Mumbling Madly

I just taught 3 children’s classes in a row and wow…wow, wow, wow. Acting, dancing, and toddlers is the large realm I covered in 3 hours. I jumped in for a teacher as a last minute sub; I needed the money, they called on the phone, I couldn’t find a great reason to say no. Really, the only reason I would say no is for my mental health. It takes a ton of stamina to maintain a room filled with 20 children. Incidentally, I think classes with over 9 children is too much. The quality is compromised, the children don’t get individual attention, and this means the addition of a million parents. I’m not quite sure why (but maybe it’s a money thing) a school chooses to allow 20 kids in one dance class.

20 kids means a lot of group games. A lot of place spots, dancing around randomly to music, a lot of strain on my vocal chords. It was also the first day of class for many of these families, which is a huge shame that they have to start out with a sub. Details are lost; do I really care or have the capacity to learn every child’s name? Hell no. Parents linger with anxious children, their eyes watering while their child bitterly cries, a sense of overwhelming panic courses through the first five minutes. I do my best. Kids are late which is an enormous disservice to a child entering a new classroom. A woman from a nearby college shows up with her infant and claims to have permission to watch the class for a research paper. Kids are wide eyed and expectant. Some are barely 3 others are leaders at 4.

We finish our opening circle with the Abc’s. One mother won’t leave. Her child is being kind of a butt head. I don’t understand why parents insist on pushing it with their child. If your kid hates the class why make them stay? At one point the mother barks, “You need more spots.” I realize she is passive aggressively telling me her child isn’t being included–despite her kid lying prostrate in her lap refusing to participate. “Here, have mine, ” I say shortly, throwing them a green spot. (Don’t boss around the teacher, people, c’mon). The class is too large to gauge. I can’t tell if they’re having a good time, which child is crying, and who smells. The parents are all crowded around the viewing window, which I really, really hate. I hate the viewing window. It’s almost as bad as having parents sit in the class. They lurk behind the glass, a shadowy, willowy, worried presence. The parents are scrutinizing me, I know it. I’m subbing for the head of the dance education department, there is a waiting list for this class (hence the 20 students), people wait years for this class to open up. I am inadequate in their eyes, I am sure.

We march around the room. I wistfully remember a mere hour earlier when I was teaching Storybook Acting to five really nice little girls upstairs. We were away from the prying eyes, acting out “Caps for Sale,” pretending to be monkeys in trees. Now I am bombarded by twenty pairs of stomping feet. Several kids are pulling the old I-want-attention-so-I’m-going-to-opt-out act that I don’t tolerate. I ignore them. Let them sit on their butts while the rest of us go marching by. “Why are you sitting down?” “Because I’m tiiii-red.” I move on, I don’t care, whatever, I just need to survive.

Parents are itching to get in to the classroom. The teacher I am subbing for goes all out for her classes, inviting the parents into the room 10 minutes prior to the end of class, performing elaborate story ballets for them and really getting the kids involved. I do this because I know it is expected. I suffice with the every reliable Animal Game. I’m not a big fan of parents crashing the party at the end of class–it’s something I never do in my own curriculum. The kids are barely hanging on, having exhausted themselves with bounces and marches; an hour is too long for 3-4 year olds in my opinion.

The toddlers are next, descending on the classroom like a herd of gerbils, they bounce and sway on fat toddler legs to the plethora of rubber balls I’ve set free. Their parents come slowly after, casing the joint out, eying each other, checking for kids that just might be cuter then their own. I turn on festive music and let the toddlers play while I take roll. I introduce myself to each and every parent and child. I explain that I am the sub, but I teach this class on Mondays. I explain that we will go back and forth from structured to unstructured play. I inform parents that their job is to model behavior. Parents smile politely and nod, one eye trained on their kid and one eye on me. I am exhausted, having reached my 3rd class in a row. One tiny girl has a ridiculous pink feather clip secured to her barely there hair. It makes her look like some sort of disturbing baby chicken, or a mini-hipster with one pink forelock, or a bad attempt at baby fashion. “How cute,” I say, my fingers brushing the clip to feel its fluffy softness. The mother glares at me as her daughter immediately pulls the clip out. “We never mention the feather clip,” she retorts, rescuing it from the floor, distracting her daughter and then sneaking the clip back on to her mostly bald head. I quickly move on.

We start marching in a big circle, the toddlers, grown-ups, and I. This is when I catch myself saying ridiculous things (were they not in context), “Ok, everyone grab your ball! Great job! Swing your ball back and forth…great! Oh, look Sophie has a blue ball, can you grab your blue ball?” The kids are absolutely terrified of the parachute. Most of them won’t sit on it despite it being so goddam fun. The bright colors waft and flow as we shake the ends of the parachute to create ripples of color across the floor. I forgot that this is a particularly young class with many barely 2’s who are not ready for the vast joy the parachute can provide. We turn the parachute into a slide–this warms a few kids up. We waft the parachute up and down while the kids run around underneath. One little girl howls with despair–’she really loved the slide,’ her mother explains. We pull the ends underneath and create a tent. We shop for different colors until the tent becomes a suffocating vortex of crying and short attention span. Open Play is next and I dump hundreds of scarves all over the floor. I do nothing and say nothing for five full minutes. My mind and body are reeling. I can’t do three classes in a row.

The last class of the day for me is never as good as the first one. My stamina is low, my patience is shorter, I find myself saying ‘fuck’ to myself over dumb things like the scarf bag falling over. We clean up the Open Play props, it takes while, one mother has the nerve to suggest we ’sing a little song next time and the kids will clean up better.’ I almost say, “Shut the hell up, I KNOW the power of song, I barely have a voice left and the idea of singing another damn song makes me want to barf right now…YOU sing a little song.” This is very harsh, and I know it. I’m turning into a jerk with each passing second. And yet, I find myself during closing circle croaking out “Row, Row, Your Boat” and “Abc’s” (again). Then we’re done! Have a nice weekend! I am a shell of a teacher as the parents pass and fade away. I can barely smile my way through the waves and polite questions, realizing that I am starving and have no almonds. As I leave the studio I pass the beach where a dozen little bodies are playing in the sand. “Bye teacher!” One of my students calls, decked out in a polka dotted bathing suit and sun hat. “BYE!”

Difficult times prompt me to pause for friends, happy hour, improvising at the theater, sun drenched walks around the lake, sunburn, petting Hobbes, writing, watching So You Think You Can Dance (which featured a Bollywood piece for the first time tonight!), playing with other people’s babies, hanging clothes to dry outside, watering my garden deeply, driving miles and miles, sleeping very little, wanting to hide under the bed with my cat while the fireworks go off every night, teaching new students, inspiring new parents, speaking in my ‘calm voice,’ bracing myself, making strawberry ice cream from scratch, receiving bath products in the mail for my birthday, smelling like lilac all night long, crying, making egg salad sandwiches for cold lunch, watching my cat dance for tuna, wanting travel so I live vicariously through HD TV, wanting the summer to never end, never slip by, wanting it to stay light out until 10:30pm for the rest of my life, making iced espresso every morning with non-fat half and half, eating lot’s of whole grains, crafting mojitos (all sticky with lime juice), sitting on my front porch late at night looking at the dingy houses nearby, wondering how long I’ll be around, drifting in and out of several books: the sexy Outlander, the obnoxious Heartbreaking Work Of Staggering Genius, and the latest issue of the Utne reader, having an equally fascinating and absurd conversation about B’s hair falling out from chemo (’if it wasn’t pulled back right now it would all come out in my hand’), smelling the water from my front door, wondering if I missed the boat on my shade garden bulbs…wondering about all my mistakes, all my misconceptions, learning some hard news, grasping at the complexities, wondering if there’s something greater out there, wondering if maybe tonight I will sleep.

I made Gina a tote bag out of an old zine symposium shirt. Here we are admiring it at the farmer’s market:

Today people seem so friendly! I took a 2.5 mile walk near the water and people looked up from their bbq’s and waved. One fellow joked, “I’ll catch up to you in a little while!” Indicating that he would join me on what he perceived to be my running regiment. I got honked and waved at while walking near the water. The air is mild, smelling strongly of damp sun and passing thunderstorms. After a huge cherry bomb went off in front of our house 1/2 hour ago I brought Hobbes in. She is sleeping on my chair. This morning, Hobbes loudly protested when Josh moved her over. “Sorry Hobbes,” he said “No Bed For Old cats” a direct rip-off from No Country For Old Men.

Thursday night we went out on a date. We headed to Pioneer Square and hit up a few happy hours. We sat on stools and received poor service, $1 mini pizzas, and an excellent dry martini. Tipsily, we visited the former snowboard connection turned skate shop. I found a disturbing hoodie which I became obsessed with:

Later, we went to the best Art Walk I’ve ever attended in my life. Now I know why Pioneer Square is known for its galleries and artist lofts. An acquaintance invited me to his gallery space in the fabulous 619 Western Ave. It houses more than one hundred artists work from studios all in one six story building. I learned that it is one of the largest artist studio enclaves on the west coast and has been a workspace for artists since 1979. Upon my friend’s recommendation we rode the elevator to the sixth floor and then made the slow descent down. The building is ancient, raw, and slanted at a steep angle at the top floor; I experienced something like vertigo when exiting the old fashion elevator. Studios were laid wide and open for our inspection. Snacks and wine sat on homemade tables on every floor. The walls were cement and chipped, but the art hung firmly like faithful flags, the landscape gritty and punctuated with beauty. A little dog roamed freely on one of the floors, wagging his tail in and out of each studio space. The work was priced decently and varied. We saw graffiti art, portraits, sculpture, goth photography, nudes. We entered one studio and the very generous Dr. Johnny greeted us by giving away free art–’9 by ‘11 portraits sketched in charcoal. He had large murals covering his ceiling, the walls, and even the floor. “You should always leave an art walk with some art,” he advised. “I have so much of it I never sell so I thought I would just give it away.” A poorly shot picture in the middle of it all:

This morning I called my sister up and told her to request the first Thursday of August off. “We have to go,” I told her. “You have no choice.”

So, what is the social network etiquette when it comes to accepted ‘friend requests?” If you haven’t heard from someone in ten years and they contact you on facebook, well, what do you do? I’ve tended to base my acceptance on my last interaction with this person and if it was generally positive. Hence, the few folks I ran into at my 10 year reunion and had a good conversation with are now my ‘friends.’ The girl I barely know who stage managed the last Legend’s show, who was so sweet and provided much needed estrogen to a cast ripe with men, is my ‘friend.’ The flattering photographer who snapped the first F.D. photo shoot and can always be found at the base of the stage with his huge lens pointed at my hot pants is my ‘friend.’ Anyone I’ve ever shared the stage with improvising is considered a ‘friend.’

A few weeks ago I was contacted by someone and I had no idea who they were. The black and white profile picture was of a demure woman holding a little boy in her lap. Who the hell is this? I couldn’t see much of their profile, but I gleaned that they were from Vancouver, married, and Christian. OK, so this is not typically a demographic that I relate to. Probably their last name must have changed? I sleuthed, but I didn’t recognize them. Then I realized: this was my close friend in 7th grade. I say ‘was’ because she and I had a falling out in 8th grade where she pitted my (still) best friend Courtney and I against each other. Tempers flared, sides were taken, and by freshman year our friendship had dissolved. Did I accept her friend request? No. No, I did not.

Italians are known for holding a grudge. It doesn’t matter how much time has past, we will hold a grudge against you until the very end. I know this sounds dramatic, but I’ll be the first to admit: I have a very hard time ‘getting over things.’ If I have one negative encounter with you, even if you apologize, I’m going to hold onto it and file it away (and if you don’t apologize, man, you better forget it). Sure, Italians are also noted for their great passion, empathy, and ability to bring people together (usually around food). But we can turn this all around and become just as passionate about being slighted (and how that made us feel, and how it should make everyone else feel, and so on and so forth). I make plenty of allowances, but I am not a ‘live and let live’ type of person.

This side of myself has been oddly triggered due to social networking sites and my recent exposure to the performance community. Recently, I received a friend request from a girl I was friends with in college. Typical for that age we both got very distracted with boys, relationships, ourselves, etc. and grew apart somewhere around our junior year. She lived with my X in a house filled with other friends (which was hideous since it cut me off from many of them). None of this was her fault, but I still felt left over uneasiness about the evaporation of our friendship. Cut to ten years later and she’s happily married with two kids, lives far away, and recently sent me a ‘friend’ request. Really? I thought.

“It’s been ten years!” a mutual friend brought up. But, that’s the thing: sometimes it doesn’t matter how long it’s been. (Hell, my X showed up at a Legend’s show and I almost threw up right there on stage–I was so panicked. “But it’s been ten years! You’re married now and you own a house!” a fellow performer exclaimed as if that would somehow erase my anxiety). Still, in this case I realized any sort of stubborn grudge holding was silly. Friends…even long ago friends are important. Even though it’s just facebook, the sense of community, of extension, is really important to me. The climate in this country has been extra hard lately, and I realized that I don’t have time for grudges. I accepted her friend request and immediately we dove into a lively discussion about theater, parenting, and our artistic quests. It was a nice step up from the casual acquaintance format of social networking sites–one where you merely use your friends as receptacles for a million event attendance requests.

But that’s me…and I know it’s case by case. Some people would rather have huge friend numbers, regardless if they actually know each and every one of their ‘friends.’ So, I turn it over to you, dear readers…what is your criteria for accepting ‘friend’ requests?