Things I Learned From Teaching and Directing High Schoolers

I'm baa-aaack...  I know it has been quite a long time.  (BTW, wouldn’t it be fun to count how many blog posts have begun with something like “sorry it’s been such a long time?”) 

Anyway, I’m back, and I realize that I sort of had a few cliffhangers in my last post.  I was directing my first play, I had just had an audition disappointment, and I was teaching musical theatre at a performing arts high school. 

So much has happened and changed in the last several months, and I want to share it with you.  I’ve chosen the above title, because in the process I learned a tremendous amount that I may never have otherwise learned.

First, the play I direct ended up so great!  The kids rose to the occasion and performed wonderfully in some very difficult material.  I’d inadvertently chosen something that was beyond a high school level, and I didn’t cut very much of it all.  Subsequently, the students and I grew a lot in the process, and the final product was awesome!  During our brief 4-show run, I repeatedly fought tears while introducing the piece to our audiences.  I was so grateful for the opportunity and insanely proud of them.  I was also proud of my own work.  I was able to guide them in telling a fun, meaningful story with some vision and artistry.  Most audience members loved it, and it was a memorable experience.

That said, it was SOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO hard!

Oh my goodness, it was hard!  I mean, what was I thinking?!  Okay, I’ll just admit what I chose.  We did… (deep breath)… Rosencrantz and Guildenstern are Dead. 

No, do you understand?!  Rosencrantz and Guildenstern are Dead, hereafter referred to as R&G, is such a difficult piece.  It’s existential and absurdist, and the two leads are onstage and have dialogue the entire time.  My R&G were both fabulous, but they had a million lines to learn.  On top of that, a lot of the dialogue is similar throughout.  So they’ll have a conversation and then have another one later in the play that is almost, but not quite identical, at least in theme.  Plus I only had 8 actors to work with in a play that usually has a cast of a dozen or more, AND I was the director, designer, and technical director all rolled into one (though I did have some wonderful support from my artistic director).  It was such a challenge for all of them, and I couldn’t memorize everyone’s blocking and lines for them.  Which leads me to the next hard part…

I was completely powerless at times.  It just came with the territory.  I had no control over who would audition or what conflicts people had or what was going on in the students’ lives or their health or if people would be on time or if anyone was really paying attention during rehearsal.  I had no control over the fact that our rehearsal space was less than ideal and I didn’t have much of a budget and there was barely any advertising, etc.  It all came together, but it was so humbling. 

Add to all of the above the fact that my then kindergartner was in tow at almost every rehearsal (often after a struggle to get her there and be on time), and my anxiety was through the roof much of the time.

1^st Lesson:  Sometimes worthwhile things are really, really hard – so hard that, if you knew beforehand how difficult it would be, you would run instead of saying yes. 

Let’s talk about my kindergartner.  She loved the structure of kindergarten, but she had no desire to go anywhere after school.  She just wanted to relax and enjoy being at home with me.  It was important for her to learn that mom still had a life and shouldn’t have to stop everything for everyone else.  Still, I understood how hard it was for her.  I felt guilty, and my consequent anxiety made me touchy and impatient.

 

To be very honest, while I had a strong sense that I should direct this play and learn the lessons that it would teach me, I am still not 100% sure it was a great idea.  Okay, I’m glad I did it, but it took a toll on my relationship with my daughter at the time, and we had to recover a bit afterward.  For that reason alone, I will think twice before taking on something else that will affect my family so much. 

2^nd Lesson:  It’s not always clear when something is a good idea or not.  Sometimes you have to study it out, act on faith, and follow through (as long as following through is not a dangerous thing).  Then you may step back and get some humility and learning along with the triumph or failure.

3^rd Lesson:  There was a lot I didn’t know about directing.  I’ll just leave it at that.  I’m glad I did it, but the process taught me a lot about what it takes to direct a play.  So consider me humbled on that front.  That doesn’t mean I don’t want to direct again, because I do really want to... someday, but still…humbled.

To continue with my update, I had mentioned a recent audition disappointment.  Honestly, it was just one of those things that come with being an artist (or being anyone who is hired by other people).  I know I can’t win everything, and there are tons of talented performers in my area.  All of that was clear at the time.  I’m grateful to say that I’ve gotten another turn in a different show playing a crazy fun role.  In addition to that, after my current project ends, I’ll be part of a workshop of a new musical slated for Broadway, and I’ll be playing such a beautiful role.  (No, I won’t be playing the role on Broadway, just in the workshop.)  So creative doors opened, and, once again I’m reminded of the following:

4^th Lesson:  When one creative door closes, another door often opens.  As long as you don’t quit, it can happen!

On to my final, and frankly most significant update:  I’m no longer teaching musical theatre at a performing arts high school or at a performing arts studio (which I was also doing for part of the last school year). 

One might look at me and say, “How did she fall so far?”  In a matter of months, I went from teaching at a charter high school and a performing arts studio to not teaching at all (barring the occasional private lesson).  How did this happen?

Well, first listen for a second.  Do you hear that?  That’s the sound of my heart not beating a million miles per hour most minutes of the day.  That’s the sound of me not screaming in panic at my kids nearly as often as I once was.  J  

Sometimes you have to step back and reevaluate whether you want to keep everything that is on your plate.  For a few years, I was functioning with the motto “If I don’t take advantage of this opportunity, another one might not come again.”  To be honest, there is some truth to that belief.  I LOVED a lot of the students and the other teachers with whom I worked.  The places where I worked did some seriously cool things, and I loved being involved in them.  At times I was bursting with gratitude to be a part of such wonderful groups and didn’t want to ever leave.  If I'd not said yes, none of that would've happened.    

Yet I was running so hard for my own abilities.  I had limited time to myself to think and plan for my family and my classes.  I made little effort at homemaking, had all the bills on Autopay, and had little emotionally to give to my family when I was with them.  I was there but not really present. 

Leaving the performing arts studio and later the high school was terrifying.  I knew I was lucky to be wanted there, and I did not want to burn my bridges or establish myself as a quitter or someone who is undependable.  I knew that if I walked away, I could not expect to come back at another time.  Indeed, all of this was realistic thinking.  By stepping away from teaching, I did let some connections dry up and lost some amazing students.  I miss the great people I worked with. 

A bigger commitment was calling me, however, and that was my family.  I realized last year that once all of your kids are elementary age and up, the after-school time is crucial.  My kids needed me to get them to activities and help them with homework.  Also, they needed mom around more than just on the weekend.  I’m grateful that I even had the choice to be there. 

I wanted to teach, but I wanted to perform as well.  In fact, being a performer in some ways legitimized me more as a teacher of performing arts.  Unfortunately, I found that doing both was more stressful than I felt okay with.  

The good news is I’m grateful for the decisions I made to stop teaching, and I'm very grateful that I had the choice.  My relationship with my children has improved as I have been more emotionally and physically available for them.  The transformation in my youngest alone was enough to confirm how right my decision was.  In the months that followed the end of the school year, she and I became more affectionate and warm toward each other.  It was as if we were finally able to heal from the tough year.  Also, my oldest child talks to me more, especially in the mornings.  She was so resilient and learned to be very independent.  This year she has a little more security knowing that I’m there and want to be with her and help her more. 

5^th lesson learned, best summed up in a quote by a prophet:  “No other success can compensate for failure in the home.” – David O. McKay

Now this post would be disingenuous and incomplete if I made it sound like I was doing SO brilliantly in the classroom that my decisions to stop teaching were entirely inspirational.  The fact is, things got rough, and it was humbling.

First, I was pretty stressed out being so busy.  Some people are probably wonderful with their time management and don’t get frazzled quickly.  I found that I really do have a breaking point, and I was beyond it.  I felt less excited to teach over time and less patient in the classroom.  My teaching style went from positive and enthusiastic to anxious and demanding. 

Second, teaching at the high school was hard.  Teenagers are going through a lot of tough stuff.  Without going into too much detail, I had a student or two who were dealing with depression and harming themselves.  A bunch of my students were mourning a peer suicide.  Most of my students were too busy, and one of them became really hostile towards me in and after a difficult term.  These good people needed an environment and teachers who were collected, organized, patient, and prepared.  I tried very, very hard to be all of those things, but I did not succeed.  Plus I needed more support than I got.  

Experiencing the hostility from a student was one of the hardest parts of the job.  Actually it was the hardest part.  When you are in a classroom, a student yells at you or speaks to you with aggression and hostility, and everyone around you is silent from shock and doesn’t know what to do, it’s scary and mortifying.  Then, when some of your students go up to that student and give them a hug after class, you are conflicted.  Yes, you are more concerned about them, and you want the student to get support.  But when you realize that you are no longer safe in the classroom, it is pretty hard to rationalize staying (at least that's how I felt).

I wish I had been better qualified as a teacher.  I wish I’d managed my emotions better, kept my language clean 100% of the time, been warmer, better organized, communicated more, read minds better, been more patient with the shortcomings of the school and the kids and even my own shortcomings.  I wish I’d not taught last year…

I wish.  I wish.  I wish…

No I don’t.  I don’t wish any of it different.  If I’d never been crazy enough to take on everything I did last year, I would never have learned all of the things I learned. 

More lessons learned:  

I learned that my kids need me more than other peoples’ kids do. 

I learned that charter schools can be a good idea, but they come with challenges and need parents to really engage. 

I learned that ideas that look great on paper don’t always work out in the execution. 

I learned that sometimes there is absolutely nothing you can do to make someone like you or let you help them. 

I learned that, as a parent, I want to support my children, BUT I’m also determined to never give my child an out or write off a teacher and assume the worst about them. 

I learned that it’s very wise to get all of your facts straight before you react to something (though, this lesson was mostly learned from the receiving side). 

I learned that behind even the clumsiest actions are often the very best of intentions, and in the end you need to forgive people who accidentally throw you under a bus (learned from under the bus).

I learned so many things, and if I had the opportunity to go back in time and make different choices than I did last year, I’d say no thank you.  It’s not that I’m thrilled about the stress I caused my family or because I loved falling short as a teacher.  It’s just from knowing this:  The lessons learned from our experiences are among our greatest treasures. 

I type this as I sit in my quiet house.  In a minute, I’ll eat lunch and dig into to some housework, prepare for a rehearsal tonight, do some bills, and practice the piano and sing, grateful that it’s Friday. My kids will be home in a couple of hours, and I’ll be here when they arrive. 

The journey can be rough, but the wisdom and serenity that can follow makes every bump worth it.

Look, I Made a Hat...

Last night, my husband and I went to the symphony.  We saw a wonderful community orchestra play a Dvořák, a Tchaikovsky, and, one of my favorite pieces, Beethoven's Piano Concerto #5 "Emperor."  If you don't already know this lovely piece of music, I commend it to you.  (This link is just the 3rd movement, because the video I found of the whole piece was interrupted by a fast food ad, and that's just not right. Still you should hear the whole thing!)

I first fell in love with Beethoven's music when I saw the film "Immortal Beloved." (Yes, I know.  A movie...)  The film was great, and I discovered the magic of Gary Oldman.  It was the music, however, that affected me the most.  I quickly purchased the soundtrack, entirely comprised of some of Beethoven's greatest hits, and I listened regularly to it throughout my college years and beyond.

The orchestra we saw last night was unique.  Though most members had trained extensively, and some were likely former professionals, none are full-time musicians except for the pianist, who was a guest artist.  The first violinist was extremely pregnant, probably not with her first child.  My own good friend in the orchestra is a busy mother of 5.  The conductor had been a professional software engineer for many years.  The ages of the musicians varied from 20s to 60s.

Considering none of the musicians play full-time, their work was completely beautiful.  I was thrilled to experience the Beethoven concerto live, played so well and in a great venue.  That said, having heard it hundreds of times on my professional recording, I noticed small flaws in the playing.  I won't point them out, and that's not the focus of this post.  Suffice it to say that it was still a community orchestra, albeit an exceptional one.

Just the same, I needed the concert and the music this week.

A few days ago, I had an audition defeat.  I went out for a role that I knew was a bit of a long-shot, but I still brought the same ambition that I bring to every audition.  At callbacks, however, I got my butt totally kicked by everything.  The competition was fantastic, I clashed in look, size, and/or age with all of the leading contenders for the other roles, and I struggled to give the best reading of the sides.  In one case, we were given a song on which I spent 30 minutes preparing, hoping to blow them away with my lovely A flat.  At the last minute, we were given something else to sing.  It was a long, draining 4 1/2 hours, which was then followed by my own sense of defeat as I climbed into my car and made the drive home to my husband and sleeping children.

It's all good.  I just closed a successful show with an amazing cast a month ago, and hopefully there will be others before long.  I like to win, though, and I didn't this time.

On another front, I'm currently directing a high school play.  The cast is a group of wonderful, talented young people, the script is brilliant, and I have great ideas for how to make it exciting to watch and perform.  This is also the first time I'm directing a show, and we have limited time and means to do this.  I'm as terrified as I am excited.

Finally, the song "Finishing the Hat" from Sondheim's Sunday in the Park with George has recently been on my mind.  Months ago, I saw Kelli O'Hara perform the song in a concert, and it was so glorious.  It was also the first time I realized what the song really meant and, moreover, how much it applied to me.

For those unfamiliar with the song, George (based on the impressionist Georges Seurat) reflects on how he is incapable of compartmentalizing his work in order to save his relationship.  He is always returning to the "hat" that he knows he must finish.  He laments that "the woman who won't wait for you knows that however you live there's a part of you always standing by, mapping out a sky, finishing a hat."  At the end of the 1st act, George loses the woman he loves forever due to this failing.

I get this.  A friend and I recently commiserated over how difficult it is to stay present with our families, because we obsess too much over our creative endeavors.  There is a part of me that is always thinking about my next audition, something stupid I said to a director or a student, my current project, my unending to-do lists (artistic and domestic, to be honest), etc.

How do these four things - the symphony, my failed audition, my directing debut, and Sondheim's brilliant song all relate?  Well, I have to go back to the symphony to explain...

Halfway through the 2nd movement of the concerto, I was crying.  The music had sparked such strong memories of a time in college when all I imagined for myself was life as an artist.  I was going to be a professional actress and singer, and that was as far as I could see.  I had promise, but I had even more passion.

As the music played, I reflected (for the millionth time) on how different everything was from what I'd mapped out.  I never fulfilled my big dreams of working full-time as an actress. I never worked in Chicago or did a tour or Broadway.  I never did anything outside of Utah or Wyoming.  I never became the dancer or singer or actress I'd dreamed of becoming.

This time, however, I did not struggle with feelings of regret or resentment over how far I never went.  Instead I felt...grateful.

Like those talented community musicians fitting their music into the windows of their lives and then reaching me with that music, I too have that privilege.  I can do these great creative things in the windows of my family life.  I feel so lucky.  I can't have it all, but I can have it all.

My work will never be perfect.  I will never be able to devote as much time as I'd like to my craft.
I have no idea what the next show is or how my directing debut will turn out or what the future holds, but I'm doing something.  I may never know the full satisfaction of "finishing the hat" the way George did, but I'm so grateful that I can still make great art without having to pay the same price George paid.

By the 3rd movement, tears of joy flowed down my cheeks.  All I felt was gratitude - for Beethoven, for those musicians, for the memories invoked by the music, for my failed audition, for the last show I was in, for the opportunity to direct, for hope for the future, and, most importantly, for my greatest opus - my family.

Every time I weep at a professional concert, film, or play because I can't "finish the hat" to perfection the way I would like, I need to remember those glorious community musicians who helped me last night.  Their gift was more than enough to make a difference for me.

At the end of "Finishing the Hat," George feels the work is complete, and declares "Look, I made a hat where there never was a hat."

I am here to declare that you can redefine what it means to "finish the hat."  The hat doesn't have to be perfect.  It rarely will be.  You don't always have to win in order to still matter.  Sometimes always winning comes at too big a price.

You just have to keep making hats.

Make one, then another, and keep going.  Make it the best you can with the time and skills you have. Give it sufficient time and effort within reason, and then accept when it's done and you can't do anymore.

I have a family.  I believe in God and serve in my church.  I teach Musical Theatre part time.  I perform part time.  I am directing a play and hope it will be a great experience for my students and those who come to see them perform.

In the perfect words of Stephen Sondheim, "Look, I made a hat.  Where there never was a hat."

The Swearing Mormon, or The Shift

Today this expression kept floating through my mind:  The Shift.  (Some of you might have thought I was going to say, "The Swearing Mormon?"  But I'll get to that later.)

Some call it "a mighty change of heart," but what on earth does it mean?

I guess that's a weird way to start this blogpost, but I had an interesting exchange yesterday with a young woman that brought this concept to my mind.  Since then, it has been just wafting through my brain.

It began with confessions a number of us were making about our youths while prepping for a show. As I shared that my first "real" kiss was from a stranger on the beach when I was 13, I blurted out something to the effect that I was "an anorexic teen drinking a wine cooler after a long day on the beach."  (The nerdy story, BTW, is evidence that underage drinking often leads to silly behavior.)  I continued on, and awhile later, our 16 year old cast mate pulled me aside.  "Do you mind if I ask?  Were you really anorexic?"  As a dancer, she had known a number of anorexic women.

Then I had to own that, aside from a brief chapter in my life when I would eat one meal a day (usually a biggish meal) and then chew diet gum the rest of the time, the answer was no.  It was a bit of an exaggeration.  I was never truly anorexic and/or not long enough to negatively impact my physical health.  I had other unhealthy habits, but not that one in earnest.

Still, she continued, I clearly had a rough spot in my life.  Yes, I did - rougher than some, smoother than others.  It is one reason I am so drawn to teenagers.  I feel deep empathy for them in the crazy season of life they are traveling through.  Even when I'm lecturing them in my high school performing class to be more professional, get some sleep, learn their lines, etc., I can feel their young adult hormone/over-scheduled/tough social environment-induced anxiety radiating off of them.  If it wasn't a high school, I'd hug them regularly.

We then talked about the change that came to me when I joined the church, and it was humbling. I was so grateful for how my life had changed, and yet I wished I was doing better.

Before recovery and the church, I was in survival mode.  It was not street survival.  There was sufficient food, clothing, and shelter, but there was little sense of security and purpose.  I view myself as pitiful and was subject to my fears and my cravings.  Then I started to learn about Christ and a better life, and I had a Shift in how I viewed life and myself.  There was meaning in the difficult experiences.  I had potential for a good future.  There was Light after the Darkness.  This was the "mighty change of heart" as described in the Book of Mormon.

Yet, sometimes I shift backwards and revert to older views of myself.  I stop seeing myself as a divine daughter of God with purpose and light.  I see my cravings, my fears, my frustrations, and my weaknesses.  How is this possible at 41, a mission, a degree, a glass slipper, a prince, a castle, and 4 mice later?

This brings me to the "swearing Mormon" part of the title.  I think that's part of my shift that I continue to struggle with.  I've held on to that little bit of dark and still find some unhealthy comfort in expressing my frustration through strong language.  It's foolish, I know.  I'm just neglecting the better part of the English language when I revert to base talk.

Hence the conversion continues, and the fight to Shift over is real.  Who will I see myself as today, and how will it affect me?  While it goes hand in hand with action - we often see ourselves in a better light when we are making healthier choices - it is so much about our view of ourselves that will either motivate or sabotage us.

It's like the people of Ammon from the Book of Mormon, whose conversion to Christianity transformed them from bloodthirsty warriors to a people willing to prostrate themselves before a hostile enemy in order to avoid taking up their weapons again.  The tragic inverse may be the bishopric member who stops seeing his potential, gives up on his family and spiritual well-being, and breaks the law or cheats on his spouse (or both).

The good news is:  Repentance.  Is this the shift we must continue to make?  We come to know what we know, and then we see ourselves through His eyes.  As we shift our view, we have the courage to change our actions (or our words perhaps)?

Trying today to Shift in the right direction ...