Truth to Power

We were half way through the class when Quinn said, “This is boring. I’m bored.”

On Zoom, it’s not always easy to read your audience, but though one classmate looked aghast at Quinn’s audacity, most of the rest of them—twenty-one third graders having a drama lesson with me—looked bored—fidgety, whirling around in desk chairs, head down on an elbow.

“You’re right, Quinn, this is boring,” I admitted. I’ve been a drama teacher since I was eighteen, teaching creative dramatics in a housing project in New Haven, inspiring all sorts of children to play, imagine, empathize, but until December, all my teaching had been in person. I could tell by the energy in a group of children when it was time to change the activity, when it made sense to press forward against the resistance to get to a place of vulnerability or joy or creativity.

“Quick, girls. Take the imaginary balls we were throwing earlier and throw them all at Quinn.”

Did I really say at? I meant towards. But I said at.

Instantly, the little rectangles in front of me sizzled with energy.

Quinn, delighted, caught imaginary ball after imaginary ball: tiny weighless ping pong balls, small but deadly lacrosse balls, huge beach balls, basketballs. The girls were specific in the spheres they hurled, and Quinn caught every one, declaring, “Now, this is fun!”

In the remaining lessons I had with the third grade before our December vacation, I watched the girls closely. I sought advice from wise drama teachers who offered ideas on my Facebook page. I trolled sites with titles like “Teaching drama on zoom.” The Canadians, naturally, hosted the best pages; in many schools in Canada, drama is as important as math. Just another reason to love Canada.

The girls loved Smuppet, my diction puppet, a fuzzy red fellow with a large orange nose who adores final consonants. He translated quite well into on-line life. So, too, did a variety of finger puppets I introduced and the numerous stuffed animals and puppets the girls decided to share one day. We got through lots of drama basics: plot, conflict, character. But their favorite things, inevitably, were the simplest: plays with two kitchen implements, plays with two fingers, coming into the room as a high status or low status character, pantomimes—though several had difficulty pronouncing the term, they loved acting out actions without props—several were ready for Our Town in their specificity.

And I? I loved being a drama teacher, even on Zoom. I was thrilled that our third-grade team invited me to be the “guest” in those remote weeks between Thanksgiving and winter vacation. I loved coming to know each girl, realizing who the risk takers were, whose eyes lit up with a new challenge, whose internet made her participation tricky. I learned that third graders adore emojis and, if I didn’t answer immediately in the chat, they would cut and paste their questions a million times. I learned, too, that Hamilton is a fave with this crew. They loved the lyrics and several invited their kitchen implements to stand in as Burr and Alexander.

I struggled, too, with pace; it is boring to wait for others to have a turn when you are at home and your connection is wobbly. It is frustrating not to be able to give everyone a turn with every exercise because Quinn’s courage in speaking truth to power was a feeling I could see in the other small squares.

To lead a school these days is to worry, every day, about the safety and wellbeing not just of students, but of our faculty and staff. Some are terrified about having to return, which is the call I made. I did not make it alone; I have a wise medical advisory team, a smart board of trustees, and a leadership team I trust, all of whom helped me make the decision to return. But at the end of the day, I made the call and I cannot promise we will all be safe. Though I know there is risk in everyday life, there feels like more risk right now in our state, in our school. But go back we will, on Tuesday.

I am trying to balance everyone’s needs, and I feel a little bit like Quinn at the moment I instructed the other girls to throw things at her. While she relished all the balls coming at her, I am not such a deft catcher. Sometimes, I want to close my eyes or duck. Parents, many of them, need us to re-open, so they can also return to work. Children, for the most part, look forward to being with their teachers and friends. Adolescents seem to enjoy the choice they have in learning from home or at school. It is easiest to teach everybody in person—a luxury we do not have for our high school because we do not have enough room to do so while honoring social distance—or to teach everybody online, but one size, in this pandemic, does not fit all. We are all compromising. And the stakes feel high.

What can my recent foray back into teaching drama offer me? Plan, but be flexible. Presume best intentions. Ask for help. Thank people when they offer it. Know that it’s not about being right—it’s about being brave and vulnerable. Take risks. See everyone and know that there may be as many points of view as people. Learn from your blind spots. Be sure each person on the screen or in person feels valued. Listen. Breathe. Warm up. You can be a drama teacher for 42 years and still have a crummy lesson; it’s not about you. Switch strategies. Let go of ego. Let go of control. Laugh as much as possible. Praise whenever you can. Thank the internet gods when connections are stable, especially your own. Seize opportunities for joy. Thank you, my third-grade girls. Thank you, Quinn. I can’t wait to see you on Tuesday, even from six feet.