By Charles Krigbaum
Introduction: A Complex Invitation
Excellence has always stood at the center of Suzuki education—a pursuit not only of technical mastery, but of developing students into noble human beings. Dr. Suzuki famously said, “Musical ability is not an inborn talent but an ability which can be developed.” (Suzuki, Nurtured by Love, 1983, p. 4). But the development he referred to extended far beyond posture, tone, and intonation.
Excellence is often celebrated as the pinnacle of achievement, the gold standard to which we all aspire. Dr. Suzuki’s vision reframed ability as something cultivated through love, effort, and environment, inviting us to imagine a world in which every child could grow not only as a musician but as a human being.
In that spirit, Suzuki education has always upheld two inseparable goals: the development of character and the pursuit of superior musical ability. These dual aims arise together, like the front and back of the hand, mutually dependent, each shaping the other. It is only in striving toward excellence that character is tested and revealed; it is through the deepening of character that true excellence can emerge.
Excellence, as both a concept and a pursuit, is never neutral. While it can inspire greatness, it can also invite comparison. While it can elevate, it can also exclude. When misunderstood or narrowly applied, excellence can become a currency of judgment—a way of measuring worth, rather than witnessing growth. It can harden into a hierarchy. It can divide.
This tension is not hypothetical. It lives in our community—in whispered judgments, unspoken hierarchies, and fractured conversations. It shows up when one teacher is called “excellent,” with the silent implication that another is not. It surfaces in our institutional structures, our traditions, and even our well-meaning standards. And, perhaps most insidiously, it shows up in our unexamined assumptions about what excellence looks like, sounds like, and feels like.
Dr. Suzuki believed that talent is not rare but nurtured. Still, the path to nurturing that talent is not the same for every child (or for every teacher.) If we overlook this truth, excellence risks becoming exclusive, something one person “has” while another is “lacking.”
This article examines that tension. What happens when excellence becomes a measure of worth? How do we uphold high standards without alienating those still on the journey? What does it mean to teach with both rigor and compassion? These are the questions that follow. Along the way, we will consider how excellence intersects with equity, how it becomes entangled in generational memory, and how we might untangle it to create something more whole.
This is not a rejection of rigor. It is an inquiry into its purpose. It is an act of love—toward our students, our colleagues, and ourselves. This is an invitation to rethink what we call excellent.
The Dual Goals of Suzuki Talent Education
Dr. Suzuki famously said, “Teaching music is not my main purpose. I want to make good citizens.” (Suzuki, n.d.). He believed that the study of music served a higher purpose: the cultivation of noble human beings with beautiful hearts. In this light, excellence in Suzuki education is not a matter of prestige or superiority, but a holistic pursuit: the development of both superior musical ability and people of fine character.
These dual goals arise together, like the front and back of the hand—inseparable and interdependent. Musical mastery becomes a vehicle for character development, and strong character becomes the heart of musical expression. To pursue one without the other is to miss the fullness of Dr. Suzuki’s vision.
Excellence, in this context, is not a static trait or rare gift bestowed upon a few. It is a living process, shaped by consistent effort, disciplined practice, and a nurturing environment. It calls students to strive for beauty, to persevere through challenges, and to grow in empathy, humility, and resilience. As teachers, we are not merely preparing children to play in tune, but helping them become individuals who listen with care, respond with integrity, and contribute meaningfully to the world around them.
This is why excellence, when rightly understood, is not exclusionary—it is expansive. It is not a marker of superiority, but an invitation to join a shared journey. But this journey takes place within communities, cultures, and histories that shape how we interpret and apply the idea of excellence. In some cases, these influences can distort the goal, introducing pressure, comparison, and even judgment into a philosophy meant to nurture.
As we examine excellence more deeply, we must remain vigilant. The very standards that uplift can also become barriers. We must ask: how do we hold high expectations without turning them into tools of exclusion? How do we preserve the heart of the method while acknowledging the evolving realities of our students and ourselves? That is where we must begin to examine the shadows—those unintended consequences that arise when the pursuit of excellence strays from its philosophical roots.
The Shadow Side of Excellence: When Standards Become Weapons
While the pursuit of excellence can inspire and uplift, it can also become a double-edged sword when misunderstood or misapplied. In our efforts to uphold high standards, we sometimes create environments of pressure, judgment, and exclusion. What was meant to nurture can become a source of stress. What was intended to unite can fracture community.
This can happen subtly. When we describe one teacher or student as “excellent,” we may unintentionally imply that others are not. We begin to create hierarchies—spoken or unspoken—of who belongs and who does not. We compare. We judge. We forget that excellence is not a fixed trait but a process, a path shaped by effort, resilience, and care.
Dr. Suzuki believed in community over competition. He reminded us that “Man is a child of his environment,” emphasizing the role of nurturing support. But when excellence becomes a tool of measurement rather than growth, it stops nurturing. It begins dividing. In some Suzuki communities, these dynamics appear in how teachers speak about one another, in how students are compared, and in how we define who is “good enough.” We lose sight of the mission: to foster growth, not to gatekeep worth.
To restore balance, we must ask: Are our standards tools for growth or weapons of exclusion? Are we cultivating excellence through love, or enforcing it through pressure? True excellence must be rooted in compassion, shared purpose, and the understanding that every child, every teacher, is on a journey.
The Equity Paradox: Talent is Everywhere, But Opportunity is Not
Dr. Suzuki’s revolutionary idea—that “musical ability is not an inborn talent but an ability which can be developed”—carries with it a powerful implication: every child can learn. But it also carries a profound responsibility: to recognize that not every child begins with the same opportunities.
If talent is everywhere, why do outcomes vary so widely? The answer is not found in the children, but in their environments. Unequal access to resources, instruments, parental support, and stable home lives shape each student’s ability to succeed. Some children grow up surrounded by music; others hear classical music for the first time in the studio. Some have parents who can sit beside them at every practice, while others are left to navigate it alone.
I once taught a student named Mateo in a public-school program where I was assigned to give private lessons during the day on scholarship. His parents each worked multiple jobs, and while they deeply valued music, they couldn’t afford lessons or a reliable instrument. Mateo practiced on a warped, borrowed violin with slipping pegs and a fraying bow. Still, he showed up each week with joy and determination, practicing whenever he could—between siblings, between shifts, between everything else life required of him.
Mateo’s tone could not match that of peers with better instruments. But his excellence was not defined by his starting point. It lived in his growth, his effort, and his courage. If excellence is narrowly defined by sound alone, Mateo would be dismissed. But if it is defined by resilience and authenticity, Mateo was extraordinary.
Another student, Mei, grew up immersed in traditional Chinese music. The Suzuki recordings were the first Western music she ever heard. Her phrasing was lyrical—shaped by the folk songs her grandmother played on the guzheng. Her intonation followed flexible tonalities native to her musical roots. At first, I misunderstood. I asked her to “fix” her intonation without realizing she was hearing pitch differently. It took humility—and listening through her cultural lens—to recognize the beauty of her expression. Her excellence, too, was real.
The equity paradox challenges us to see excellence differently. Not as sameness or as conformity, but as growth in context. When excellence is rigidly defined, it erases difference. But if excellence means growth, resilience, and authenticity, then the field widens—and becomes more honest.
On Being the Best: Competing Philosophies of Excellence
In today’s highly competitive environments, the phrase “the best teacher” is often wielded like a badge of honor—or a marketing strategy. But what does it truly mean to be “the best”? Does it mean producing students who win competitions, master advanced repertoire, or are accepted into elite conservatories? Or does it mean nurturing each child’s spirit, guiding them at their own pace, and honoring their individual path?
The truth is that these philosophies often collide. The best teacher for one child may not be the best for another. In Suzuki education, we are taught to meet the child where they are. But external influences—youth orchestras with their seating auditions and competitions—can pressure us to prioritize measurable outcomes over personal growth.
My own teaching has evolved. Early in my career, I welcomed three- and four-year-olds into my studio. But over time, I realized that many of these children needed more time to grow, to move, to sing, to listen, and to experience music in their bodies. I began starting students closer to age five, when they were more physically, emotionally, and socially ready for the formal structure of lessons. This is not a rejection of early childhood learning: it’s an honoring of developmentally appropriate pedagogy.
Still, there are remarkable teachers who create joyful, engaging experiences for toddlers using playful games and exuberant energy. Does this make them better Suzuki teachers than me? Not at all. We are different teachers, with different gifts, reaching different students in different ways.
Excellence cannot be measured by one metric. Nor can it be defined solely by the loudest cultural voices. To live the Suzuki philosophy, we must define excellence for ourselves— guided by our strengths, grounded in our values, and attuned to the students in front of us.
What if we stopped asking, “Who’s the best?” and started asking, “What does this student need most right now—and how can I meet that need with skill, depth, and care?” The best teacher is not the one whose students win the most accolades, but the one who sees each child clearly and teaches them with care and commitment. The best teacher is the one who never stops growing.
Generational Healing and Community Unity
The pursuit of excellence is shaped by the history and community from which it emerges. In the Suzuki world, this includes a powerful generational lineage: those who studied directly with Dr. Suzuki and the pioneers of his time, those who followed and inherited their teachings, and now a new generation of teachers who carry the work forward without that direct connection.
The earliest generations bore the burden of proof. They worked for acceptance and acknowledgment, often in the face of skepticism from traditional pedagogical traditions—and they succeeded. The high standards we benefit from today were hard-won. Their pursuit of excellence was not only personal—it was political. They had something to prove: that Suzuki education was valid, serious, and rigorous.
These early teachers set high standards. They carried the method forward with pride and intensity. But that struggle also left scars—experiences of being dismissed, misunderstood, or underestimated. For some, that created a deep need to protect the reputation of Suzuki education. These concerns come from love for the method and loyalty to its founder. But they can also lead to rigidity, mistrust, and resistance to change. They feared that relaxing standards might dishonor decades of effort.
The younger generations have inherited those standards—but not the same battles. They grew up in a world where Suzuki education was already well-established. Their questions are different: How do we make room for emotional well-being? How do we prioritize equity? How do we ensure that our communities are safe, inclusive, and inspired?
These are not signs of decline. They are signs of evolution. But evolution requires empathy—for the fears of those who came before, and for the hopes of those just beginning the journey. Intergenerational dialogue is essential. We need one another. Our community is strongest when we listen across generations—not to correct each other, but to understand each other. The future of Suzuki education depends on our ability to hold both tradition and transformation with reverence and grace.
The Future We Are Called to Shape
This is an invitation to reflect and grow—together. We are stewards of a legacy that calls us to pursue excellence not as competition, but as compassion in action. To teach with love is not to lower standards, but to raise them in ways that include, inspire, and uplift. It means valuing achievement, but never at the expense of belonging, connection, or care. It means shaping a standard that is rigorous yet generous, upholding excellence without closing the door to those still finding their way.
Dr. Suzuki reminded us, “Where love is deep, much can be accomplished.” In Suzuki education, love is the daily discipline of being fully present—for our students, their families, and the process itself. It requires patience, humility, and an unwavering belief in each child’s capacity to grow.
We can honor the work of those who came before while meeting the needs of the students we teach today. We can hold high standards without turning them into barriers. We can value excellence while keeping belonging at the center.
Let us create communities where excellence is never a weapon, but always a gift—shared generously, pursued humbly, and sustained together. This is the heart of Suzuki education—and the future we are called to shape.