Cultivating the Kraken

Cultivating play is serious business. 

I arrive in each classroom with an intricate and strategic lesson plan that is a complicated intersection of the students' needs, the lessons they need to learn to hone their craft, the ideas they need to grasp, as well as tools to build confidence, self and community awareness. 

I'm ready to work.

Naturally, chaos ensues.

Why?

Well first, chaos and rambunctiousness comes naturally to children.

Second, I am a theatre teacher and my job is to cultivate chaos and within that chaos find a focus, stretch that into an idea, and then form it into a tangible moment. 

However, I am not always successful. 

Sometimes, I simply get chaos. 

I start saying "no" and "stop

I get frustrated. I get angry

Students get frustrated. Angry. And worse, they shut down. 

Nothing gets done. 

A world in which we all ran into with unhindered excitement at the possibilities becomes a dark world of bleh. 

I leave sighing and mad at myself. 

While pondering these occurrences, it dawned on me:

I am an AFTER school teacher. 

All day long my students have been sitting behind desks, accomplishing tasks, being asked to be quiet, be still, raise hands, stop touching, please listen, behave, stop that, don't do that, no, no, no. . .well the list goes on. 

(A side note: Adults hear the same thing, only we've heard these phrases for so long, we naturally tell ourselves these things in our work lives.) 

After 8 hours (give or take), the student walks through my door with the promise of imagination and unhindered play. They are encouraged to lose their indoor selves and be loud, run, have lots of energy and play. 

Basically, I'm asking a room full of tiny people to release their inner Kraken. 

Within an instant I find myself among tiny Kraken, and suddenly, all I want to do is control them.

Control. Within this tiny word my epiphany lies.

Danger lies in Control. 

Frustration lives in Control. 

Limitation thrives on Control.

Disconnection resides in Control.

Every artist knows this.

There is no controlling the Kraken; instead the Kraken must be guided, nurtured and cultivated. 

Simply put:

Instead of saying "No"

We say, "Huh, I never thought of that."

Instead of getting angry, and say "Stop"

We laugh, and say "not right now, but let's try that at the end of class."

Instead of forcing the lesson

We look and see where the students are and meet them there. 

This is a hard fact, especially when I am simply having a bad day, and all I want to do is phone it in. 

Oh, those days when I just want to revel in my bad mood. 

But that's not allowed. 

I have to be ready. 

I have to be excited. 

I have to On. 

I have to perform. 

The Kraken needs me, and our culture needs the Kraken. 

And when that doesn't cut it, I simply remember my bottle of red wine waiting for me at home. 

The Tangible Theory.

This is my new theory. I not only like it because of the alliteration but also because I love the word tangible.

Full Disclosure:
I realize there are no new ideas.
This is probably not a new theory.
It's probably not even a theory.
But, it's something. Something I've really found gets to the core of truth for my students--both young and old.

The premise? Start with the stereotype, start with something that's familiar and work from there.

For some reason when beginners and amateurs step up on to the stage, they lose all sense of their humanity. Suddenly, their body becomes a foreign object. They forget how to move their arms, their legs become caught up in a swaying motion (that I like to call the actor mambo), their voices become flat, and their face becomes like a kung fu movie, where the words are spoken and then seconds later the face reacts.

Everything human about them stops working.

It can be very disconcerting and daunting for a teacher. How do you change that with out hurting your students' feelings? How do you guide them to where they need to be? How do you help them discover how their body works again?

Then something strange happens:
The minute they got off the stage, they become expressive, full of life and reaction. Words are filled with expression and action. Stories about an event the day before are told with vigor and enthusiasm.

What was lost on that stairway to the stage? (See what I did there? ;))

The tangible. The relate-ability. The truth.

People think the stage is the enigmatic place that only those with incredible talent can fully navigate and understand. New students believe they are only visitors.

Not true. The stage and script are places where humanity and truth unfold. That is all. That's what makes it so perfect and down right spiritual. The stage and script are created for and by the people, so we all belong there in some way.

So, when I'm faced with a student--young or old, amateur or experienced--who is lost in that perplexing place of the stage and script, I bring them back to the tangible. I force them to play the stereotype. If it's a New Yorker, do your best impression of a New Yorker.
Sometimes I get, "Oh, but that's mean. You don't want to see how I think of that type of person." Yes, I do, because that idea you have informs your body! It gives you a nugget of truth you understand.

Do I want you to stay there? Absolutely not! I want that stereotype to be a seed. From that you will grow, but it will be from a place of truth and that is our goal. The tangible brings you back to truth and truth brings texture. (So many 'T's'!)

It works for kids as well. I had a child student yesterday who could not figure out how to be or sound like a talking cereal box. That's a difficult task. So, I asked him what he knew about a cereal box and he described it to me. I said, "do that with your body". So, he did. I said, "what's the first image that comes to your mind when you think of your favorite cereal?"
"A leprechaun."
"Great. How does a leprechaun sound when it talks?"
"Oh me lucky charms"
"Now, put it all together"

It was a brilliant adaptation of a cereal box.

This Tangible Theory brings us back to our human nature. It brings our students back to what they know.

Patsy Rodenburg brings us back to our breath. Here is where life and voice comes from.

For me, the Tangible Theory comes from this idea because both tell us to go back to what we know.

Allowing our students to start not only small but in a familiar place bridges that gap. The stage no longer becomes baffling but rather a place to explore and experience what we see, breathe, and feel in the world around us.

The Tangible Theory is only an idea. I am still developing this idea as well as understanding its possibilities for my students and myself.

As all ideas go, it is meant as tool to get us to where we are going.

Here goes nothing. . .

Take a deep breath. 

Turn the handle. . .

Walk through the door. . . 

When I walk into a classroom of unsuspecting kids, I never know what awaits. 

All I do know is that I have exactly one hour to engage, instill, and foster. One hour to earn their trust, one hour to instill a sense of success, and foster any idea and creative energy they put out in the room. 

And then I leave. That's it. 

Yesterday, I found myself in a local classroom, and my task was to teach about Native Americans and teamwork. 

That's all the school gave me. Consider that. . .Native Americans. There is a wealth of information to learn. Important information. Information that should not be skimmed over, but taught with heart and clarity. Not to mention teamwork--a life skill that is crucial for any productive and creative individual. 

So what do you do? Go small. Grab one aspect of the topic and develop a plan that digs deep. 

I chose the Cherokee and their homes. They live in the Carolinas, have a rich heritage, and are a particular tribe I really connect with personally. And homes? Homes are something everyone relates to instantly, and the Cherokee made theirs from mud and brush and river cane. They problem solved and worked with each other. 

The class started out with lots of energy and enthusiasm. 

Then the nitpicking, arguing, mean words, and frustration leaked in. With each task came more ugly words and inability to work together. Every time we sat and discussed what worked and what didn't, the students would say the right things: "We didn't listen." "We need more teamwork." "We need to care about each other." 

The right words came out so easily, but putting the words into practice is the road block. 

So what does a teacher do that only has an hour to cover an enormous topic and leave the kids feeling accomplished and successful?

Go smaller. 

Chuck out the lesson plan and focus on what the kids need.  Focus on the process and not the product. 

So, we created a house with our bodies. We learned that we needed each idea and each body to make it work. We listened. We received. We participated. 

However, I left that room, tired, defeated, and confused. 

Every class starts the same way--a breath, a turn of the handle, coursing anticipation. 

Every class ends completely different. This time I left frustrated, tired and confused. Asking "Where did I go wrong?"

But like I tell the kids, don't ask "What did I do wrong?" Ask: What did I do right? What did I learn? What will I change next time? 

What I did right this time? One boy who was not wanting to hold hands, talk or participate, ended up doing all three. 

It sounds small, but it counts. It definitely counts.  

"I didn't even know I had that inside me!" she says tearing up.

Acting classes take adults by surprise.

Every session I get an assortment of adults with a wide variety of goals and dreams. Some are there because they always wanted to take an acting class and they were never brave enough to step through the door. Others want to see the nuts and bolts of a theatrical performance, while others are there because they are ready to finally achieve their goals of being a television star. And then there are the few who want to know how to lie better because they think they're too open. (You think I'm joking.)

No matter the impetus that gets them to walk through that door, my goal is that every student leaves with a new perspective, a better sense of self, and a step towards their goal (even if it is being able to lie better)

Every class ends up taking my breath away.

Adults are jaded. This is not a new idea. We have lived our lives for years in a certain way, with definite ideas, specific habits, and a view of the world around us. This is the result of our brain doing its job--to sort and make sense. Good or bad, we get comfortable in the routine of our lives.

An acting class disrupts that routine.

Not only because instead of going home you are walking onto a stage with strangers, but also because with said strangers you are being asked to act like you are walking in room full of chocolate pudding and greeting people as the King of England.

That's a bit diff-ernt.

The first few classes are filled with giggles and silliness with each new step outside of their comfort zone, their routine.

Then a shift happens.

A group of silly adults turns in a trusted allies encouraging and fostering the leap into the unknown.

A sense of investigation and risk takes hold of each student.

Suddenly, they begin exploring emotions and not only feeling them, but feeling them in FRONT of people.

This is where the surprise happens. This is where the self awareness happens. This is where the perspective is gained.

It is that moment when the student discovers a freedom in being true to herself in a moment.

One student said she could breathe again. Another said, he didn't realize that's what acting was, and he now respected every actor every where. I told him not be too generous with that respect ;)

Acting classes take adults by surprise. Adults take me by surprise. Take a leap outside of your routine for just a little while. What you'll find out there about yourself will change you forever.

"I am your wild card, and that's why I take that medicine every day." A student says to me on the first day of class. I immediately cringed, panicked and then felt guilty for doing so.

Every teacher has that moment with children on the spectrum. Your mind goes through a roller coaster of thoughts. "Great. Another headache." "It's not his fault." "How will I make this work?" "This is going to be exhausting" "What can I change?" "How will this affect the other kids?" "How will I handle the inevitable laughing?" "Man, I'm an ass"

And then the guilt. Oh the guilt for thinking all this, while the child deals with not only the illness, but the social anxiety and possible ridicule that comes with it ALL the time.

The thing is, theatre classes are designed for every child on every spectrum. It not only allows them to be free to explore, be strange, speak out and be who they are with ticks, blurts and all, but encourages it.

In Korea, there was a child with full body tourettes who was forced to sit in the back of my classroom. The parents ignored his mental illness and children laughed at him. Yet his mind was incredibly sharp.

So, I put him on stage.

The school thought I was crazy for even bringing theatre into their walls, so I figured me and this kid would be crazy together. BAM! Freedom. He came alive and his full body tourettes became an asset not a hindrance.

On the road, I found many kids who had crippling OCD, stuttering, and a myriad of quirks that would typically hold them back socially and in the classroom. But, on stage, oh my, everything changed. They were the stars! Others looked up to them, laughed with them (not at them), and found courage to be themselves.

The Statue of Liberty asks for the poor, the tired, the huddled masses yearning to breathe free.

In the theatre, we ask for your quirks, your crazy, your spectrum kids yearning for acceptance for their entire selves.

And so, back to my student. After consulting my lesson plan for the day, I changed it. I went back to all of my lesson plans and sculpted them in a way that fostered inclusivity and ensemble.

The result? "This is the best class I've had yet!" Student says as he exits the building.

And so, lesson plans should be organic, ever changing. A theatre class is ultimately led and sculpted by the students, while the teachers are there as guiding force. We theatre teachers need to embrace that and love that because this truth makes our daily lives interesting, challenging, and soul quenching.

Let's get one thing straight:

I CAN, therefore I teach. I don't believe in this "Those who can't are the ones who teach" mentality. It is the passion of a teacher that creates ardent students and ultimately human beings that we actually want to know.

Consider every 'cool' person you've ever met, I guarantee they had an amazing teacher behind them.

All that said, I fell into teaching, and as I fell, I kicked, screamed, and grasped onto anything I could find. Not because I didn't want to teach, but basically, because when you're falling into an unknown abyss the natural reaction is to kick and scream and fight. One day in the near future, I will recount the the journey of that fall, but it is the discovery in that journey that kindles my passion. That discovery is the impact of theatre on every person who crosses its path--from the naysayer to the enthusiast--theatre engages all of us and makes us better human beings.

How does theatre do this? After all, theatre is simply there to entertain us, right?

Yes. Theatre does entertain, in the same way life entertains--with all the ups, downs, sideways, slams, falls, screams, laughs, fights, and guffaws life entertains us with on a daily basis.

Theatre gives perspective. At its heart, theatre not only forces us to walk in another man's shoes, but to breathe and live in those shoes. Whether you're portraying the character or simply watching his life unfold on the stage you are living in his space, breathing his life, and experiencing his world. There is no separation when you are in the same room of the event.

Now translate that into a theatre classroom. A place where trust is at the core and risk is essential. In each class, students jump into a variety of lives from all walks of life. In order to do so the students ask and answer questions.

Questions like:

Why is are you saying that?
How do you feel about the person you are talking to?
Why are you angry right now?
What do you want?
What are you doing to try to get it?
What do you want that person to do?

Here's the beauty. The conversation inevitably leads to the student exploring her own past and thinking about what she would do in the character's situation.

The student begins to think:
Why would I say that?
When have I felt this way?
Why did I feel this way?

The student then gets to explore and work through that emotional field in an environment that not only encourages it but demands it.

So in one class, you have student considering another person's motives as well as her own. The perspective is experienced on a personal level.  The student walks out in her shoes having just lived for an hour another's shoes.

In the classroom, for a brief moment, they see the world and the people in it a little differently.  And hopefully, that carries over into the world outside the classroom.

That is why I teach. I am passionate about the craft of acting because it helps me balance and understand my world, and teaching it gives me the opportunity to share that passion, that perspective, that heart of theatre.

And so it begins. . .

This time of year teachers are decorating classrooms, school supply sections of stores are all a buzz, and then there's me, in front of my computer surrounded with books, papers, half filled teacups, and illegible post-its. Every now and then, I will stand up and chant certain lines, practice beats, or practice teaching new games to my bearded dragon, Murray. (He is not amused)

Preparing for theatre classes is incredibly unglamorous, utterly ridiculous, and well totally freaking daunting.

The nature of the teacher is to prepare for every possible out come and be sure that the unexpected will slap you across the face in the exact moment that you say to yourself "Well, things can't get any worse." The nature of a theatre teacher is the same with the added element of energy--see, we encourage leaping, dancing, shouting, talking in strange voices, and complete mayhem. Therefore, when the unexpected does strike, we're in a sea of mayhem. Unexpected slaps us, and we drown in the laughter and tears of children.

Like I said, daunting.

In acting class they teach you a lot about breathing. Whole classes about breathing. I took one class, and all we did was breathe in through our nose and out through our mouth. For an hour. I still hear my father, "you're paying how much to learn to breathe?"

Some days, I think the purpose of these classes was solely to prepare me for my role as an educator.

You can breathe through any situation. Even through lesson planning.

So, I gather up all of my experience from the past year--all the studying and working with other artists throughout Charleston and in other parts of the U.S and all the education and inspiration from each of the kidlets I encountered over the past years--and I pour it all into my lesson planning. My lesson plans are an amalgamation of experience as well as a lot of "huh, I wonder if this will actually work?" Lots of improvisation, "Yes, Let's" is always a winner and "What are you doing?" After creating the ideal lesson plan, I create back up plans. Multitudes of back up plans. I have back up plans, and back up plans for my back up plans, and back up plans for when they all decide to cry, and back ups for when they all decide "nope, not doing it" and back up plans for "what the hell?". You get the idea.

Then the Lesson Planning is done, and the ritual of execution begins.

I get excited.

The anticipation builds.

A couple of days before classes, the nightmares begin.

Nightmare #1: Kid's gone wild. Something about curtains and swinging from them.

My heart beats faster.

Nightmare #2 - I am unable to communicate any of the games. The students don't understand.

Heart is beating out of my chest.

Nightmare #3 - I'm on stage, but don't know what play I'm in.

This is stupid. I'm stupid.

Doubts seep in.

What am I doing? Why am I doing this? I'm a failure. They're all gonna laugh at me.

Here we go.

Breathe - how do I breathe again? Oh yes, in through the nose, out through the mouth. Glad I practiced that for an hour one time. Take that Dad.

In, out, in, out.

I walk through the door.

I am flooded with hugs, stories, and knock knock jokes.

Ahhhh.

Life is simpler in a child's imagination. They bring more to the table than my empty teacups, books, and illegible post-its ever could. They take each game and each idea that I fretted over and turn it into something much more profound and exquisite. Every stress, nightmare and doubt is washed away in the simplest words. "I got an idea Ms. Teralyn, let's make talking sculptures who like to leap over lily pads!"

Yes, Let's.