Patrick and I have started twice-monthly Friday night Payday Dates. The girls are just old enough now to be home alone for a couple of hours at a time as long as we're fairly local. Last week, my smart husband picked a very tacky, very townie Chinese restaurant, which shows precisely how well he knows me. I love a place with a vibe - an energy all its own that sets it apart from a place like Bertuccis or Olive Garden or someplace that's just...ordinary. The decor is incredibly out of date with giant pandas and bamboo in random places. The drink menu included things like Singapore Sling and Suffering Bastard and Scorpion Bowl for one. (Which I ordered, just because it came in a bowl. Perfect.) The bartender was in his 50's, and had the most enormous, pouffy, sort of streaky Chinese afro I have ever seen. The bar was wall-to-wall townies, Boston accents rich and jangly, just the way I like them. Keno, flaming pu pu platters, and a waitstaff that has been there for twenty years. It reminded me so much of my favorite Chinese restaurant of all time, the Aloha in Hingham, which is now a Starbucks/jewelry store/insurance agency. We would go there after every chorus concert and for most of our cast parties, and it was the tackiest place you ever saw. It had this scary sort of dark sunken bar area with - I kid you not - a whole bunch of shrunken heads hanging over the doorway. I vowed that the very second I turned 21, I would get a drink at that bar, and I did, exactly once before they tore it down. I still have a menu from the 80's that Barry Violette stole for me in an effort to impress me. It worked. We had a great date, and I was very grateful to be so understood.
My favorite times have always been in places with a vibe - and my favorite people are the ones who share in and appreciate that. One example of this is my friend Dillon, (who was a student in my very first class) and his fiance Lisa (picture a combination of Gidget, a 1940's pin-up girl, and Meg Ryan...though prettier, and with a subversive, slightly bad-ass edge.) They live in NYC, and have a very unique appreciation for the concept of the vibe. Last year, they took me to a rooftop bar, full of plants and flowers and a fabulous drink menu in a very brown-stoney upscale neighborhood near a gated park. The year before that, Dillon took me to a very secret bar in Grand Central Station (one of my favorite places in the whole wide world) where I turned 39 over a giant goblet of "Prohibition Punch." Very vibe-ish. They are getting married this summer, and they are having a Mad Men, 1960's themed reception. See? Vibe. They will make it work. I absolutely cannot wait.
Some of my favorite vibe places include: the Haymarket in Northampton, the Purple Pub in Williamstown, 12 Westwood Road on some particularly memorable party nights (some large, but the best of them much more intimate), the 8th floor lobby of the Marriot Marquis Times Square, the Company Theatre fireplace room, and the Loring Movie Theater in Hingham. Places where things happen to you, feelings happen, and you can tell from the energy that things have happened to other people there, too. I love that. I love being in a place that's very full of humanity and connection. You know them when you feel them, I think, and I'm always on the look out for more.
By way of update...we ran Act One last night, and it was a little rough. At least, rough by my current standards of what is "good" and "rough" in high school theater, which is to say...pretty freaking fine. I am so far ahead of where I hoped to be by the week before production week of a Sondheim musical...it's just the best. The kids revealed their Secret Valentines at the end of rehearsal last night, and the bonding in this cast is so deep and entrenched. I wrote them all Valentine notes, and I always feel that moment of hesitation when I tell students the truth of what I think about them. I feel it when I write each of my 6th graders their end of the year project letter, and I felt it with this, too. I want to say what is truly in my heart, but I also have that moment's hesitation of, "What if this were broadcast on the 6:00 news?" Would my outpouring of affection be misinterpreted? I guess that's just part of the job - that worry. I have chosen consistently to just SAY it, what I think and feel about them, come what may. I just have to. It's who I am, and I can't be NOT that.
In the musical "Big," (yes, there really is one) there's a song called "Stop, Time." It's sung by Josh's mother, and it's about how you love every phase of your child's growth, each one more precious than the next, and you just want to stop time right where it is to truly revel in the moment. That's exactly how I feel about Into the Woods.
Stop, time. I'm not ready to let them go.
Wednesday, February 15, 2012
Monday, February 13, 2012
"But if life were made of moments, then you'd never know you'd had one..."
Lately, I’ve taken to catching myself smiling while driving alone in my car. I will be barreling up or down rt. 3, 45 minutes from one workplace to the next, and for no reason, I’ll feel a smile on my face and realize that without even noticing, I’ve been thinking happy thoughts. I probably have written this before – at least, I know I’ve journaled it – but in Eat Pray Love, the Balinese medicine man tells Liz that she needs to “smile with her liver.” Smile while meditating, while doing your small daily tasks. Just choose to be happy with your body and soul, and make a habit out of it.
I would say if I could pick the greatest of the changes in my life since turning 40, that would be it. I smile with my liver now, more often than not. Despite an enormous uncertainty in my life, waiting at the crossroads, despite working many many hours a week, despite some annoyances and worries, I am just happy most of the time. I know it’s because I am in the flow of my life, living on purpose, and with great appreciation and a continual expectation that things will turn out just the way they should. An attitude of gratitude. Feeling so energized by it all.
We had another great rehearsal tonight. We ran act two for the second time, and if you know anything about high school theater, you know that to be running act two three times before production week is kind of amazing. But they are all kinds of amazing, and while I had a vision when we started of what “cast bonding” with this group could be, I had no idea how very much it would exceed my expectations. They love each other so much, and are so caring and aware of each other, and it is a beautiful and heartwarming thing to witness. The senior girl who is my student director has taken charge of leading some warm ups and wrap ups with the cast, and they had a “favorite moments” circle on Sunday after sharing the first day of clues for their secret Valentines. Their compliments to each other about their favorite moments were so thoughtful and sensitive and judicious. They not only said what they felt, sincerely, but they also said things that were the very sentiments their castmates most needed to hear. And I think pretty much everyone had something special and unique about themselves recognized and praised aloud in front of people they all respect and admire.
I mean, really. How often in a life do you get a chance to see a thing like that happen, organically and with tremendous grace? What I get to do with my life is such a gift. And while I know it probably sounds so corny and bromidic (name that showtune reference)…I maintain that magic happens in theater. There is nothing more magical than genuine connection between people, than seeing love and confidence grow in a team united in a common goal. While singing showtunes. I feel so incredibly blessed to be a part of that.
It’s not always like this. Some shows are just shows, at least to me. I think they all make an impact in some ways to all of us, but this one is different. This one is special, and I knew it would be when the idea to do this just came to me two years ago. I thought of it, and I let a picture form in my mind of how it would manifest, and I was so right. I knew it would be this special for everyone.
It will be the saddest ever to say goodbye to this class, to watch them journey off into the world. But I’m so happy for all of them, so proud of them and so grateful to have known them. They have had some big experiences in their four years of theater with me, but this will be everyone’s favorite, and the perfect way to end.
Almost the entire cast is seniors. Most have been in lots of shows before, nearly all of them. A few are new. One of the new ones is playing Milky White. I had decided early on that I would make Milky White a person, and thought it would be funny if she were kind of jaded and sarcastic, edgy and trailer-park. But this girl walked in, and wanted to be Milky White, and turned out to be the sweetest, most sparkly sunshiney girl ever. She is one of those people that raises the vibration of the room as soon as she walks in. I had to have her in the show, so Milky White morphed immediately into a sparkly, sunshiney very happy cow, and her performance is so charming.
She’s so lovely that my Abby, who is the most excellent judge of such things, adores her especially. She draws her pictures of cows, and suggested a piece of blocking for the second act just so that everyone in the audience wouldn’t have to be upset thinking that Milky White got stepped on by the giant…LIKE EVERYONE ELSE IN THIS PLAY. (If you know Abby, you can imagine exactly how she would say that. “Like, EVERYONE dies. And Cinderella’s mother dies TWICE. What’s UP with that?”)
And she’s only one of twenty-five cast members, all of whom I like, most of whom I adore, and a few that I just love, plain and simple. Not every year, but some years when kids graduate, I think, “It’ll never be the same without them.” And I’m always right. This year, I mean it the most.
The way is dark,
the light is dim,
but now there's you, me, her and him...
I would say if I could pick the greatest of the changes in my life since turning 40, that would be it. I smile with my liver now, more often than not. Despite an enormous uncertainty in my life, waiting at the crossroads, despite working many many hours a week, despite some annoyances and worries, I am just happy most of the time. I know it’s because I am in the flow of my life, living on purpose, and with great appreciation and a continual expectation that things will turn out just the way they should. An attitude of gratitude. Feeling so energized by it all.
We had another great rehearsal tonight. We ran act two for the second time, and if you know anything about high school theater, you know that to be running act two three times before production week is kind of amazing. But they are all kinds of amazing, and while I had a vision when we started of what “cast bonding” with this group could be, I had no idea how very much it would exceed my expectations. They love each other so much, and are so caring and aware of each other, and it is a beautiful and heartwarming thing to witness. The senior girl who is my student director has taken charge of leading some warm ups and wrap ups with the cast, and they had a “favorite moments” circle on Sunday after sharing the first day of clues for their secret Valentines. Their compliments to each other about their favorite moments were so thoughtful and sensitive and judicious. They not only said what they felt, sincerely, but they also said things that were the very sentiments their castmates most needed to hear. And I think pretty much everyone had something special and unique about themselves recognized and praised aloud in front of people they all respect and admire.
I mean, really. How often in a life do you get a chance to see a thing like that happen, organically and with tremendous grace? What I get to do with my life is such a gift. And while I know it probably sounds so corny and bromidic (name that showtune reference)…I maintain that magic happens in theater. There is nothing more magical than genuine connection between people, than seeing love and confidence grow in a team united in a common goal. While singing showtunes. I feel so incredibly blessed to be a part of that.
It’s not always like this. Some shows are just shows, at least to me. I think they all make an impact in some ways to all of us, but this one is different. This one is special, and I knew it would be when the idea to do this just came to me two years ago. I thought of it, and I let a picture form in my mind of how it would manifest, and I was so right. I knew it would be this special for everyone.
It will be the saddest ever to say goodbye to this class, to watch them journey off into the world. But I’m so happy for all of them, so proud of them and so grateful to have known them. They have had some big experiences in their four years of theater with me, but this will be everyone’s favorite, and the perfect way to end.
Almost the entire cast is seniors. Most have been in lots of shows before, nearly all of them. A few are new. One of the new ones is playing Milky White. I had decided early on that I would make Milky White a person, and thought it would be funny if she were kind of jaded and sarcastic, edgy and trailer-park. But this girl walked in, and wanted to be Milky White, and turned out to be the sweetest, most sparkly sunshiney girl ever. She is one of those people that raises the vibration of the room as soon as she walks in. I had to have her in the show, so Milky White morphed immediately into a sparkly, sunshiney very happy cow, and her performance is so charming.
She’s so lovely that my Abby, who is the most excellent judge of such things, adores her especially. She draws her pictures of cows, and suggested a piece of blocking for the second act just so that everyone in the audience wouldn’t have to be upset thinking that Milky White got stepped on by the giant…LIKE EVERYONE ELSE IN THIS PLAY. (If you know Abby, you can imagine exactly how she would say that. “Like, EVERYONE dies. And Cinderella’s mother dies TWICE. What’s UP with that?”)
And she’s only one of twenty-five cast members, all of whom I like, most of whom I adore, and a few that I just love, plain and simple. Not every year, but some years when kids graduate, I think, “It’ll never be the same without them.” And I’m always right. This year, I mean it the most.
The way is dark,
the light is dim,
but now there's you, me, her and him...
Wednesday, February 8, 2012
Two Midnights Gone
Nothing much new or exciting to blog about. Busy with rehearsals this week. The show is going beautifully, and it's still so much fun. My friend Pam came in over the weekend to choreograph "Ever After" with the kids, and even she could see how well they're doing, how committed everyone is, and at the end of the rehearsal, when they all started to "circle up" - of their own volition, not something that I make them do - she said, "You're right. It's magic here."
Only a handful of the kids in the show are not seniors. I have been doing a very good job of pressing that knowledge down in my consciousness during this process, knowing that if I give myself up to sadness about that too soon, it's going to diminish everyone's joy. The other night, though, driving home and playing the soundtrack for the girls, I listened to the words of "No One Is Alone," and for just a little while, let myself be sad. I know that this show may represent the end of a journey for me, as well, and while I am at peace with that possibility, once in a while, I just need to let myself have a moment to mourn just a little. Maybe dealing with it in small batches will make it easier to face the end when it comes, whatever form that ending might take. When I think too much about it, I am sad to know that there are already Two Midnights Gone. Given the chance, I would do this show, with these people, every year for the rest of my life.
Doesn't work that way, though.
In other news, today I made my sixth graders meditate. We have moved from Hinduism to Buddhism, which is more comfortable for me. (In fact, I emailed Patrick after my first Buddhism lesson last week and said, "I think I might be Buddhist!" And he replied, "You think you're everything," and reminded me that I say that every year.) I guess it's all part of my life-long search for spiritual open-ness and understanding. It's one of those areas of life, though, in which I find the journey to be much more fulfilling than any bottom line, or end result. I kind of just like thinking about it. Anyway, Buddhist meditation. I put in the guided mediation CD I found at the public library, shut off the lights, chose carefully the parts I would play (though I mistakenly forgot to NOT play the one where the lady tells them to clench and release their buttocks...you can imagine how that went.) The kids really took it more seriously than I even thought they would, particularly my most challenging student this year, whose un-medicated and un-strategized (and, actually, un-diagnosed) ADHD routinely wreaks havok on the most ordinary of lessons.
For 22 minutes, that child did not move a single muscle. He sat alone in a corner of the room (by his choice) with his eyes closed, palms up, as the guide droned on in her peaceful voice on the topics of breath, and self-worth, and kindness, and world-peace. He loved it. And he was even able to verbalize that he loved it because he could just listen to someone else tell him thoughts, rather than thinking his own thoughts while trying to sit still at the same time. I immediately made him a copy of the CD to keep. Hope his parents don't get mad that I sent him home with a CD that says "buttocks." Still...it was a welcome reminder to me that there are so many different ways to reach a kid, and sometimes, they reveal themselves in the most unexpected times and places.
Because this is already rambling and disconnected, I will add this: My high school director called me earlier in the week to help him with a fundraiser for my former high school's theater program. He asked me to send a message to the kids I knew from high school to ask them to donate to this year's ad book. Oh, the years I traversed my little town to ask businesses to buy ads! The hardware store, the bakery, the insurance agencies..."Can you donate $25 for a quarter page ad?" I am happy to do it, and part of the reason is because at my very special and fancy high school, I have never ever had to do that. Or anything even close to that. And I have never had to ask my students to do it, either. They just...give me what I need, mostly because I don't ask for an awful lot.
My high school director LOVED to spend money. He really did. He would (and still does - proved it to me on the phone yesterday) talk in detail about the amazing satin fabric he found at close-out prices in the garment district. The sequins, the feathers...he liked things pretty and shiny and very, very satin. (Your typical teenage girl does NOT look good in satin, might I add. To him, irrelevant.) I am not really into that. I'm more concerned with what they're experiencing, how they're connecting, than what they, or the show, looks like. This sounds like I'm being snottily superior, but it's kind of the opposite of that. I sometimes really wish that I had the time or the brain-space to care more about things like that. Instead, I have been very blessed to be able to have other people around me to who can take care of those sorts of details. I have a costume designer. I have a set designer. My high school director had to do all of those things by himself. Partly because he had to, I guess, but partly because he WANTED to do all of those things, for his own creative expression, and the result was that it always felt like "his" show. People would call them that, and still do. "A Doniger show." Everyone wears sequins in a Doniger show. Flash, sparkle, production value that mine don't have.
I often wish I could find a way to strike more of a balance. I often wish that my finished products had more sparkle and flare. I worry that the experience of the kids, their bond and intensity and joy and excitement, doesn't translate in production value. I guess that's what I need to look toward in my future. I want to grow toward that - having the experience and the "product" more closely align. That's in my journey. Maybe.
Today, I was home and in my gnome pajama bottoms and my holey UMass sweatshirt at exatly 3:23 p.m. That might be a record. Patrick is out writing, and tonight for dinner I am making comfort food, a recipe that my mom calls rice-a-roni. It is poor-people food, a combination of cream of mushroom soup, a can of tuna, and rice. Like everyone I know, some weeks are lean weeks, and we rely on whatever is in the cupboard to make it to the next payday. Patrick and I call them "Nolan Weeks," after A Tree Grows in Brooklyn. He worries about them, but truthfully, I don't. Partly because I feel like as soon as you put out into the world the concept of "I don't have enough," then the Universe supports that. We always have enough. We always have more than enough, when I really stop and look at it. I also appreciate Nolan weeks because it helps me remember that we are both hard-working and gainfully employed, and that we know that our next paycheck is only a few days away. Lots of people aren't that lucky. I need a Nolan week from time to time to remind me to be grateful for all of the abundance in my life.
Only a handful of the kids in the show are not seniors. I have been doing a very good job of pressing that knowledge down in my consciousness during this process, knowing that if I give myself up to sadness about that too soon, it's going to diminish everyone's joy. The other night, though, driving home and playing the soundtrack for the girls, I listened to the words of "No One Is Alone," and for just a little while, let myself be sad. I know that this show may represent the end of a journey for me, as well, and while I am at peace with that possibility, once in a while, I just need to let myself have a moment to mourn just a little. Maybe dealing with it in small batches will make it easier to face the end when it comes, whatever form that ending might take. When I think too much about it, I am sad to know that there are already Two Midnights Gone. Given the chance, I would do this show, with these people, every year for the rest of my life.
Doesn't work that way, though.
In other news, today I made my sixth graders meditate. We have moved from Hinduism to Buddhism, which is more comfortable for me. (In fact, I emailed Patrick after my first Buddhism lesson last week and said, "I think I might be Buddhist!" And he replied, "You think you're everything," and reminded me that I say that every year.) I guess it's all part of my life-long search for spiritual open-ness and understanding. It's one of those areas of life, though, in which I find the journey to be much more fulfilling than any bottom line, or end result. I kind of just like thinking about it. Anyway, Buddhist meditation. I put in the guided mediation CD I found at the public library, shut off the lights, chose carefully the parts I would play (though I mistakenly forgot to NOT play the one where the lady tells them to clench and release their buttocks...you can imagine how that went.) The kids really took it more seriously than I even thought they would, particularly my most challenging student this year, whose un-medicated and un-strategized (and, actually, un-diagnosed) ADHD routinely wreaks havok on the most ordinary of lessons.
For 22 minutes, that child did not move a single muscle. He sat alone in a corner of the room (by his choice) with his eyes closed, palms up, as the guide droned on in her peaceful voice on the topics of breath, and self-worth, and kindness, and world-peace. He loved it. And he was even able to verbalize that he loved it because he could just listen to someone else tell him thoughts, rather than thinking his own thoughts while trying to sit still at the same time. I immediately made him a copy of the CD to keep. Hope his parents don't get mad that I sent him home with a CD that says "buttocks." Still...it was a welcome reminder to me that there are so many different ways to reach a kid, and sometimes, they reveal themselves in the most unexpected times and places.
Because this is already rambling and disconnected, I will add this: My high school director called me earlier in the week to help him with a fundraiser for my former high school's theater program. He asked me to send a message to the kids I knew from high school to ask them to donate to this year's ad book. Oh, the years I traversed my little town to ask businesses to buy ads! The hardware store, the bakery, the insurance agencies..."Can you donate $25 for a quarter page ad?" I am happy to do it, and part of the reason is because at my very special and fancy high school, I have never ever had to do that. Or anything even close to that. And I have never had to ask my students to do it, either. They just...give me what I need, mostly because I don't ask for an awful lot.
My high school director LOVED to spend money. He really did. He would (and still does - proved it to me on the phone yesterday) talk in detail about the amazing satin fabric he found at close-out prices in the garment district. The sequins, the feathers...he liked things pretty and shiny and very, very satin. (Your typical teenage girl does NOT look good in satin, might I add. To him, irrelevant.) I am not really into that. I'm more concerned with what they're experiencing, how they're connecting, than what they, or the show, looks like. This sounds like I'm being snottily superior, but it's kind of the opposite of that. I sometimes really wish that I had the time or the brain-space to care more about things like that. Instead, I have been very blessed to be able to have other people around me to who can take care of those sorts of details. I have a costume designer. I have a set designer. My high school director had to do all of those things by himself. Partly because he had to, I guess, but partly because he WANTED to do all of those things, for his own creative expression, and the result was that it always felt like "his" show. People would call them that, and still do. "A Doniger show." Everyone wears sequins in a Doniger show. Flash, sparkle, production value that mine don't have.
I often wish I could find a way to strike more of a balance. I often wish that my finished products had more sparkle and flare. I worry that the experience of the kids, their bond and intensity and joy and excitement, doesn't translate in production value. I guess that's what I need to look toward in my future. I want to grow toward that - having the experience and the "product" more closely align. That's in my journey. Maybe.
Today, I was home and in my gnome pajama bottoms and my holey UMass sweatshirt at exatly 3:23 p.m. That might be a record. Patrick is out writing, and tonight for dinner I am making comfort food, a recipe that my mom calls rice-a-roni. It is poor-people food, a combination of cream of mushroom soup, a can of tuna, and rice. Like everyone I know, some weeks are lean weeks, and we rely on whatever is in the cupboard to make it to the next payday. Patrick and I call them "Nolan Weeks," after A Tree Grows in Brooklyn. He worries about them, but truthfully, I don't. Partly because I feel like as soon as you put out into the world the concept of "I don't have enough," then the Universe supports that. We always have enough. We always have more than enough, when I really stop and look at it. I also appreciate Nolan weeks because it helps me remember that we are both hard-working and gainfully employed, and that we know that our next paycheck is only a few days away. Lots of people aren't that lucky. I need a Nolan week from time to time to remind me to be grateful for all of the abundance in my life.
Tuesday, January 31, 2012
Sorry, Ghandi.
Part of being a teacher is stepping out of your comfort zone. I was raised Catholic, have become...I don't know what you would even call it...maybe something like Universalist, but not exactly. The Universe and I are BFF...there should be a name for that. Law of Attractionist? I don't know.
Anyhow, among the many things I have to teach is Hinduism. I don't know much about Hinduism in my personal experience, as you might imagine, but if you have to teach it, you have to learn it. Because it's such a dense and confusing religion, I need to make sure that the kids understand Hinduism as its absolute basics.
Clearly, I have sucked at this.
The assignment was: Pretend a Kindergartener has asked you, "What is Hinduism?" Explain it in terms a 6 year old can understand. They needed to include the following concepts: reincarnation, Brahman (the sort of big-cheese god with its three main god-parts), karma, puja (how they worship), and the caste system.
Here are some actual responses from today:
There are 2 kinds of karma, bad and good. Good is mostly when you have an awesome soul, bad is when you are rude, mean, nasty and etc. (No shades of grey here, clearly.)
The whole goal of Hinduism is to be reincarnated so many times that you reach the Batman. The Batman is the force in the universe that makes up everything, including all of the people and the flowers and the animals and Mrs. Browne’s coffee cup. When you get to the Batman, you don’t have to have any more lifely troubles. (She means Brahman.)
The Ghandis River is very sacred to Hindus because they say it washes away your bad feelings. Like Ghandi did. (He means Ganges.)
Good karma will help you reach the Brahman, which is beyond this world of suffering, where the true essence of life is found. Once you have reached this blissful point, you don’t ever have to be reincarnated on this stupid Earth ever again. (I have referred her for counseling.)
In India, people do not think of death as an ending or the beginning. It’s a ferris wheel, but it’s also a fun ride because if you get good karma, then each spin around is better than the next. (Take that, Slumdog Millionaire.)
I'm better at teaching...well, everything else. I promise.
Anyhow, among the many things I have to teach is Hinduism. I don't know much about Hinduism in my personal experience, as you might imagine, but if you have to teach it, you have to learn it. Because it's such a dense and confusing religion, I need to make sure that the kids understand Hinduism as its absolute basics.
Clearly, I have sucked at this.
The assignment was: Pretend a Kindergartener has asked you, "What is Hinduism?" Explain it in terms a 6 year old can understand. They needed to include the following concepts: reincarnation, Brahman (the sort of big-cheese god with its three main god-parts), karma, puja (how they worship), and the caste system.
Here are some actual responses from today:
There are 2 kinds of karma, bad and good. Good is mostly when you have an awesome soul, bad is when you are rude, mean, nasty and etc. (No shades of grey here, clearly.)
The whole goal of Hinduism is to be reincarnated so many times that you reach the Batman. The Batman is the force in the universe that makes up everything, including all of the people and the flowers and the animals and Mrs. Browne’s coffee cup. When you get to the Batman, you don’t have to have any more lifely troubles. (She means Brahman.)
The Ghandis River is very sacred to Hindus because they say it washes away your bad feelings. Like Ghandi did. (He means Ganges.)
Good karma will help you reach the Brahman, which is beyond this world of suffering, where the true essence of life is found. Once you have reached this blissful point, you don’t ever have to be reincarnated on this stupid Earth ever again. (I have referred her for counseling.)
In India, people do not think of death as an ending or the beginning. It’s a ferris wheel, but it’s also a fun ride because if you get good karma, then each spin around is better than the next. (Take that, Slumdog Millionaire.)
I'm better at teaching...well, everything else. I promise.
Friday, January 27, 2012
Dear Sixth Grade Girl
Dear Sixth Grade Girl,
Actually, strike that. Go back to texting or putting on lip gloss or whispering in someone's ear. I need to talk to your mothers.
Heeeey there, mothers. Here's the thing...I'm totally one of you now. I have a sixth grader. And I preface this by saying that my little sixth grader is about as awkward a bird as you'll find. Awkward and so incredibly smart and dear and sunny and geeky in all of the best ways. I would never want to squash that, and however your daughter is awkward and geeky and dear is precious. She is herself, and I certainly believe whole-heartedly in allowing her to find her way, try on different personas, and experiment with lots of ways of being.
Within reason.
Mothers, please. Before your daughter leaves the house, please make her sit in a chair to make sure you can't see into the back of her pants. Long shirts, please. Likewise, require a bra. Even if she has nothing much happening up there at all, you just never know when the classroom will get chilly and then it's just all kinds of humiliating.
I know...all of our daughters must experiment with fashion and hairstyles. It's part of the ritual. Mine, in fact will never NOT wear a saggy old low ponytail in her beautiful curls, no matter how much I passive-aggressively beg. (You look so pretty with your hair in clips...or any single other way than that...) You won't always win the battle, and that's okay. BUT, if your daughter has a full out black moustache on her pasty-white face, and there is absolutely no cultural reason for that in your heritage, FIX IT. Please fix it. The same goes for a unibrow.
We walk a fine line, mothers, between encouraging their self-esteem and preventing them from being embarrassed in the locker room. I sympathize, and I am typing all of this around the plank in my own eye. Small things, though, make a difference. Small things like underpants, and not letting them wear pajamas to school. And buying them deoderant, and then sniffing them to make sure they wear it.
Okay, girls. Turn around. YOU'RE PRETTY! WE LOVE YOU.
But you might need a shower.
Hugs and Kisses,
Your Teacher
Also a Mother
But Not Yours
But Please Wash Your Hair.
Actually, strike that. Go back to texting or putting on lip gloss or whispering in someone's ear. I need to talk to your mothers.
Heeeey there, mothers. Here's the thing...I'm totally one of you now. I have a sixth grader. And I preface this by saying that my little sixth grader is about as awkward a bird as you'll find. Awkward and so incredibly smart and dear and sunny and geeky in all of the best ways. I would never want to squash that, and however your daughter is awkward and geeky and dear is precious. She is herself, and I certainly believe whole-heartedly in allowing her to find her way, try on different personas, and experiment with lots of ways of being.
Within reason.
Mothers, please. Before your daughter leaves the house, please make her sit in a chair to make sure you can't see into the back of her pants. Long shirts, please. Likewise, require a bra. Even if she has nothing much happening up there at all, you just never know when the classroom will get chilly and then it's just all kinds of humiliating.
I know...all of our daughters must experiment with fashion and hairstyles. It's part of the ritual. Mine, in fact will never NOT wear a saggy old low ponytail in her beautiful curls, no matter how much I passive-aggressively beg. (You look so pretty with your hair in clips...or any single other way than that...) You won't always win the battle, and that's okay. BUT, if your daughter has a full out black moustache on her pasty-white face, and there is absolutely no cultural reason for that in your heritage, FIX IT. Please fix it. The same goes for a unibrow.
We walk a fine line, mothers, between encouraging their self-esteem and preventing them from being embarrassed in the locker room. I sympathize, and I am typing all of this around the plank in my own eye. Small things, though, make a difference. Small things like underpants, and not letting them wear pajamas to school. And buying them deoderant, and then sniffing them to make sure they wear it.
Okay, girls. Turn around. YOU'RE PRETTY! WE LOVE YOU.
But you might need a shower.
Hugs and Kisses,
Your Teacher
Also a Mother
But Not Yours
But Please Wash Your Hair.
Thursday, January 26, 2012
To Teach, to Join, to Go to the Festival
Wednesday. I love Wednesdays. It’s now 5:25. I cleaned the sunporch. Dinner is in the oven. (Lemon thyme chicken…reference ever post I have every made about how much I hate to cook. Still do. But I made it, ‘cause on Wednesdays, I can.) I have already dealt with Abby’s “I HATE chicken! What can I have instead? Whaaa whaaa whaaaaaaa…” It all sounds like Charlie Brown’s teacher. Now, as I wait to take it out of the oven, I am watching things I have saved on the DVR…Betty White’s 90th birthday, sitcoms that Patrick (who's working late) won’t care about (Two Broke Girls, Up All Night, Hot in Cleveland.) Soon it will be homework done, shower done, knots brushed out of gnarly curly hair. Aaah, Wednesday night at home, being Mom. Both jangly and relaxing as the dryer whirls.
Hmm… Actually, it’s a funny thing. Usually, by this point in my “winter play” process, I am already tired, and Wednesdays home are such a relief. I actually don’t feel that way this time. I am excited to go to rehearsals. That’s saying something, I guess. I don’t know if it’s saying something about my enjoyment of my job, or the current level of annoyance with my pre-teens. Not sure. Maybe both.
I went to the choral concert at my Fancy High School last night, and it made me feel all nostalgic. Concert Choir was really one of the formative aspects of my high school life. First, there was my teacher, Mr. Leavitt, still one of the greatest, most loving men I have ever known. Mr. Leavitt was near retirement by the time we had him, crippled by bone spurs in his toes, and, we thought, possibly drunk a lot of the time. Still…he was one of the first people I had ever met who spoke music like a language. I met him when he was the traveling music teacher for our elementary and middle school, while still running the high school choir. He smelled like Old Spice, wore a giant class ring with a bright blue jewel, always had a laughing twinkle in his eye, and a booming laugh that seemed to originate from this soul-level I didn’t yet have words for. Looking back on it now, I can see him as troubled, conflicted, someone whose life took him in directions he didn’t plan, but he bloomed where he was planted, here with us, and was still so full of genuine love and joy. Mr. Leavitt liked me, a nervous little mousy welfare kid, because he used to play Name That Tune, whistling songs from musicals and the American Song Book - he had the most perfect, fetching whistle - and I was the only one who knew those songs… (Thanks, Nana’s player piano.) Alexander’s Ragtime Band and Birth of the Blues and the theme from the Love Boat. He was a gentle, sophisticated, merry, accomplished gentleman, and always seemed larger than life to me.
When we got to high school…(Sidebar…whenever I think about high school, I think about what “we” experienced, and the we is always Lisa, Chris, and me. Funny.) Anyhow, we knew how awesome it was to have him for our choir director because he was so fundamental to the town, part of the twenty-something year legacy that he had led at our high school. We knew that the songs we would sing in the Christmas concert were the same ones our aunts and uncles had sung decades ago, and that when he was our pianist in the musical, no matter what happened, he had our backs.
I remember when he tried to teach me music theory in high school, I was such a little jerk. I remember saying, “I don’t need to learn to play the notes. I just learn by listening and singing them.” He looked me in the eye and said, “That won’t always work. And no one else is going to take the time to teach you this, so pay attention.” And so I did. I remember he made me write out the transposition for “I’d Rather Be Blue” for Funny Girl as an exercise to prove I had learned what I was supposed to, and if I didn’t do it right, he said he wouldn’t play it for me, and he would cut the number from the show. But he said it with a smile, and I worked really hard to do it right. He had a way of making everyone love him, and work for him, even on the cusp of retirement, even in chronic pain. We loved him just because he was ours, devoted to all of us, and we knew it. We used to sing various concerts at Christmastime…nursing homes, malls, that sort of thing, and there would always be a party after one of those at his house, where his long-suffering wife would feed all of us (“Mum’s lasagna,” he used to call it.) There would always be a sing-along beside his giant grand piano, and whatever in-bred drama was happening in our little choir at the time would always seems to somehow play out in the backdrop of those parties. A fight. A kiss. A reconciliation. Maybe it was just me…but I doubt it.
He set the tone for our choir, and made sure we all knew our roles. As freshmen, we knew the seniors were the leaders, and we worshipped them. As seniors, we knew the freshmen looked up to us, and that it was our responsibility to be good people to set an example. We all were committed, though, every year. I lived for my 45 minutes of chorus class every other day. Being in the Concert Choir felt like being a part of a very long, old, in-bred, extended family, and as corny as it sounds, music was our tie. Our vocal lines in “Do You Hear What I Hear” and “Hava Nagila” were the ribbons that connected us, one graduating class to the next.
I went to the concert last night expecting to see something like that…some sort of a community, tied and affectionate and cohesive. I didn’t see that. I saw some stand-out performances by talented kids (the best of whom are in my “Into the Woods” cast…but I digress.) I saw some moments of connection and fun and light pass through the kids, but mostly…I did not see that sense of delight in singing. And it made me feel sad. It made me feel like there is a golden opportunity here that’s yet to be ignited. The feeling of singing in a chorus, of blending your voice as the third alto from the left, indistinguishable from the one beside you, or the soprano on the other end of the riser, is such a sensation of camaraderie and belonging and togetherness, and I want that for these kids. Maybe I just missed it. Maybe it’s there, but being on the outside, I can’t see. I hope that’s the case.
For now, I am not a part of fixing that, or giving that, but…I want them to have that in this show. That I can help facilitate. I really hope I can encourage that kind of mindfulness for them now. I want to help them truly feel that joy of singing, moving, story-telling as one, and recognizing the power they have to move people when they share that with an audience. I want to be Leavitt-Like, providing a world, a backdrop, a soundtrack, for them to have their own personal discoveries and growth experiences and above all, the very pure joy of finding their way to another person through music.
Ack. That sounded corny, even for me. But it’s really how I feel.
Hmm… Actually, it’s a funny thing. Usually, by this point in my “winter play” process, I am already tired, and Wednesdays home are such a relief. I actually don’t feel that way this time. I am excited to go to rehearsals. That’s saying something, I guess. I don’t know if it’s saying something about my enjoyment of my job, or the current level of annoyance with my pre-teens. Not sure. Maybe both.
I went to the choral concert at my Fancy High School last night, and it made me feel all nostalgic. Concert Choir was really one of the formative aspects of my high school life. First, there was my teacher, Mr. Leavitt, still one of the greatest, most loving men I have ever known. Mr. Leavitt was near retirement by the time we had him, crippled by bone spurs in his toes, and, we thought, possibly drunk a lot of the time. Still…he was one of the first people I had ever met who spoke music like a language. I met him when he was the traveling music teacher for our elementary and middle school, while still running the high school choir. He smelled like Old Spice, wore a giant class ring with a bright blue jewel, always had a laughing twinkle in his eye, and a booming laugh that seemed to originate from this soul-level I didn’t yet have words for. Looking back on it now, I can see him as troubled, conflicted, someone whose life took him in directions he didn’t plan, but he bloomed where he was planted, here with us, and was still so full of genuine love and joy. Mr. Leavitt liked me, a nervous little mousy welfare kid, because he used to play Name That Tune, whistling songs from musicals and the American Song Book - he had the most perfect, fetching whistle - and I was the only one who knew those songs… (Thanks, Nana’s player piano.) Alexander’s Ragtime Band and Birth of the Blues and the theme from the Love Boat. He was a gentle, sophisticated, merry, accomplished gentleman, and always seemed larger than life to me.
When we got to high school…(Sidebar…whenever I think about high school, I think about what “we” experienced, and the we is always Lisa, Chris, and me. Funny.) Anyhow, we knew how awesome it was to have him for our choir director because he was so fundamental to the town, part of the twenty-something year legacy that he had led at our high school. We knew that the songs we would sing in the Christmas concert were the same ones our aunts and uncles had sung decades ago, and that when he was our pianist in the musical, no matter what happened, he had our backs.
I remember when he tried to teach me music theory in high school, I was such a little jerk. I remember saying, “I don’t need to learn to play the notes. I just learn by listening and singing them.” He looked me in the eye and said, “That won’t always work. And no one else is going to take the time to teach you this, so pay attention.” And so I did. I remember he made me write out the transposition for “I’d Rather Be Blue” for Funny Girl as an exercise to prove I had learned what I was supposed to, and if I didn’t do it right, he said he wouldn’t play it for me, and he would cut the number from the show. But he said it with a smile, and I worked really hard to do it right. He had a way of making everyone love him, and work for him, even on the cusp of retirement, even in chronic pain. We loved him just because he was ours, devoted to all of us, and we knew it. We used to sing various concerts at Christmastime…nursing homes, malls, that sort of thing, and there would always be a party after one of those at his house, where his long-suffering wife would feed all of us (“Mum’s lasagna,” he used to call it.) There would always be a sing-along beside his giant grand piano, and whatever in-bred drama was happening in our little choir at the time would always seems to somehow play out in the backdrop of those parties. A fight. A kiss. A reconciliation. Maybe it was just me…but I doubt it.
He set the tone for our choir, and made sure we all knew our roles. As freshmen, we knew the seniors were the leaders, and we worshipped them. As seniors, we knew the freshmen looked up to us, and that it was our responsibility to be good people to set an example. We all were committed, though, every year. I lived for my 45 minutes of chorus class every other day. Being in the Concert Choir felt like being a part of a very long, old, in-bred, extended family, and as corny as it sounds, music was our tie. Our vocal lines in “Do You Hear What I Hear” and “Hava Nagila” were the ribbons that connected us, one graduating class to the next.
I went to the concert last night expecting to see something like that…some sort of a community, tied and affectionate and cohesive. I didn’t see that. I saw some stand-out performances by talented kids (the best of whom are in my “Into the Woods” cast…but I digress.) I saw some moments of connection and fun and light pass through the kids, but mostly…I did not see that sense of delight in singing. And it made me feel sad. It made me feel like there is a golden opportunity here that’s yet to be ignited. The feeling of singing in a chorus, of blending your voice as the third alto from the left, indistinguishable from the one beside you, or the soprano on the other end of the riser, is such a sensation of camaraderie and belonging and togetherness, and I want that for these kids. Maybe I just missed it. Maybe it’s there, but being on the outside, I can’t see. I hope that’s the case.
For now, I am not a part of fixing that, or giving that, but…I want them to have that in this show. That I can help facilitate. I really hope I can encourage that kind of mindfulness for them now. I want to help them truly feel that joy of singing, moving, story-telling as one, and recognizing the power they have to move people when they share that with an audience. I want to be Leavitt-Like, providing a world, a backdrop, a soundtrack, for them to have their own personal discoveries and growth experiences and above all, the very pure joy of finding their way to another person through music.
Ack. That sounded corny, even for me. But it’s really how I feel.
Wednesday, January 25, 2012
Dear Sixth Grade Boy
Dear Sixth Grade Boys,
Tuck Everlasting is a beautiful book, full of poetry and meaningful concepts and deep discussions about life and the nature of choice and consequence. If you spoil our reading circle by losing yourself to a fit of giggles over the word "spurt," rest assured that you will be writing a page on exactly what that word means to you and why you think it's so funny. Don't mess with me, fellas. I'm bigger'n you and I've had three additional decades to cultivate a dirty mind. There's not a reference you can find in any of these books that I haven't already thought of, and snickered over. But in polite company, we keep such things to ourselves. Learn to save it for after class.
While we're at it...a friendly reminder...NO SWEATPANTS. Please, oh please. I know you can't possibly be looking for loose change in those pockets. There is nothing to buy here. I don't know what else I can say about that.
Staring at Her Coffee Cup,
Your Teacher
Tuck Everlasting is a beautiful book, full of poetry and meaningful concepts and deep discussions about life and the nature of choice and consequence. If you spoil our reading circle by losing yourself to a fit of giggles over the word "spurt," rest assured that you will be writing a page on exactly what that word means to you and why you think it's so funny. Don't mess with me, fellas. I'm bigger'n you and I've had three additional decades to cultivate a dirty mind. There's not a reference you can find in any of these books that I haven't already thought of, and snickered over. But in polite company, we keep such things to ourselves. Learn to save it for after class.
While we're at it...a friendly reminder...NO SWEATPANTS. Please, oh please. I know you can't possibly be looking for loose change in those pockets. There is nothing to buy here. I don't know what else I can say about that.
Staring at Her Coffee Cup,
Your Teacher
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