Uptown Girl

On Being Seen and the Things We Miss Saying

I grew up in Saint Paul and went to elementary school at Webster Magnet, an early magnet school where kids from across the city came together and were exposed to programs like band, photography, woodshop, and art.

In fourth grade, I joined the cadet band and chose the saxophone largely because it wasn’t the piano. My mom had tried for years to get me to learn piano. One lesson ended with me so frustrated that I ran out.

The band director was Mr. Hubbard. He made learning an instrument feel fun instead of intimidating. As I struggled to learn the saxophone, he had a way of making the frustrating parts manageable and the small improvements feel like a big deal.

More than anything, he seemed to see something in me that I hadn’t yet seen in myself. That belief kept pulling me forward.

In fifth grade, I moved up to the Honor Band and, at his encouragement, switched to the tenor saxophone. Only two of us played it. Next to me sat Reggie Rose, a sixth grader who played the baritone saxophone, a massive instrument that somehow looked normal-sized in his hands. Reggie was tall, confident, and a natural. I wanted to be like him.

Mr. Hubbard saw how drawn I was to the baritone and encouraged me to audition for it. I had to earn the seat. When I did, the baritone became my instrument for my last year of Honor Band.

He made being in the band feel cool. We took trips to Duluth and Chicago. In Chicago, we traveled on a double-decker bus that felt impossibly glamorous to elementary school kids. We performed for the Harlem Globetrotters. He created a small trio with my friends Jeff on trumpet, Justin on saxophone, and me on baritone.

Whenever a student or group really hit their stride, he’d grin and a twinkle would appear in his eyes. There’s a section of Billy Joel’s Uptown Girl where the full band drops out and the baritone is left alone to boom its lowest note. Nailing that note in concert was one of the great thrills of my elementary school years. As we approached that moment, he’d glance over at me with a look of excitement. And when I hit it, his expression said the rest.

When I moved on to junior high across the city from Webster, my time with the saxophone quickly came to an end. That band director had a very different approach. When you entered his studio, you could feel the tension in the air. Pressure, fear, and disappointment were his motivational tools. I didn’t last long.

The same person and the same instrument, placed in two completely different environments. In one, a kid couldn’t wait to show up and play. In the other, he didn’t even want to take the instrument out of its case.

Almost forty years later, during a dinner conversation with Jeff, I recounted the impact Mr. Hubbard had on me. Jeff’s response was immediate: He had that effect on me too.

As Jeff and I talked more, we realized neither of us had ever told Mr. Hubbard what he had meant to us.

During a cross-country drive, I spent hours listening to podcasts. Somewhere along the way, I was introduced to Walter Green.

Walter was 85 when I heard him reflect on his life. What I think he’ll ultimately be remembered for started with a funeral. Walter attended Tim Russert’s funeral alongside former presidents and other highly accomplished people. One after another, they stood up and spoke about the kind of man Tim had been and what he had meant to them. Walter described what was shared as unbelievable. But sitting there listening, he realized something unsettling: Tim would never hear any of it.

As his 70th birthday approached, Walter dedicated the next year of his life to what would become his Say It Now movement. He sat down with forty-four people who had shaped his life and told them, specifically, what they had meant to him.

Listening to Walter, I started wondering why so few of us do this. Part of it may be that we don’t fully recognize someone’s importance until much later. A teacher, coach, parent, mentor, or friend who once felt like an ordinary part of life can later become someone who mattered far more than we realized. Even when we do, we convince ourselves they already know. Surely enough people have told them. We assume there will be more time. That we’ll eventually get around to saying it. And then telling someone how much they meant to you can feel uncomfortable. So the gratitude stays quiet.

For my dad’s 80th birthday I wanted him to know exactly what he had meant to my life. Not just that I loved him, but why. That he had been present in my journey. That he always seemed to see a better version of me than I saw in myself. That he made me feel safe during hard moments and taught me, mostly by example, that it was okay to feel deeply, express emotion, and even cry openly.

So I wrote him a letter.

I thought the gift would be knowing he’d receive it while he was still alive to hear it. But selfishly, the greatest gift may have been to me. There was something freeing about finally unloading feelings and gratitude I had never fully expressed. Knowing that whenever his life ended, he would leave aware of what he had meant to mine.

A friend recently recommended the new Billy Joel documentary to me. Billy Joel walks through the stories behind many of his hit songs. When he got to Uptown Girl, I found myself daydreaming back to those elementary school concerts, the song building toward that moment when the rest of the band would suddenly go silent and the low note would belong to me alone.

Wanting to hit it perfectly so I could see the grin and twinkle just one more time.