Schooled

Oh my, what a whirlwind of a week. Today's the first day I've felt relatively back on my normal schedule after shooting this weekend, and I'm still feeling high about how it all went down. (I just re-read my last post, and I did literally seem a little high. High on sleep-deprivation, that is!!!)

I started my first of four weeks of teaching at the theater camps for Theatre Horizon on Monday. (FYI, Theatre Horizon is a non-profit theater co. in Philadelphia, headed by my sister Erin and our lifelong friend Matt Decker. It started with these shows we'd put on in the summers when I was 14, and then blossomed into music revues, Odets revivals, fundraiser parties, and then finally full on incorporation and state grants. But, like most theaters, the ticket sales don't pay the bills, but their education programs do. Most of them, in fact.) I was nervous, since the last time I taught was two years ago for the Women's Project in East Harlem, and that went badly. Not badly, per se, buuuut...let's just say it only took four 8 year old girls in public school uniforms and some attitudes the size of the V train to rip me a new one and make me feel like the dorky fat kid I was in elementary school. Ugh.

These children, however, have not ripped new assholes for me. Yet. If one more kid asks in the middle of "Zing Pow Boing" if their costume can include a handbag and magenta tights that look just so underneath their favorite new Hannah Montana shirt, my head might explode. (I envision that scene of baby Superman speeding away from Krypton as it erupts into a shower of sparky space stalactites.) These are not tough kids. These are materialistic kids. These are kids who want to be stars.

I can't blame them. So did I. My co-teacher and I bonded today over the fact that we both would sing "Annie" in public places (or my backyard. whatever.) just in case a Broadway producer was standing within earshot and was hit by a bolt of triple-threat-shaped lightning at the sound of my voice. ("Never have I heard a belt like that since Ethel! Wowie!") That's one of the reasons I loathe these children. Here are some other reasons:

1. They never shut up.
2. If you want to be a star so bad, shut up and help me block your stupid scene for your stupid play.
3. They ad-lib.
4. They touch everything.
5. They immediately break the No-Touching-This Rule I just made up five seconds before.
6. They leave their trash everywhere.
7. They scatter like cockroaches.
8. They never shut up.

My only consolation is that in a few short years, they'll be the camp counselors and babysitters that have to deal with little shits like them. Karma, small devil spawn!

But then, that magic of theater hits you. The way they refer to stage directions while they skip across stage is adorable. The way everything about their play is fantastic and magical is inspiring. The intricate details they labor over as they craft their characters excites me. They are each one unique and interesting, and when that moment comes when you can actually hear their stupid lines past the end of the stage...well, it's very fulfilling.

But above it all, it reminds me of my beginning in theater. My first show was Cinderella, and I wore a page boy costume made out of carpet squares and duct tape. I was six. My first theater camp, I was ten years old, and I sweat over every song and dance like it was my job. I dreamed it would be. I told everyone I would be an actress. I kept singing in malls and restaurants and parking lots, when no one was listening. I kept going to camps, and classes, and auditions, and I went to drama school, and I still wanted it to be my job.

Oh man. These kids are writing a show about a poison pizza stolen from a pizza shop. There's a chase sequence. And a random knight. And a toddler who is a rich & famous celebrity. And they love it.