This is an unfinished, unpublished draft written back in June. Oh well....
This month I landed a contract to work for two hours each week at the community mental health center. From 1 to 3 on Tuesdays, I hang out with school-age kids in a frame built of theater arts with an emphasis on improvisation. Today was our fourth meeting.
The content of the program I offer is the same everywhere I go -- I've brought this stuff to Unitarian Universalists on retreat doing anti-racism work, to workshops for "unwed mothers" seeking stress reduction, to team-building seminars in corporate boardrooms and to Women's Studies classes in Indiana and California -- and it works because my fundamental objectives as a transformative performing arts educator don't really change.
I want to facilitate voice and silence. I want teach critical thinking and free thinking. Because so many people stand before groups of people with the intention of communicating and do it poorly or not at all, I want to spread the word about what works and doesn't work when performing. I want to help folks rediscover how interesting they are, and expand the possibility of what they can accept about themselves and others.
All of this is true and there's more I could say but the bottom line truth is that the arts changed my life for the better and continue to do so; and I've witnessed the life-changing power of theater arts so many times that I cannot help but love this work and believe in it.
I love the work. I really like when I'm paid to do it. My best-ever contexts, though, involve damaged or at-risk or problem kids. I only found this out after nudging myself to take a deep breath and say "yes" to invitations to work with these populations.
What's happening in the current gig is amazing. Mind-blowing. Revolutionary. Transformative. The kids are popping like flowerbuds in the spring. There's long arc amazing like the nonverbal child who was making no eye contact four weeks ago who touched my hand today and asked if she could go first next Tuesday. There's short arc amazing like the child who had two noisy meltdowns in the first 10 minutes I was there today who hugged me at the end of his group's hour and later joined the other group for more theater games. He told the teacher in the other room he had an idea he wanted to try.
Some of the kids have an adult shadow who sticks with them in case something comes up and they need support and individual attention. It's been a little weird sometimes and today I figured out why: some of them have a sort of security guard vibe about them. They're like human fire extinguishers, here in case something catches fire.
They thought they saw something on fire a few weeks ago when I asked for a volunteer and one kid raised his hand and approached me. Another boy, whose participation so far had been making noises and shouting "That's stupid" at random moments, jumped up a few seconds later and shouted "I volunteer."
"Just a second too late," I said, "but welcome back from the brink." I observed a couple of staff exchange looks like "Did she really just say that?" The kid scowled. He wasn't happy. He started working on a full-on breakdown. He kicked the wall and stormed out of the room. I got the feeling some of the staff thought I'd made that happen.
Today, the anticipated blaze finally hit. We were playing "One Scene, Three Attitudes" in which trios of actors (kids) are assigned a situation, e.g., getting a haircut, flying to the moon, babysitting your cousin and given a few minutes to think of three different attitudes toward the situation. When the trio takes the stage, each actor will express the attitude with face and body.
We've played the game before. Today I added the challenge that the actor must improvise a few lines from inside the attitude. To illustrate what improvising a few lines might sound like, I gave a sample situation of Mother's Day. "What are three attitudes someone could have about Mother's Day?" I asked.
"Very very happy because I have the best Mom," said one child.
"Scary," offered another child. "Scary?" I repeated. "What's scary about Mother's Day?"
"I'm a super-hero and I can use super powers." We'd had a game earlier in the day about super-heroes. "Are you a super hero who doesn't like Mother's Day?" "Yes!" he said. "OK. I get it," I said.
"What else? We need one more attitude," I prompted. A boy offered "Sad."
"OK. Sad. Why would someone be sad on Mother's Day?" I asked. The staff member beside him gasped, gave me a look of mild horror, and began shooting looks at a staffer on the other side of the room. "Because someone is sad or a little sad about Mother's Day," he expounded.
"OK. Like someone who doesn't have a mother. Maybe their mom died or something," I said.
"Trigger!" the staffer muttered and glared at me.
"Yes, because his mom died," the kid said.
"We're okay," I assured the staffer. "OK. I get it. So we would want to see a happy face and body, a scary face and body and a sad face and body," I continued. At which point the staffer gave me a look and left the room.
We finished the hour minus one staffer. I wasn't surprised when the Director called me into her office as I was leaving.
We just have to be so careful with these kids. You can't know what will set them off and none of us professional therapists. "So don't mention death?" I asked. Well, maybe. Or don't mention death in the context of a holiday or a family member, she offered.
This month I landed a contract to work for two hours each week at the community mental health center. From 1 to 3 on Tuesdays, I hang out with school-age kids in a frame built of theater arts with an emphasis on improvisation. Today was our fourth meeting.
The content of the program I offer is the same everywhere I go -- I've brought this stuff to Unitarian Universalists on retreat doing anti-racism work, to workshops for "unwed mothers" seeking stress reduction, to team-building seminars in corporate boardrooms and to Women's Studies classes in Indiana and California -- and it works because my fundamental objectives as a transformative performing arts educator don't really change.
I want to facilitate voice and silence. I want teach critical thinking and free thinking. Because so many people stand before groups of people with the intention of communicating and do it poorly or not at all, I want to spread the word about what works and doesn't work when performing. I want to help folks rediscover how interesting they are, and expand the possibility of what they can accept about themselves and others.
All of this is true and there's more I could say but the bottom line truth is that the arts changed my life for the better and continue to do so; and I've witnessed the life-changing power of theater arts so many times that I cannot help but love this work and believe in it.I love the work. I really like when I'm paid to do it. My best-ever contexts, though, involve damaged or at-risk or problem kids. I only found this out after nudging myself to take a deep breath and say "yes" to invitations to work with these populations.
Some of the kids have an adult shadow who sticks with them in case something comes up and they need support and individual attention. It's been a little weird sometimes and today I figured out why: some of them have a sort of security guard vibe about them. They're like human fire extinguishers, here in case something catches fire.
They thought they saw something on fire a few weeks ago when I asked for a volunteer and one kid raised his hand and approached me. Another boy, whose participation so far had been making noises and shouting "That's stupid" at random moments, jumped up a few seconds later and shouted "I volunteer."
"Just a second too late," I said, "but welcome back from the brink." I observed a couple of staff exchange looks like "Did she really just say that?" The kid scowled. He wasn't happy. He started working on a full-on breakdown. He kicked the wall and stormed out of the room. I got the feeling some of the staff thought I'd made that happen.
Today, the anticipated blaze finally hit. We were playing "One Scene, Three Attitudes" in which trios of actors (kids) are assigned a situation, e.g., getting a haircut, flying to the moon, babysitting your cousin and given a few minutes to think of three different attitudes toward the situation. When the trio takes the stage, each actor will express the attitude with face and body.
We've played the game before. Today I added the challenge that the actor must improvise a few lines from inside the attitude. To illustrate what improvising a few lines might sound like, I gave a sample situation of Mother's Day. "What are three attitudes someone could have about Mother's Day?" I asked.
"Very very happy because I have the best Mom," said one child.
"Scary," offered another child. "Scary?" I repeated. "What's scary about Mother's Day?"
"I'm a super-hero and I can use super powers." We'd had a game earlier in the day about super-heroes. "Are you a super hero who doesn't like Mother's Day?" "Yes!" he said. "OK. I get it," I said.
"What else? We need one more attitude," I prompted. A boy offered "Sad."
"OK. Sad. Why would someone be sad on Mother's Day?" I asked. The staff member beside him gasped, gave me a look of mild horror, and began shooting looks at a staffer on the other side of the room. "Because someone is sad or a little sad about Mother's Day," he expounded.
"OK. Like someone who doesn't have a mother. Maybe their mom died or something," I said.
"Yes, because his mom died," the kid said.
"We're okay," I assured the staffer. "OK. I get it. So we would want to see a happy face and body, a scary face and body and a sad face and body," I continued. At which point the staffer gave me a look and left the room.
We finished the hour minus one staffer. I wasn't surprised when the Director called me into her office as I was leaving.
We just have to be so careful with these kids. You can't know what will set them off and none of us professional therapists. "So don't mention death?" I asked. Well, maybe. Or don't mention death in the context of a holiday or a family member, she offered.
. 
