James Samuel Tracey

There are some lessons you learn because somebody sits you down and explains them to you.

Then there are lessons you learn simply because of the environment you grew up in.

Growing up in Jamaica, I learned very early that being late for school was not something you wanted to make a habit of.

I can still remember seeing the latecomers lined up at the beginning of the school day. They weren’t being lined up so someone could politely remind them to try harder tomorrow. In those days, corporal punishment in school was normal, and if you were late, you knew there was a good possibility that a strapping was waiting for you before you went to class.

My grand-aunt, Iona Geraldine Marshall—whom I called Aunt Min—was the principal.

And Aunt Min believed in punctuality.

If the line of latecomers was long, other designated teachers or administrators might help. One by one, the students received their punishment before going to class.

Not everybody handled it the same way.

Some stood there and accepted what was coming.

Some dreaded it.

And some apparently decided that going back home was a better option than continuing toward that line.

I couldn’t blame them for thinking about it.

But everybody understood the message:

If school started at a certain time, you were expected to be there.

Looking back, I realize that I was learning something about standards long before I knew anything about leadership.

But punctuality wasn’t the only place I saw Aunt Min’s standards.

Music was another.

After school, we would practice singing together as a group. Aunt Min taught us different songs, and if we didn’t perform them properly, we did them again.

And again.

And if necessary, again.

There was no, “Well, that was close enough.”

You learned your part.

You listened.

You followed instructions.

And you kept working until you got it right.

Believe me, Aunt Min had ways of motivating you to improve.

But it sure sounded good in the end.

Music became even more personal for me because I had an ear for it. I could hear music and play by ear. For a young person with natural musical ability, it would have been easy to depend on that.

Aunt Min wasn’t having it.

If I was going to learn music, she expected me to learn music properly.

That meant learning to read the notes.

It meant learning the scales.

It meant understanding what I was playing rather than depending only on what my ear could pick up.

She would, as we sometimes say, whip you into shape.

And in those days, that expression could have more than one meaning.

At the time, I probably didn’t appreciate every part of her teaching method. What child would?

But today, I understand something I could not fully understand then.

Aunt Min wasn’t satisfied with ability alone.

She expected discipline to accompany it.

I could play by ear, but she wanted me to understand the foundation behind what I was playing.

We could sing a song, but she wanted us to sing it correctly.

We could arrive at school, but arriving after everybody else had already started wasn’t good enough.

There was always a standard.

As I grew older, I began to recognize how much of that followed me.

The methods belonged to another time. I am not suggesting that everything done in those days should be repeated today. But the principles behind many of those lessons stayed with me.

Be on time.

Learn what you are doing.

Don’t depend on talent when discipline is required.

And don’t settle for “good enough” when you know you are capable of doing better.

Those lessons followed me far beyond that schoolyard in Jamaica.

They followed me into military service, where punctuality and discipline were no longer childhood lessons but requirements.

They followed me into the workplace and eventually into leadership, where other people depended upon me to show up prepared and fulfill my responsibilities.

And they followed me into ministry and music.

There is something particularly meaningful about that last one.

The little boy Aunt Min insisted should learn his notes and scales grew up and continued serving through music. What felt like strict instruction then became part of a foundation I would use many years later.

I don’t think I recognized that connection when I was young.

Most children don’t look at discipline and think, One day I am going to appreciate this.

We are usually thinking something entirely different.

But age gives us the opportunity to look backward with different eyes.

Today, when I think about Aunt Min, I don’t remember only the strict principal.

I remember the woman who believed that things worth doing were worth doing properly.

She believed time mattered.

Preparation mattered.

Education mattered.

Discipline mattered.

And excellence mattered.

She didn’t just tell me those things.

I watched her live them.

Perhaps that is one of the most powerful ways legacy is passed from one generation to another.

Sometimes we don’t realize we are receiving it.

We are simply watching.

Listening.

Learning.

And occasionally getting corrected.

Then one day, many years later, we discover that the standards somebody placed before us have quietly become standards we now place upon ourselves.

I can smile about some of those childhood experiences today.

I can smile about the line of latecomers.

I can smile about singing a song repeatedly until Aunt Min was satisfied.

And I can certainly smile about being required to learn those notes and scales when playing by ear seemed so much easier.

But underneath the smile is gratitude.

Because somewhere along the way, I learned that talent is valuable, but talent needs discipline.

I learned that being present is not the same as being prepared.

And I learned that excellence usually requires us to keep working after “good enough” begins tempting us to stop.

Aunt Min has been gone for many years now.

But some of what she taught me is still here.

I carry it into the way I work.

I carry it into the way I lead.

I carry it into ministry.

I carry it into music.

And I carry it into the legacy I now hope to leave for those coming behind me.

The strap did not follow me through life.

The standard did.

— James Samuel Tracey