I woke up remembering the children to whom I once taught writing—the ones who came to my house during many summers, the ones I later joined at a garden, Chanticleer.
For many, English was a second or third language. For some, home was an un-airconditioned two rooms in the heart of West Philadelphia. One was a burgeoning actress. One had a vocabularly that utterly dwarfed mine. One was an internationally acclaimed child pianist and composer who, though already in graduate school at the age of 12 and a frequent guest on David Letterman, hadn't had, in his short life, the chance to hang out with kids his own age, or to write his ideas onto the page. One hailed from Egypt, and one hailed from Pakistan, and one was my son, oh, the stories they told, and oh, how I loved them. Truly, I loved them all, not a single exception to that rule.
Today, perhaps because my friend the literacy coach Andra Bell had written to me about the children she loves, I woke up thinking of them.
Once, in the garden, I asked the children to break into groups and to walk the paths with me—some imagining themselves an elephant attempting to shimmy down the narrow macadam, some as 17th century explorers, some as a raft of musical notes, and some as a kite whose string was caught in a tree. As teams they collected metaphors. Singularly, then, they wrote their poems.
This morning I remember my friend, Samir, and his gift of a poem to Chanticleer, and to me.
If you remember me blogging about the impeccable John Bell and his "Mikado" earlier in the week, you'll remember that I made mention of his beautiful and talented wife, Andra, who happens to be the star dancer in our ballroom studio, but not only that, she's gracious and smart and thoughtful and works as a reading specialist by day. She's the one who's making sure that children will be able to navigate, to enjoy, to look forward to the books they'll find all through their lives, the stories that wait for them. She's the kind of person for whom all of us writers should be grateful.
Andra also writes terrific emails, and last night she brought me up to speed on the costuming plans where she works. Think of a nurse masquerading as a Miss Diagnose. Think of the male principal, Miss Chief. Think of the literacy coach, Miss Understood. Then put tiaras on their heads and sashes across their shoulders, and this will be school in one part of the world today.
We teach children how to grow up every day. It's a rather grand thing when children teach us to stay young.
Later tonight I'll be tangoing with my husband at the studio, holding my breath through our first spotlight number alone. After two plus years trying to learn ballroom separately, we're forging a path through song together. I don't really care how it goes, what mistakes get made. I care only that we're trying.
At DeSales University these past several weeks, John Bell, Chairman of Performing and Fine Arts, has been directing "The Mikado," that classic Gilbert and Sullivan opera that, though first performed in London in 1885, prevails as comedy and satire even now. (Who today could not, for example, assemble 'a little list' of people 'who would not be missed' for the Lord High Executioner?) With the opera staged in DeSales' black b0x theater, those who were privileged to see the sold-out show sat at the very edge of a fine flirtation. Performers. Audience. Magic.
I grew up in a household where musicals ruled—"The Music Man," "The Sound of Music," "Windjammer." I knew the words to all the songs, my brother (a preternaturally gifted whistler) accompanied, and no couch was safe from being stood upon as we, in our turn, took the stage. It was what we did instead of most things. It taught me respect for the form.
Bell is a choreographer and composer in addition to being a chairman and director, and sitting there in the audience on Friday night it was impossible not to notice how brilliantly he and his students volumized that show—wheels of color on the painted floor, stacking boxes to give the actors height, parasols to catch and convey the sweet-hued light, percussive fans. With hardly more than a piano, a triangle, a gong, those snapped-fast fans, a rap-like dance, the sneak of new lyrics inside old tunes, this "Mikado" was a contemporary triumph.
Most of all it was a triumph for the freshmen, sophomores, juniors, seniors who were given the chance to make it their own.
You watch a performance like "The Mikado" on a campus like DeSales beside John and his (tremendously wonderful and talented) wife, Andra, and the mess of stock markets, housing markets, politics, fear fades for awhile; hope creeps in. Here are artists, you think. Here is the work that they yield. Here is their joy in yielding. Here is the light beyond the tangle of now.
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