When I was in high school, I took an Oral Interpretations class taught by an esteemed theatre teacher. I had to be sneaky about it – telling my parents that it counted for the Speech requirement – since they were not inclined to indulge me in my desire to take theatre/drama/art classes (since those kinds of classes would not be helpful for whatever science-based career I would undoubtedly pursue).
I remember sitting there – surrounded by members of the thespian community – and I felt like an interloper, a wannabe, a fraud… what’s worse, my high school self fully believed that the teacher suspected this “truth” about me also, and nothing anybody could have told me at the time would have convinced me otherwise.
I got through the class – relishing in moments where I could shine along the bright stars of our theatre program. I remember crushing my monologue – preparing to enter into a competition. The teacher was both stern and motivating – not that I was receptive – my mind was made up, she thought I didn’t belong there, and I resented her for it.
The time came for me to exact my revenge when the end of the semester came along and we were able to evaluate our teachers. I let her have it, both barrels – talked about the blatant favoritism, the ineffective feedback, and the lack of attention to non-theatre students. And then, with a flourish, I signed my name. After all, I said what I said – and I was no coward.
That class came and went. I graduated. Time moved forward.
*Flash forward YEARS later.*
I had returned to the high school to support the theatre’s latest production of The Music Man . That teacher was still there. I made sure to pass by and laud her work on the musical – not giving that long ago evaluation a second thought.
Her eyes shuttered when I approached her. The hug was lukewarm at best. She accepted the accolades graciously, but I could tell her heart wasn’t behind it.
That was when she revealed to me that my words, all those years ago, had hurt her. Then, she relayed her perception of my time in the class. She complimented my tenacity, my intensity, my astuteness, and shared how she longed for my parents to change their mind so that I could have been a part of the theatre program. My mind was blown. I could not believe how different our impressions of the same reality were.
I don’t know if I could have handled things differently when I was in high school. I was a proud, angsty, and headstrong individual. Maybe if the teacher had pulled me aside, I could have apologized then, instead of years later? But that teacher being who she was, wouldn’t have handled things differently either. If I have one regret it is that the words written were intended to hurt – and knowing that they did, does not fill me with any sense of righteousness, but rather a sense of despair. I can belatedly hope that maybe my evaluation influenced her to be more kind to other non-theatre students – but what if it just hardened her heart? I’ll never know.
I think that’s why – of ALL the things I hope to teach in Language Arts – it’s that WORDS are extremely powerful
Fast forward to today. Maybe it’s poetic justice that I am receiving a taste of my own medicine. I am certainly not everybody’s cup of tea – nor is it my goal to be. I am not here to make friends – I just want to help each student become the best version of themselves. To help students learn valuable lessons and to move forward with grace. Will I reach every student? It’s not likely – but that won’t stop me from trying.
*blog title is a line from the monologue I performed in high school, from a play by Craig Lucas entitled “Credo” from a collection of plays edited by Eric Lane and Nina Shengold, entitled “Plays for Actresses”
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