THAT'S MISTER SQUEAKY TO YOU

I teach theatre to kids. Have for many years now. When I first got to Denver, I was a starving artist, a playwright and actor who had lived in many a small apartment in NYC. Suddenly, I was getting married, living in an actual house, and my responsibilities changed. I needed to get a job. In New York, I had waited tables and made enough money doing that to stay afloat and do my thing. But in Denver, the job market was a bit different. I did some temp work, catering, and so on. And somehow, I started teaching children's theatre. First at a little place up in Boulder. I had no real plan, so I just talked to the kids like they were people. And that seemed to work. We did shows like Aesop's Fables, and The Arabian Nights, mostly from smaller theatre publishers who specialized in young people's theatre. The scripts were for the most part awful. So we would do what we could to fix them. And they turned out pretty good. 

On my very first day, it was raining. We met in a school gym, and the floors were wood, which made my shoes squeak. One of the kids asked me if she could call me Mister Squeaky Shoes. I said sure. By the next week, the "shoes" part of the name had vanished, but I was Mr. Squeaky. And my career as a theatre teacher began in earnest. 

That was over ten years ago. I've worked at many a theatre, all over Denver. And I now even teach adults. They're are not quite as fun as kids, but I do enjoy it. One of my jobs is with StageDoor Theatre, up in Conifer, which is a little mountain town about an hour from where I live. I got hired to replace a beloved teacher who had left for greener pastures. Our first show was How to Succeed in Business without Really Trying. It was for their high school program. We had a limited budget, way more girls than boys for a show that had way more male roles than female, and at least half the cast was looking at me askance, wondering if I could possibly replace their former teacher. Somehow, we pulled it off, and so began my ongoing relationship with StageDoor. 

The theatre is small, but mighty. There is a love of theatre there that is genuine and intense. I love it. 

This past year, we were about to open Sweeney Todd when the shut down happened. Like, we were going into tech week, and suddenly, the show was gone. And it was going to be fantastic. The cast was into it. I was into it. Things were clicking, and everyone was reaching new heights. Losing that show hurt. And one day, I really hope we can do it. We shall see. The theatre had to close all its shows, for almost an entire year. Which hurt, both artistically and economically. 

Finally, we are back, and about to open a show I wrote called Gleeful. It's about a high school show choir, and may remind people of a certain tv show. To quote Mick Jagger, the show is a gas, gas, gas. 

Just being able to do theatre at all is a gift.

And we want to do more. But money is tight, so I suggested the theatre do a GoFundMe. They said fine, as long as you run it. 

So I did. My song for you all today is a video I made from footage of Monday's rehearsal. The song is Candles. The show is Gleeful. The theatre is StageDoor. Hope to see you there. And if you can, please kick in a few bucks, and then share the page. It's good karma.

WHEN BEING STRONG WITH THE FORCE ISN'T ENOUGH

So one of the things I get to do in this life is teach children. Mostly theatre, but also speech and debate these days. I love it. There is something really nice about hanging out with kids and trying to help them figure out this world we all share. And I seem to be good at it. I think maybe I get that from my mother, who was an amazing teacher for elementary students. She had this way of connecting with and inspiring her students that was magic. I don't know how you can teach people to do what she did. I think there are of course many excellent ideas about teaching, courses to take on the basics. But there is also that X factor that you either have or do not have.

 It's sort of like having the Force be strong with you.

I think I got a little bit of that from her. 

So yesterday, it was the final day of a section on speech and debate I was doing with this one class. the section consisted of doing a daily salutation to each other, where each kid got up in front of the class, greeted everyone, said their name, and shared a quote. The quote could be anything they wanted, a song lyric, a line from a movie, something they overheard, and so on. Often, is the quote was interesting (and they almost always were) we'd discuss the meaning, if they believed the quote, and so on. Then we'd move on to working on short speeches, and then group debate.

It's a really fun unit.

The group debates this time were Netflix vs. Prime Video; and the pros and cons of having a dog.  We had done the individual speeches last week, and this day was all about the debates. We would do our daily salutation, then prep for the debate, and see what happened. 

When I got to class, one of the brightest of this group was sitting apart from the group, looking decidedly sad. One of her friends was sitting with her, trying in vain to cheer her up. I let her skip her quote, as it was pretty clear she was truly upset. This kid was an excellent speaker, very smart, and had been looking forward to speaking on behalf of the upside of having a dog. She was a proud dog lover, and told me every class a bit about her dog, how fantastic he was, how funny, how awesome.

So as the kids began prep for the debate, I walked over and asked her if everything was ok.

She stoically shook her head and handed me a note.

It read "I can't talk today. My dog died."

Sometimes, even when the Force is strong with you, there is nothing you can do to take away the pain in this world. 

I told here the things you tell people when they lose someone they love. How lucky her dog was to have her in his life. How it wasn't fair. How I wished I could make it not be so. How I was sure her dog was playing in a grand field, happy and free, and would always watch over her. 

I tried to be honest and supportive. I told her she could skip the debate, sit in another room, do whatever she wanted. She didn't speak in the debate, but she bravely stayed in the classroom. And somehow, managed to smile once or twice.

I think we all need to be like that. Things are hard right now. Terribly hard. There is so much sorrow and anger and madness running rampant. So much anxiety. 

We need to let our sadness out. Let each other know how we feel, in whatever way we can. And we need to be brave, and love each other.

May the Force Be with Us. Everyone.

Here's a song. It's Interstellar Love by The Avalanches.