Leading up to the CMS National Conference held the same week as the national election of 2024, I, like many other attendees at the three-day event, became nervous about being in Washington, D.C. after an election season during which one candidate was stoking doubts about the fidelity of democracy and the other seemed poised to win. By Monday, the news showed downtown D.C. businesses boarded up in anticipation of potential rioters and looters, and security stepped up around the White House, not wanting a repeat of January 6, 2021. The country held its breath Tuesday night, and by the following morning, a new reality emerged.

In that political atmosphere, hundreds of collegiate educators from around the nation attended the CMS National Conference, this year offering the theme “Advancing Democracy: Empowering Action Through Music.” Skeptical that I could focus on the conference, I studied the extensive list of performances and presentations on Wednesday night and highlighted those that seemed intriguing. On Thursday morning, like-minded people gathered in the Washington Hilton to share their research, passions, and insights and to commune over the healing balm that is music, quickly filling the psychological crevices left by the recent political turmoil.

That first day, I heard incredible performances by top-notch educators presenting new or neglected music from minority composers, such as pianist Luke Tyler’s all-Florence Price program, Nanyi Qiang’s lecture-recital on William Grant Still, the Delta Chamber Players’ performance of Valerie Coleman’s Portraits of Langston, and Martin David Jones’ all-Duke Ellington recital.  Lecture-recitals focused on themes that touched on the inadequacies of our society, such as “Speaking for Those Who Have No Voice – The Music of Judy Ross, Sharon Shafer, and William Vollinger” and “Democracy, Equality, and Communal Overcoming in Rosephanye Powell’s Song Cycle Then, Here and Now,” as did much of the varied output of keynote speaker, composer Wendel Patrick.

Some ideas shared spoke directly to my daily teaching experience, such as Susan de Ghizé’s lecture on “Teaching Music Theory to Different Types of Learners” and the panel discussion on “Leading Change through Music in General Studies.”  The smaller conference rooms were filled with a few people at a time; five to fifteen participants cycled in and out. As I sat in room after room, listening to what initially seemed like sparsely-attended talks, I began to think of each attendee representing many more. If I am responsible for 50 students, each would likely represent at least that many. From that perspective, thousands benefitted from this conference.

On day two, I presented my findings about commonalities in Frederic Rzewski’s music and his trajectory from open to fixed instrumentation. Rzewski (1938-2021) was a modernist American pianist-composer who wrote politically-minded music all his life. The chant on which his large-scale piece was based, The People United Will Never Be Defeated, is one I heard chanted the night before on CNN when a group of people gathered to protest the election results. Though the composition is an esoteric subject for the general population, for the few who attended my talk, it seemed to speak directly to them and precisely when it mattered most.

Attending John Chowing’s keynote speech about his life and work was thought-inducing and heart-warming. Chowing (b. 1934) is a humble composer, a retired professor at Stanford University, and a “discoverer” in computer music, acoustics, and FM synthesis. He had an incredible impact on society, though only experts seem to know it: the technology he helped develop proved pivotal in the creation of the world’s most popular keyboard in the 1980s, the Yamaha DX7. Touchingly, he appeared emotionally overcome when the large crowd gave him a standing ovation, and he promised to return in another 10 years when he turns 100.

By day three of the conference, I had shaken many hands and made a list of people I would contact soon for various reasons. Though the divisions of the country felt perilous, it became clear to me that a harmonious future is possible so long as it includes a community like the one I witnessed that week, filled with passion, understanding, openness, and a noble sense that music was here before us and will continue after our time.

Before boarding my train back home, I went for a walk to the White House and the Lincoln Memorial, resting at the foot of the monument. This place is where countless speeches were given during war and social strife, including MLK’s “I Have a Dream” speech. In those few minutes, tourists passed, speaking many languages and taking pictures before our symbols of freedom and democracy. College students ran by, some on a life path to the Capitol. A young African American woman played guitar as families strolled in the sun on a beautiful day. The Spanish-speaking man beside me called out, “Ice cream, water! El helado, agua!” I marveled at the pluralism exemplified in the capital of a divided country, grateful for a life filled with music.