Oh Sweet Ironies of Life, At Last I've Foooound You!

Sh. told me that she once heard this wonderful piece of advice about picking a career: don't concern yourself overmuch with what problems such and such a career will surely bring, but rather what sort of problems you like to solve.

A good piece of advice. We were actually chatting about screenwriting and directing and why we feel called to each - or not - and she was saying that as much as she enjoyed directing (she did her college production of Hamlet, lucky child!), she didn't care for solving all the problems of directing: rehearsal schedules, placating nervous actors, cajoling this and that, so on and so forth. Likewise, Jules has often mentioned that as much as she likes writing, she enjoys drawing pictures for her writing above: it is a complete project, a composition without "composition." Similarly, as much as I enjoy screenwriting, I much prefer the novel form for sheer asthetics as well as interior monologue and narrative voice, and as much as I enjoy drawing I do so only as a hobby and not as a compulsion - I see a picture and tend to write a story about it!

That is not to say, then, that we ought like the modern Europeans eschew all interests but one in our studies. There is still room for "Renaissance Men" (our age would call them less poetically "multi-hyphenate," but that sounds rather like you've some sort of cancer in your pancreas and not like you're uber-artistic!). And your lesser or sub-interests will only help you to achieve and appreciate your main vocation more. Had I no interest in screenwriting, I should have missed out on the use of visuals in directing. Had I no interest in fine art, I should have disgusting sets. Rather like good friends who each bring out another aspect of your personality, so different interests serve to illumine your vocation.

Which is to say in a rather roundabout manner that last Thursday night, this morning, this afternoon, and Wednesday night I have/will be solving a few of my favorite problems re: directing. Jill asked me for help with her Shakespeare monologue - Rosalind, the marks of a man, WHOOPEE! - and this morning I helped with the movement and diction for Ashley's audition song - "When You're Good to Mama," golly that's a low alto song! - and Wed. I'll be running Jill's again. Understand, I'm assisting, being an "audience of one" in my house, in my downstairs large room. OK - the world would call this weird. Not weird if they looked at me merely as a director, but since I've the addendum of "teacher to my title (BTW: bought supplies today! Yee-haw! And they had some nice religious stuff for once. The bulletin board paper was almost out, however - no surprise - only the large rolls of orange were left. Fortunately I wanted green in smaller rolls)....

Well. What a society we have. Days were our teachers were our parents, or if you were rich, a single tutor who became something like a parent and something like a friend and something like your conscience. Even when Kant usurped Rousseau with the help of Dewey, the segregation of the ages wasn't quite as great, since one woman would have the care of many students of all ages. But in our modern schooling system, we have managed to instill in our children's very natures the mentality of "cubicle world," of terrible segregation - not between races anymore, but between the child and everyone else. Student is pitted against student with the competitive, ruthlessly "progressing" nature of the classroom that advances the student but not necessarily his understanding or even his self-esteem. Students must vie for the attention of a teacher who is most likely schooled herself less in her subject as in the prevailing modern (read: this year's) theory on how to teach.

Students are pulled apart by class: this is the only system wherein one's age determines who one may associate with. How can a student look up to an older peer, or mentor a younger one, or even feel justified engaging someone out of their "grade" in conversation when we have literally enforced a class system? Certainly, extracurricular activities help alleviate the Western castes, but even so older students and many coaches presume that the greater honors ought to go to the seniors or the rare junior not on a meritocracy but on primogeniture. I've first hand experience of the quiet hostility projected upon casting a Freshman in the lead rather than the Senior. It may not be a LOUD rebuke, but it is a very violent sullenness.

We divide our subjects and hustle students from one to the other before they have the opportunity to settle into any one mode of thinking. Thus, we divide our teachers from each other as well, into departments or groups. And the teachers are divided from the students by the fear of a law case. "Don't touch the child physically or otherwise. Someone might sue." It doesn't help when those in authority do betray such trusts. Those very few - teachers, priests, senators, presidents - do so much more harm, segregate, split, divide...and conquor. And after a while, we teachers get tired and give in and simply teach our same-old-same-old curriculum and never make a move TO move lives. Perhaps teachers sometimes maintain a greater gulf of distance for the benefit of authority. Yet I have found - both in teaching and directing, which require similar techniques - that distance gives but the facade of authority. The students are quiet and tractable because they are dead, not because they are respectful. Not that I advocate those who become so buddy-buddy that the entire class ends up being about the Mets or the teacher's boyfriend or any other distraction. Rather, there ought to be life, communication, excitement AND respect, authority and admiration stemming from both sides.

How can the students admire their teachers, however, if their teachers disdain them? I myself have no respect for teachers who think little of me, while I work myself to the bone for those professors I've had who think more of me than I do of myself - and who make me live up to their rightful expectations. But that's the trick: the teacher must have a rightful expectation for the student, not merely a fabricated goal imposed by the state or social mores or the SAT. I've a second double cousin once removed on my mother's side (no joke - hey, I'm the daughter of a geneologist, deal!) who also teaches. God bless her! She teaches Special Education. And the state tells her that their test rates "aren't up to par" and thus the school is obviously not doing their job. But as my cousin said, "I managed to get Bobby to sit in his seat. For him, that is the greatest accomplishment and no less deserving of admiration than the genius who aced all is tests."

I've a gripe with Rousseau, but in regards to the belief that the only way to teach a child is to teach THAT child specifically, individually, with care and respect and patience and adaptability, rather than the mass-production Kant desired (and achieved), I must agree with that Frankish nutcase. I try. God knows I try in my classroom. And I know that I fail miserably many days, perhaps with many students. I know there are so many things I still need to improve in my presentation, my knowledge and independent study, my enthusiasm and discipline. (I've only also been teaching two full years, so...!) But I've also seen those students who have, thank God, been affected in some small way in my classroom or in my theatre. And that I love.

Ashley is an example. She is going to make a fabulous drama student. And I'm honored to have watched her grow, and to have given her opportunity to grow, both as an actress and as a young woman. I remember how she attended my Theatre Class and I set them all homework to take a risk that week (the HW that Mr. Dougherty had given us in Acting I) and she returned the next week saying that she had decided to throw herself completely into Olivia in Twelfth Night. And boy did she ever! Since then she's done nothing but impress me. Or I'm thinking of Andy, my Cowardly Lion, or Shawn, my Sebastian, both of whom were shy as anything and who after braving out the theatre came out as the most charming, gentlemanly, outgoing men I know. Or Jon who the other teacher's couldn't stand because he was so rude, and who stood up to defend my honor in front of the "King" of the eighth grade because I didn't hate him. Or even Ryan who (kind of) curbed his tongue around me because he knew I didn't tolerate crude language. Or all the students who - for better or for worse - have learned that "God is Pro-Life."

Because as a teacher, you're constantly reminded that your every action is under scrutiny. Esp. for a religion teacher: the students want to know if you're sincere or if you're a hypocrite. And they are quite right in suspiciously sniffing out the truth about their teacher. We teachers - as indeed everyone who lives - ought to be aware that we are accountable for all our actions. Our lives cannot be shams if we expect our students to be upstanding. Our lives cannot be shams, because one day we will all face Truth and He will have no patience for our pretenses. Is it tough. Oh, good golly, yes! Would that humanity had not fallen. But, oh happy fall! That it should have demanded God become Man to save us! O necessary sin of Adam! O Mary, ever virgin, pray for us that we may one day be worthy to see the Face of God.

So, this is a wonderful thing: to be honored to realize that I can touch lives. (Everyone can and should - that is the spirit of evangelism. To preach always and sometimes use words. No man is an island, as much as our schooling may attempt to promote otherwise.) And it is rather like seeing a baby's first real smile, or - as Mom recounts the story - the first time I hugged Mom back.

I'm thinking of what happened when I walked into the mall today after getting school supplies and driving around to the other side then walking in to visit Jules at work. I was passing by Friday's where there was a boy and girl who were seated in an utter reverse of A Lunch in Pisa - that is to say, the girl was sitting on a large flower urn and the boy was kneeling before her, holding her hands. Simply sweet. He lowered his head and kissed her hand - one than the other. Then he lifted her hands and pulled them to his lips. She continued talking, obviously a little distressed, and so he - sensing that they were bound to be sitting there for some time - sat down to ease his knees, and wrapped his legs around her ankles. It was like watching a Pre-Raphaelite painting in life. It was gentle and romantic. It was lovely. Anywho, I'm passing by this couple, attempting not to obviously stare in fascination, and so instead I shift my attention to my weak reflection in the glass of the doors. My hair is swinging nicely, I thought. I actually look somewhat put together. (Realize that theatre people are almost always looking in any reflective surface. Go ahead and ask a theatre person who's on stage in some capacity. You'll generally find it's true.) So my attention was diverted as I walked through the second set of doors, smiling happily thinking of the Pre-Raph. couple and my bouncy hair and embroidered matching clothes....

When all of a sudden there's this huge commotion behind me as the doors are flung open noisily, someone starts booking it down the corridor, and shouting a name...my name! I whirl but don't recognize the middling-tall young man dragging the petite girl in the wash of light through the glass doors. Who the...? Suddenly, they rush at me and I'm swept up into these two great hugs, and when I'm let down I see that it's Rachel and Trav. (I swear Trav's grown two inches this past month. And become more solid in his joints.) It was so sweet. I'd missed them since Bearskin, and hadn't expected to see them again until the next Hudson High play. We chatted for a bit, and I discovered that Trav and Jill will be coming over tomorrow to go out with Jules to take some pictures (along the order of the pictures Jules and Jill took the other day), which is cool.

As we parted, I couldn't help laughing, though. Think of what those terrified school official types from the government would make of that encounter! I'm most likely going to have Trav's sister next year, and I highly doubt that she'll be rushing at me in the mall and sweeping me into hugs. Whenever I see my students at the mall, there's a moment of polite, distanced nodding - for those who are a bit closer we'll probably stop and chat amicably - but head-on embraces? Oh, supreme court - what will you make of that? Will your fear tear that from me as well? And yet, for what reason? To what cause?

Our world lacks the virtue of touch. We are a tactile people. We have nerve endings. We are not meant to live in a physical vacuum. We know that babies who are not touched and hugged and kissed actually wither and die. Why do we presume, then, that when we are grown we are in any less need of touch? And yet our society tells us - in part thanks to our educational state, ugh! - that the only acceptable touch, indeed the only possible touch is sexual. If I touch your arm, I must be coming on to you, rather than perhaps getting your attention or comforting you. If I give you a hug, I must obviously be horny. Ugh! No wonder so many people, in desperate need for something they do not even realize they lack, seek the sexual favors of each other. They are merely babies, trying frantically to live, and wondering why the touch they have acquired does not fill the void. Because by narrowing touch merely to the conjugal act, we are limiting also the spiritual touch. How can I touch your soul if I'm afraid to touch your arm? How can I touch you at all if I am told that I must keep distance in ALL respects? Again - we are a cubicled people. We pride ourselves that we have no slaves in America any more. Wrong - we enslave ourselves. And when we venture freedom, we end up in the slavery of liberality, even further from true desired liberty.

Enough! It is a vile thing what vice does to virtue! It limits, it narrows, it destroys, defaces. Enough! Had I whip, I should whip it from the Temple courtyard. I do not want narrowness. I do not want to be told that such and such a virtue is only able to express this or that. Virtue is a wide sea, it has no horizon, it has no bounds although it has channels and currants and rivulets in deep sea beds. The sea of virtue has no doldrums, and all its winds are fair. But we have taken the sails from our ships, we have thrown our oars in the sea, we straddle the "equator" and wonder why we stagnate. As for me an my house, we will follow the Lord. And if our ship should slip from the edge of the world into the very Heavens, who is to say but that the Hand of God will not hold us still aloft?

Mood: Headachy, but verging dangerously towards Warm and Fuzzy
Music: Godspell twice now
What I'd Also Like: For Adobe Photoshop Elements not to freak out on my computer quite so much. Ah well, it drives me to distraction and out of doors! :D