transformation

I'm noticing that after school programs are getting into gear for the fall, and they are focusing on tutoring. Students sit at desks most of the day from 8:30 to 3 or later and then go sit some more for tutoring and homework help, until 5:30 or 6. Yes, these are the kind of hours children have academics in other countries, but it would be nice to consider the whole child instead of an academic race to an uncertain "top."

There are things that happened in my drama classes that transformed my students and myself in some inexplicable ways. One class in particular sticks in my memory, at the former Carter Middle School in Oakland. It was a difficult group that met after school; so difficult that two subs who took my class walked out. Most of the first few months, my lesson plan seemed to me to be mostly "snack" and "keep kids from fighting long enough to start an activity." We gathered under the harsh fluorescent lights of the unfortunately named and bleak Cafetorium, which had a small, cluttered stage and tables that unfolded down from the walls like the old Murphy beds.

We had just managed to start our warm up when Lila, a 7th grader who still had her baby fat, started to scream on the other side of the room. "What's wrong?" I said, approaching her. She lay down on the floor and continued to cry, pounding her fists and feet on the dirty tile. My mind searched for a way to get the class back on track. By a miracle, I had a small tape recorder with me and I pulled it out of my bag, pressing 'record.'

"This is KLOX Radio and we have a young lady crying here on the street. It looks serious. Let's find out what's going on," I improvised. "Excuse me miss, can you tell me what happened?" Lila cried louder after opening one eye in surprise. "Let's ask a passerby," I said.

I interviewed the passerby, who hadn't seen anything. The other students started to get interested. Soon I was interviewing a cast of neighbors from the block about why Lila was crying. Someone suggested she needed to see a doctor, so off we went to the clinic. The doctor's diagnosis produced no results, so off we went to talk to her family: parents, siblings, family dog and cat. Everyone suggested explanations for Lila's crying and possible solutions. Not even candy and cookies helped. Lila stopped at intervals for a minute or two, but then continued to wail.

Finally, just before it was time to leave class, there was a revelation. "Ladies and gentlemen, we talked to everyone in the community, and no one can explain why this young lady is crying. Tune in next week when we return to solve this mystery," I said, wrapping it up.

"I guess she just needed to cry," someone said quietly.

And with that, Lila stopped crying. By a kind of common sixth sense we all knew that something profound had happened. In that instant we breathed as one a sigh of relief and were transformed. Of course. Our middle schoolers came from beyond the freeway dividing the yuppie homes from their low income neighborhood and faced family stress, violence and inadequate resources daily. But more than that, when do we give each other permission to cry, to weep, to wail, even if we don't know why?

Our fractious class had created together an hour and a half improvised play, full of characters from our community, full of humor and pathos, with lines I would have been proud to publish in a script. And we created a play with each student showing concern- even love - for one of their peers in distress. Of course. Lila needed to cry.