seemed to love it but that is no gauge of learning. A hard rule: just because you taught it doesn’t mean they learned it.

Motivation happens when there is ownership

Here it is. The key to success for student and teacher, both. A motivated student is most able to learn. A classroom filled with motivated students is also a well managed classroom. How to achieve motivation? Ownership. A student needs to own the learning process. Ownership implies buy-in. Ownership implies control. Control is achieved through choice.

Consider the topic I researched for my masters; independent reading. I made the decision to center my language arts class around independent reading. I spent my own money on building a classroom library. I convinced my principal to give me money to add to it. I got grants to buy books. I got grants to buy deluxe beanbags. Students were able to choose books they were interested in, get the time to read and do it in comfort. I tailored whatever the learning standard was around what they were reading, not what I wanted them to read. Students took pride in what they chose to read. A book was their brand. I could go on and on on about all this, and anybody who wants a discussion just toss yourself into my comments. Transformative. Scalable to include just about any kind of learning. True motivation is intrinsic. When I first began teaching, the model I saw was to require students to read at least 25 books. They could place a star sticker on a chart displayed for all to see. Stickers, candy, cheers are all extrinsic motivators. Bad practice. Readacide.

I was the first in my classroom to read Hunger Games. I invested $20 for the hard cover. When students read, I read. When a passage amused me or amazed me, I would giggle or gasp. Mr. Rizzo, what’s so funny? Shhhh, I’m reading. “Can I get that book when your done? Welcome to the club of readers. More and more students saw themselves as members of the club. Free to join. Read Frank Smith’s “On Learning and Forgetting”. Essential read.

I realize that this essay has taken a turn, and I was tempted to opine on all my wisdom as an educator. Glad I caught myself. I’ll leave the above categories intact, but I’ll list some other topics I could have rambled on about. You can hire me for professional development!

Noisy is not bad

Learn everyone’s names

Ask yourself what you remember from school and why

Know what intelligence really means

Put down that red pen

Questions can be better than answers

Include Media Literacy in curriculum

Morning Verse, oh, the morning verse.

Have a plan, don’t be afraid to change it.

When my twins were ready for kindergarten, Mary and I decided that one of us should stay home to see them off to school and be there with a snack when they got home. The nanny situation was not looking so bright. We decided that since I had my occasional music gigs and the fact that Mary had more time in as a teacher, that I would retire from the CPS. I was sad for a long time without the job, but I think it was the right decision.

I felt like I had hit my stride as a professional. Great Books (thanks Bill Siegel!), Facing History and Ourselves, and the Albany Park Theater Ensemble (thanks David, Maggie and Rossana!) were organizations that I had deep, rewarding relationships with and made me not only a better teacher, but also a better person. Self-actualization achieved! Went out on top.

What an amazing career! I was enriched by every student I ever met. Class of 2007 remembers! There were also people I worked with who I can’t say enough about. Thanks especially to Ana and Barb, who shared this incredible experience and made it fun, and made me a better teacher.

14 years Albany Park Multicultural Academy, retired.

Columbia College Chicago professor 2010-2024

North Park University professor 2012-2022

Just when I needed it, overlapping with my CPS job, I got a job teaching in the music department at Columbia College Chicago. I had always held Columbia in high regard and a bit of awe because i knew a number of writers, film-makers, and musicians who had called it home. I was to lead a pop/rock ensemble, and not long after, songwriting 101 to boot. I consider it a great honor to have taught in the music department. My friend, Nick Tremulis got me the gig. I thank him for trusting me and for recognizing my songwriting acumen. Although I have zero formal music instruction (although 8th grade vocal ensemble with Mr. Evans laid a foundation), I do believe I imparted some wisdom and inspiration along the way. I think there were some in the department who were skeptical of my presence there. There were some very impressive people teaching and my resume was hardly awe-inspiring in the music academic realm. I suppose I had a bit of imposter syndrome. That said, I loved the job. I grew as a songwriter too. Directing ensembles was a blast because I got to choose the material and hear it played out with a large ensemble. (Not everybody appreciated Todd Rundgren’s “Just One Victory” as a closer though). I also loved my college-aged students, and its been rewarding to see a bunch of them who got some success in the greater music universe.

This was my last job ever. I ended with private songwriting lessons with a student who I frankly think needed me not at all. My work is done.

I end with North Park University, although it wasn’t technically the last job. I had taken a group of classes there in the 2000’s after getting my master’s degree at NEIU in order to get endorsed to teach ESL in my middle school classes. After all, a quarter of my students, probably more, were ESL students and it seemed prudent to get trained. So I did, and a year after finishing I was asked to teach some sections of the sequence. Somehow, I took on three classes including Theories of Teaching ESL, Linguistics, and Sociolinguistics. Talk about imposter syndrome (although it was fun to say I was a linguistics professor!) With a nod to anybody teaching linguistics at a major university, I understand that I was teaching it in the context of teaching teachers.

I really enjoyed this job too, and I put in a ton of research and energy into being knowledgeable in those fields. Alas, when Covid hit, I was forced to teach via Zoom, and we all know what a supreme bummer that was. Periodt.

Both college gigs: double digit years. Retired.

Where Are They Now?

So here I am. Retired from formal employment. I read, I puzzle, I play. Guitar. Pickleball. A life well lived, but not anywhere near over. My recent high school fifty year reunion (I didn’t go) posted a memorium to those who didn’t make it this far. I wake up happy about the day. Nature. Family. Curiosity. Music.

See ya around.