What happens when you step into a role shaped by the past—only to discover the rules have quietly changed?

Replacing the Irreplaceable

I recently watched a performance by Rush featuring their new drummer—a woman stepping into a role once occupied by Neil Peart, who was, depending on whom you ask, less a drummer and more a rhythmic demigod.

This is not an easy job.

Replacing Neil Peart, as Anika Nilles was hired to do, is a bit like being hired to repaint the Sistine Chapel ceiling—“Do something similar, but also original, and try not to disappoint millions of people who have opinions.”

The band has stated they are not “replacing” Peart, but “honoring and interpreting his parts.” I imagine Neil Peart fans everywhere would have difficulties with the word replace. Nobody would want to out-Peart Peart, or even try. The man had limitless energy—and ideas to match.

But Nilles played well. Solid. Controlled. Not flashy.

And that, in itself, was interesting.

Because when you replace someone like Peart, the expectation isn’t competence—it’s transcendence. Preferably within the first eight measures.

So maybe she wasn’t holding back.

Maybe she was being smart.

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The Problem with Expectations

Watching her, I caught myself thinking: That was good… but would Neil have added more there?

Which is unfair. And also completely human.

We don’t just watch—we measure. Especially when someone steps into an iconic role. We don’t ask, “Is this good?”

We ask, “Is this as good as the version I have been replaying in my head since 1987?”

This is, of course, a perfectly reasonable standard if your goal is to ensure that no one ever succeeds.

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Meanwhile, in My Classroom

Around the same time, I launched a new program in my adult language classes—one that requires students to participate almost entirely through their phones.

Their phones. Frankly, I can hardly believe I am supporting this move and method. Me–the loudest of luddites.

The very devices I have spent years quietly blaming for the erosion of attention spans, deep thinking, and possibly the ability to read anything longer than a cereal box.

And yet:

“Please take out your phones,” I said, with the calm authority of someone who has definitely always supported this.

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A Mild Case of Professional Hypocrisy

There is a particular kind of hypocrisy reserved for teachers—the moment when you realize you are now assigning the very behaviors you once tried to eliminate.

I have spent decades encouraging paper, pencil, annotation, margin notes.

Now I am structuring lessons around tapping, swiping, and what appears to be a brief detour into Instagram before returning to the lesson.

It feels… strange.

Not wrong, exactly. But unfamiliar. Like I’ve been asked to teach in a room where the furniture has been rearranged overnight and no one thought to mention it.

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Learning a New Rhythm

Which brings me back to that drummer.

She doesn’t need to be Neil Peart. That would be impossible.

She needs to function in the version of the band that exists now.

And I, it seems, don’t get to be the teacher I once was—not entirely.

The classroom has changed. The tools have changed. The expectations have shifted.

I can resist that completely—or I can adapt just enough to remain part of the performance.

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Keeping Time

So there we are.

A drummer behind a legendary kit, choosing restraint over spectacle.

A teacher handing out phone-based assignments, quietly remembering diagrammed sentences and the reassuring scratch of pencil on paper.

Neither of us replacing what came before.

Just trying to keep time in a different era.

My book -soon to be released…April 2026.