How Puff the Magic Dragon Changed My Perspective
A life lesson from a children’s song
Second grade.
Music class.
Children enter Mr. Clary’s music room in a clunky, single-file line reminiscent of a drowsy caterpillar. (One child is smaller than the others, but we’ll get to her soon enough.) A wooden piano stands at attention against the right wall, its usual post. A modest stereo rests atop a small wooden desk next to the piano bench, also wood. Neatly rowed folding chairs face the piano, waiting patiently for class to begin.
Hesitant and shuffling, the kids settle into their seats, whispering and waving to friends who want spots saved for them.
Mr. Clary closes the door and pads on the linoleum flooring to the front of the room, rubbing his hands together in expectation.
“Pull out your books everybody, let’s begin!”
Everyone obediently pulls their hard-backed music books from underneath their chairs, the smaller girl (Surely you haven’t forgotten about her already?) taking a bit more time to get hers as she struggles a little under its weight.
And so music class officially begins. Mr. Clary bustles from stereo to piano, his thinning white hair moving with just as much musical fervor as the rest of his body. The second graders stare down into their books or up at Mr. Clary, singing wide-mouthed, toothless, and tuneless. They sing in their aggressively childlike manner, as only second graders can sing. Each word comes out of their mouths in offensive, brisk bursts, like caged animals suddenly released from bondage.
Minutes tick by.
And then, all too soon, Mr. Clary plays the final refrain to the final song of the day.
“Put your books away everybody!” He says as electrically as ever. But something is different.
Slowly and conspicuously, Mr. Clary looks behind him at the clock as he says, “Oh! It looks like we have a little extra time left.” He smiles widely, as one smiles when he has planned a surprise, “Maybe we should sing an old favorite, for old time’s sake.” The class stirs like startled chickens, emitting a lightning bolt of excitement that burns a hole through the ceiling. Mr. Clary turns theatrically to the stereo and puts in a CD. He turns back to the class and proudly announces: “Puff the Magic Dragon!”
Everyone cheers. Everyone except for the little girl we noticed earlier. The little girl, who is me.
Although I was with a second-grade music class and had an assigned seat in a second-grade classroom, I was still a first-grader…technically.
Yes, I am one of countless other students that were deemed “gifted” in their elementary school years. I use the term “gifted” only half-mockingly. I did the gifted class pull-out thing in elementary school, the gifted and honors classes in junior high, and the honors and AP classes in high school, and pretty much enjoyed every minute of it.
As an adult, though, I’m not sure how much good all those modified class titles did me or any of my classmates. But that’s another story.
In the six years that I went to my elementary school, I was one of three gifted children to have the opportunity to skip a grade. Less than a month into first grade, I was already splitting the school day between my first-grade class and my new second-grade class. Before long, I was fully integrated into the second grade.
Don’t let my current skepticism of the gifted and talented program fool you: I was thrilled to have been selected to make the move; it felt like I was part of an elite group. I had always considered myself to be fairly smart and special. My mother sure reminded me enough; my classmates certainly tended to my ego as well, amazed at my ability to read picture books whose words seemed so elusive and distant to them. Soon, I began to think of myself as more than merely “smart” or “special.” I was boundlessly fascinating; my genius, a wonder to behold, powerful and enigmatic.
As I blasted through trivial spelling tests composed of single-syllable words insulting to my intellect, my head swelled larger, with more than just new knowledge. (I like to label my inflated ego as an unavoidable symptom of being called “gifted” all the time. This way, I can blame the system and ignore the little voice telling me that I was just an asshole.)
Which brings us back to Mr. Clary’s magical music room, with my new second-grade peers cheering maniacally all around me as I stay dangerously still.
My so-called massive brain quickly assesses the situation: “Puff the Magic Dragon” is a first-grade song. I had never been to a first-grade music class in my life. If I had, I had certainly never learned this “old favorite.” I look down at my music book, thinking that the song might be in there, and quickly decide against it, noting that no one else has their books out and that everyone is already prepared to sing.
Suddenly, the music starts, sickeningly sweet with major chords. Everyone smiles widely and sways slightly, like something out of a television special, happy to be singing such a happy song.
Happy, happy, happy.
Mocking me.
I stare straight ahead, arms glued to my sides. I move my lips a little, trying to look like I’m singing and enjoying the song like everyone else, then stop, feeling silly. My eyes burn. Huge, nauseating waves of embarrassment and terror crash into me. My superior sentiments crumble majestically, landing in my stomach, like soggy ruins.
I now recount this experience with a laugh, remembering my first bitter taste of humble pie.
Many years later, I had the idea to look up the words to The Song, since all I ever learned were those first, haunting eight, which I don’t dare to write here. I couldn’t bring myself to do it, though.
Haven’t tried again since.
