Blurring Boundaries: What Really Happened in Jazz Band at Wellington Secondary
A School That Prioritizes Success Over Student Safety
and Reputation Over Responsibility
Disclaimer: This piece is based on my lived experience and memory. Any quotes are included to the best of my recollection. The purpose of this post is not to defame or harm, but to share my truth and support others who may have had similar experiences.
I’ve held onto this story for almost a decade. Recently, after conversations with other alumni who shared similar experiences, I realized it was time to speak openly. I was 13 when I joined the high school band program at Wellington Secondary School. One of the first things our band director did was tell a supposedly funny joke about the G string of the guitar. She repeated it to almost every new class—laughing while scanning the room to see who blushed, who looked uncomfortable, and who laughed. Many students thought this made her cooler than other teachers and enjoyed the shock value of her banter. That joke, and others like it, set the tone for what her classroom would be like for the next five years.
She liked to blur the boundaries between teacher and student, normalizing a pattern of inappropriate comments and verbal harassment that others brushed off. Parents would often say, “It’s like she’s one of you guys.” Teachers and principals would say, “Oh, that’s just Carmella for you.” Some would criticize her and compare her to the high schoolers. Others would defend her, arguing that her intentions mattered more than her inappropriateness, and pointing to her dedication to the band program and her proven results.
She would often tease students if she “caught” them looking at each other in class. Partway through rehearsals, she would single students out, exclaiming things like, “Looks like someone has a crush!” or “Daydreaming about someone across the room?” Girls were targeted more often than boys, but no one was really safe from being singled out. If they blushed or smiled, she took that as confirmation and would tease them further. Thankfully, I was rarely the target, but it was uncomfortable watching it happen.
Carmella frequently gossiped with students before and after classes, especially during combo rehearsals and after-school hours. She didn’t just tolerate the rumour mill—she joined it. I remember when a story spread about a student who had oral sex at a party over the weekend. Carmella heard about it from students somehow, and instead of shutting it down, she looked at the girl the following week and said, in the middle of a band class, in front of all her peers, “I heard you had fun on the weekend!”
We were teenagers, trying to learn music, yet our teacher was sexualizing and shaming us in front of each other. The school environment, including teachers and other staff, seemed to have no problem with it. The ones that did felt helpless to do anything about it.
I was singled out too, but in a different way. As one of the more practiced musicians in my year, I was bumped up a grade along with a few others. Many band classes were split-grade, but it became clear that Carmella was creating distinct beginner and intermediate groups. From the beginning, I was given solos. I executed them well and didn’t struggle much with anxiety about soloing, making me an easy choice for her to feature. In jazz band and concert band—especially in the ballads, often the centrepieces of our repertoire—I became the expected soloist. I made her program look good every year. I made her look good.
Over time, it created real tension in the class. Other students were disappointed because they weren’t given the same opportunities that could help them learn to break out of their shells. And they were right. It wasn’t fair. It wasn’t equitable. I could feel their resentment while enjoying the spotlight. I felt guilty, but I also didn’t want to give it up and didn’t feel like it was my choice. I felt like I was just going along with what the band director wanted, and ultimately, it was her choice who did what.
Favouritism came with its own version of ongoing discomfort. It meant being pulled into Carmella’s gossip, into boundary-crossing, into blurred lines between the teacher and student relationship. She would tell me things about other students that I should never have known, including details about private matters students confided in her as their teacher. I would find myself listening while she vented her frustrations to me; I guess I was a good soundboard. In grade 12, I confronted her and told her I was done hearing about things I shouldn’t know or be involved in, and that it felt wrong to have these conversations with her. I was tired of having anxiety about my friendships because of her. Subsequently, she broke down into tears outside the band room, and I couldn’t continue the conversation with her no matter how much I tried. From then on, she never treated me the same way. I tried again later to talk to her at a coffee shop, as an alumnus of her program, but the topics I wanted to gain closure about were ones she wanted to avoid discussing. It took me until college, when I started experiencing more professional teacher-student dynamics regularly, to realize that she had crossed so many lines that a teacher should never cross.
When we were on band trips, Carmella would sometimes take me and another favourite student of hers out to different functions that none of the other kids got to go to. After performances, she would celebrate with us, and in our last year of school, she encouraged us to celebrate with wine while we were in Monterey, California. I believe she got our parents’ consent beforehand, and they were present on the trip as chaperones, but in hindsight, I feel like, as a teacher, she could have encouraged us to celebrate in better, legal ways. She told us not to tell anyone that she was buying the wine for us as well. If you tell students not to tell anyone, you probably shouldn’t be doing it in the first place.
When I spoke to my support system—my parents, my two best friends, and my friends’ parents at the time—about what was going on and mentioned how I felt about Carmella’s behaviour (that it was a serious problem) they would remind me of all she had done to support my success in music, ignoring my concerns, and responding with the same “Oh, that’s just how she is” I’d heard so many times before. My counsellor in high school was one of the only people who understood me, but she said that she felt there was nothing she could do about it. She was aware of Carmella’s issues, but had no solutions for me.
After graduating college in 2020, I finally decided to go through the proper channels and report Carmella myself without the firm or clear support of anyone I knew. My friends and family were all worried that I would burn bridges in the music community by going through with it, but my concern for other students only grew more intense after college when I started teaching more private students of my own. Some of them were in her program, and when I asked them how it was going, I heard stories that made it clear Carmella’s sexual jokes hadn’t stopped since I left. Two of my students said something like, ‘She’s an… interesting teacher,’ cringing as they spoke. I decided that enough was enough, and it was time to get it off my chest the right way, so I began the process of reporting her to the school district.
The school district representatives were robotic and cold towards me during our two Microsoft Teams meetings. Unfortunately, they took no action and refused to disclose what, if any, processes had followed my report, leaving me without closure. This lack of transparency from the district was devastating, reinforcing my fears that other students would continue facing harm without protection. After talking with other alumni of her program, I now know that her behaviour has been like this for most of her years as a teacher, and I’ve heard that this behaviour has continued to this day.
When the school district reporting process turned out to be a dead end, I decided to go to the RCMP. I figured I would tell them the full story and let them decide what to do about it, if anything.
When I spoke with Corporal Rose, I shared that Carmella had encouraged us to celebrate a win with wine while we were underage, and that she had purchased it for us during a band trip in Monterey, California. Her response? “It’s not like you weren’t probably drinking underage anyway, right?” That moment stuck with me. (I’ve included her name because this conversation took place in her professional capacity, and it was recorded.)
I had finally worked up the courage to tell someone in authority about a teacher who’d crossed serious lines, and I was met with sarcasm instead of care. I wasn’t expecting a perfect response, but I did expect to be taken seriously. That interaction left me feeling silenced at one of the most vulnerable moments of my life. It shook my trust, not just in her, but in whether police are properly trained to respond to reports like mine with the empathy they deserve. I was reporting a teacher for giving alcohol to minors, for sexual assault and harassment (terms I will clarify in a moment), for harmful misconduct—and all I got was another minimizing remark. Corporal Rose seemed to feel that I was wasting her time.
Carmella had demonstrated a consistent pattern of boundary-crossing behaviour throughout my five years in her program. She speculated openly about which students she thought were gay—treating it as gossip rather than respecting it as identity—sometimes whispering and pointing at photos on the band room walls.
She once called an alum, a young woman who is now a friend of mine, “fire crotch” while teasing a male student about how hot she was, and how he might like her. She speculated with me about another former student’s sexuality, suggesting he was gay, as if it were just another juicy rumour.
She even “playfully” patted a few of us—three boys, including myself—on the butt during small combo rehearsals, then laughed it off like it was nothing. I shared this with Corporal Rose, but she said it wasn’t serious enough to qualify as assault, as there was no proof of sexual motivation or intention.
For clarification: I know that some folks may be uncomfortable with my use of the term sexual assault, especially in cases that are less overt. However, for me, a teacher patting students on the butt, regardless of the intent, is a boundary-crossing act that falls within the spectrum of sexual assault. In the context of a pattern of inappropriate teacher behaviour, it felt violating, not harmless. When there’s a power imbalance between a trusted adult and a minor, and a history of sexualized jokes and comments, even a “playful” touch can leave lasting harm.
I started to wonder: Was I not clear? Isn’t it common knowledge that a teacher should never give alcohol to a minor? Am I the only one who thinks this is urgent? I became burnt out trying to explain… I kept getting met with resistance.
The RCMP did follow up with some of the students whose names I provided—people who were present for the experiences I reported. Later, I heard a rumour that Carmella was temporarily suspended as a result. Eventually, Corporal Rose called me back. The only update she was allowed to give was: “She’s been dealt with.” I had no idea what that meant. I assumed she might have at least been given a warning about her… unprofessionalism.
The worst part? She’s teaching now, continuing to be praised as this one-dimensional “Outstanding Jazz Director” and “Award Winning Educator” who gets amazing musical results. People see her as a mentor, someone who guided me to being the person and musician I am. But what I remember is how uncomfortable I felt regularly. How I kept quiet, even when I knew something wasn’t right. I was in the closet back then, and I didn’t want to come out yet, let alone be ostracized like the others. I knew then, as she gossiped about her alumni, that I would be one of them one day.
When I got to college, I was confused why professors didn’t see me as special or exceptional the way Carmella had. I didn’t get special attention. I wasn’t the favourite anymore, which hurt more than I expected. Being “chosen” by Carmella created a false belief that I would be chosen by other teachers, too. I didn’t know how to have healthy relationships with music teachers, but as I learned what that was like at Berklee, I realized how absolutely twisted my relationship with Carmella had been. I noticed how I eventually felt a lot better when my professors maintained healthy, professional boundaries. I could focus on course goals and getting to know my peers without an authority figure getting in the way, without someone starting drama about glances across the room…
I’m writing this now because silence didn’t protect me, and time did not heal me. Naming what happened isn’t about destroying someone’s career—it’s about reclaiming my story and advocating for future students. I know I’m only one of hundreds of her students who started their high school band experience with a G string joke, but that cycle needs to end with us.
If you’ve experienced something similar, please know that you’re not alone, and I encourage you to speak out when or if you are ready. There is a comment section below as well if you would like to contribute to the story. Our voices matter. Hold our school systems and educators accountable. Student safety, equity, dignity, and well-being must always matter more than reputation or the success of any program.
