If I Were Queen

And I would choose to be Queen of these United States because I cannot for the life of me understand why anyone would ever want to be President.

My point:

The White House said earlier that the speech – to be shown on C-SPAN and educational stations – would focus on "the importance of education, the importance of staying in school, how we want to improve our education system and why it's so important for the country."

Other presidents, including George H.W. Bush, have given similar speeches directly to students.

But some Dallas-area parents said Obama's speech amounts to partisan propaganda. His critics have been even harsher.

Jim Greer, chairman of the Florida Republican Party, said Tuesday that the speech used taxpayer dollars "to spread President Obama's socialist ideology."

(From the Dallas Morning News.)

So, if I were Queen:

• I would look remarkably like Audrey Hepburn.
  
  
• Teachers would be given gift certificates and required to show up at a spa every six weeks.
  
  
• Every campus would have a cappuccino cart operated by a know-it-all barista, in a crisp white shirt and red bow-tie, with a dazzling talent for caffeine.
  
  
• Mandatory testing would be abolished.
  
  
• Each classroom would have a refrigerator filled with yummy snacks to keep little brains healthy.
  
  
• Teachers, students and administrators would take twenty-minute naps every afternoon.
  
  
• There would always be paper at the copy machines.

But, alas, no one listens to me and we don't have those kinds of queens in this country. And I would only feed Jim Greer's theory that we're a nation overrun by socialists and their cockamamie ideologies.


CHILDREN'S WRITES: A Journal Entry

Dear Diary,

One time I wanted power over my mom. She wouldn't let me go to bed when I wanted to. I would get power by staying up till I was tired and being very tired the next day.

—Alice, 5th grade

Hard News: 'Caring means doing'

Here he is, ladies and gentlemen: A not-so-dumb jock.


From "Andre Agassi's second act as compelling as the first" by Bill Dwyre at the LA Times:

He was being honored for his work on behalf of the Andre Agassi Foundation. It has raised $75 million to date and used it to start a charter high school in a poor part of Las Vegas.

He talked about this year's first graduation, in which seniors paraded across a special bridge and stopped halfway to show a sign to the underclassmen below, indicating which college they would be attending. Every senior in the school was accepted to a college.

"100%," Agassi said, proudly.

Agassi quoted one of the senior commencement speakers, who is now in a college pre-med program.

"She said that some who are short-sighted have labeled us as at-risk," Agassi said. "She said that was right. That we are at-risk. At risk of excellence."

Bravo, Andre, for showing us how to play the second act.

Making a Malvolio

March, 2009

"Okie-dokie, Henry, what do you think about your character, Malvolio?"

Henry and I are in the school library having a private rehearsal.

"Well, Ms. Ryane, I think Malvolio is funny."

When he says the word funny, Henry flattens his hands and spreads his arms wide as if to show me...hands-down funny.

Henry and I study a few of the words he's unsure of:

Yond
Fortified
Denial
Sheriff's post
Peevishly
Wit
Tinkers
Uncivil (he will always pronounce this "unceevil" and it's just too sweet to mess with)

"Henry, who runs Lady Olivia's house? Like who makes sure of the rules and stuff like that, do you think?"

"Me?" he answers with his impish Henry-grin,

"You bet. And here we go with those rule-breakers...who are they?"

"Well, Sir Toby and Andrew, and also Maria...oh, and also Feste."

"That's right. They are just impossible. They stay up all night singing and dancing and making a racket and waking everybody up —"

"And don't forget, Ms. Ryane! Drinking! They are getting drunk all the time."

"Oh I know, it's terrible and it's your job to keep peace in the house and they make so much trouble for you. That's what you mean when you say, 'Sir Toby, I must be round with you'; you give them warnings and they pay you no mind at all. Then they play a nasty trick on you with the fake letter. Very irritating, huh?"

"Yes. It makes me sooo angry." He thinks about this for a minute.

"Ms. Ryane, what about this...how would this be if I did this when Maria says 'Go shake your ears!' "

And he acts like Maria's blasted him through a loudspeaker. Henry tips over, balances on one foot, shakes his head with his hand covering his ears and staggers offstage.

I'm dumbfounded.

"Hey Ms. Ryane, what about when I find Viola and have to give her the ring, if I do this?"

And he runs up, stops,doubles over as if he has a crick in his side after a ten-mile sprint and gasps for air.

MALVOLIOWere you not even now with the Countess Olivia?

(Pant...pant...gasp...gasp.)

I read Viola's part.

VIOLAEven now, sir.

MALVOLIOShe returns this ring to you. Receive it so.

From his pocket Henry pulls out a small toy rabbit to use as the ring.

VIOLAShe took no bunny of me. I'll none of it.

Henry falls on the floor and kills himself laughing because I said "bunny" instead of "ring."

He rolls around saying, "Bunny...you said bunny!" and I'm nearly weeping because Henry's joy is contagious and life can't get better than this.

"Henry, the out of breath idea's brilliant. Where did you come up with it?"

Henry twinkles conspiratorially. "I saw it in the movie!" and he jumps in the air. "In the movie, Malvolio was on a bike....I don't have a bike but I could be like running or something.

"Hey, Ms. Ryane, what d'you think of this: When I say to Olivia, 'T'was well-writ,' if I do this?"

And he holds a pinkie up to his cheek and wriggles it up and down. "T'was written well" in a sing-song voice.

He never gets the line exactly right and it doesn't matter because the kid's a comic genius.

"Henry, I looked everywhere for yellow stockings and finally had to order a pair online. They're not exactly correct because the black stripes aren't cross-gartered but you see what you think of these."

He flips out.

"For me? I get to wear these...my yellow-stockings!"

"Yup. I figure you'll have them on the whole time and then before you come out for the yellow-stockings scene...just roll your jeans up to your knees. Good?"

"Awesome. AWESOME, Ms. Ryane...I love them."

Not as much as I love you, my friend.

"

CHILDREN'S WRITES: A Journal Entry

My life in Illyria is a suvent. The food I eat is awesome. Do you know who I am?

You don't. I am Malvoleo! It is fun being a survent. But Sir Toby and Sir Anderw and Festa are so anowing!

—Henry, 3rd grade

Recess: How Luith Loth Hith Lithp

By his third year in the club, as he rehearsed his role of Sir Andrew Aguecheek, I noticed that Luis had almost entirely lost his lisp.

"Are you aware, Luis, that you used to have a small lisp and now it's gone?"

"What's that?"

"A lisp?"

"Yeah, what's that?"

"See, if I put my tongue a little bit between my front teeth and make an 's' sound, it comes out like a 'th' sound?"

"Yeah."

"The tongue is misbehaving. It wants to hang around with the teeth but it's not supposed to and what you've done is train it to stay in its own yard."

"I did? I did that? Hey...cool on me!"

We share a high five.

"Ms. Ryane, how did I do that, anyway?"

I offer this exercise to any of you out there who are about to speechify, need to make a wedding toast or simply want your dog to pay attention.

This is one of the most efficient methods for warming up your articulators: the tongue, the teeth, the lips, the soft and hard palates and that ever-lazy jaw.


Drop your lower jaw, place your tongue all the way out on the lower lip and leave it there. The lower jaw and tongue will move as one piece to and from the upper lip.

Now pick up a newspaper, book, magazine...anything...and read some text aloud. Clearly, slooowly, click the consonants hard and make every word super-clear. Use a mirror to monitor that sneaky tongue. Don't let it slip back into the cave.

SpeeeeeK...slooowleee...anD...cleeerlllleee...moooV...the Jaaawww...uuuP...anD...doooowwN...uuuZZ...thoZZZ...ConnnsaannennTsss....

If you're doing this correctly, your jaw will hurt from the effort and you will sound like an idiot...but it's a small price to pay. If little kids can do this, so can you.

Take a small break, swallow and continue.

After three reads of the material, take your tongue back inside and read the text normally. Magic...clear enunciation.

Congratulations, you can now speak as professionally as young Luis.

Labored Day

Scrunch your bare toes once more in the sand, take another pass around the garden, pluck a ripe tomato, finish the novel and sleep deep one last night before setting Mr. Alarm Clock...because the curtain is about to rise on another season.

Listen carefully...the restless rustle of your audience....

Take a deep breath...you will remember all those names...at least by Winter Break.

Lay out your clothes, iron your shirt, comb your hair and line up those whiteboard markers.

Pause...hear the whispers....

You know how to do this...backwards, forwards and upside down...because like an Olympic gymnast you've done it before and you'll do it again. You'll get laughs and tears...you're a pro. You'll bend bodies, stretch minds and illuminate souls with the facility of a charismatic leader because you know how to find the spotlight and stay in it.

Pack your lunch. Feed your cat. Start the car.

Take a moment in the wings, heed the applause, ahhh, the ovation...you're on.

Dear teachers...have a great year and, as we say in the theatre: Merde!

Darby & Beth: Artistic Temperament

March, 2009

In the tradition of well-known artistic feuds, I have a twosome giving me grief and sending each other into crabapple hell.

Darby and Beth, both fourth-graders, dress alike, talk alike and fight like cats in a sack. They are downright, as the older kids say, "the B-word" with each other.

Because they both play the recorder, I've cast them as Duke Orsino's musicians. Their teacher, Sydney, took time to help the girls write their own composition for the second scene of the play..."If music be the food of love...play on!"

I'm impressed until I try to rehearse with the pipsqueak divas.

"Okay, girls pick up your instruments....Let me hear it."

They raise the recorders to their mouths and I hold up the piece of paper with the written music. Before a single note is sounded, Beth flashes a look at Darby and lowers her instrument.

"Darby, no!"

Darby puts her hands on her hips and glares at Beth.

"What?"

"Your fingers are in the wrong place...all wrong...look, like this...this hole...not what you were doing!"

Now, I can't help because I know zip about playing the recorder, or any musical instrument for that matter.

"Fine!" Darby answers. "But I know already...and I can play the way I want."

"It won't work," Beth harps on.

"Okay, girls...let's give each other some room for individual choice on proper fingering...can we do that?"

"It's wrong though," Beth sighs and lifts her recorder to her mouth.

Two notes are played and Darby stops.

"No, that's not right...look, look...right there...it's a B!"

Beth stabs at the piece of paper I'm holding to prove her point.

My God. It's Mozart and Salieri all over again. Cézanne and Zola. W.C. Fields and...anyone.

Getting them to practice the music that they'd written was near impossible. I tried counting them into it, threatening them into it — do I need to find new musicians, girls? —sending them back to class without dinner or a private rehearsal — that's it, I'm done.

Every week they missed their cues in run-throughs, putting me into an equally bad mood.

They glowered, snapped and rolled their eyes at each other. And yet...at recess I'd catch them hanging out and laughing like best friends.

They often asked to help clean up Room 39 after club meetings and they'd argue about that as well.


"No, you don't hold the broom like that!"

"Yes, you do!"

My husband insists the Royal Shakespeare Company likely has to deal with this stuff all the time. "Which proves you're on the right track."

He's correct. I've seen this enough times with adult geniuses. I know the root cause of the tempest is fear. I knew an Oscar-winner who vomited every night before going onstage...pure terror. I've seen actors lock themselves in their trailers for hours until their cold feet warm up.

And I know the only way to deal with it is to ignore it.

So, I quit the threats and stayed quiet. In a run-through, when their cue came up, I made sure no one nudged them and we all waited...and waited...until they grabbed their dang recorders and bolted to center stage.

And I prayed that on the day they would calmly, confidently and, in unison, answer Orsino's call to "Play on!"

They did. They accepted the accolades of their families, and my anxiety was entirely wasted.

CHILDREN'S WRITES: A Journal Entry

Dear Anne hatawha,

My life had chanded so much, I got a gob and then the pleg hit! So then I started to rit pomes. I erned so much munny. Say hi to Hamlet.

Love,
William Shaksfear

—Henry, 3rd grade

Hard News: LMAO

"The Argyle Sweater" by Scott Hilburn.

New Yorker cartoon by Jack Ziegler

Richard III: Pure Cheese

March, 2009

"Imagine this, kids. A guy with a hunchback, like this. A gimpy hand, like this. And to top it off, a lame leg so he has to limp everywhere he goes, like this. What a wreck this guy is."

And now I get to do my cheesy I have an audience in my grip! I don't miss acting, no siree! Because: Look Ma...I'm actin' again...back on the boards in Room 39! thing.

"This fellow's name is Richard the Third and how much do you think he hated going to school? How much fun do you think the other kids made of poor, scraggly Richard? And what do you think he wanted more than anything?"

"He wanted to kill those kids!" shouts Calvin, a skinny third-grader.

"Well, maybe. Remember the themes of Shakespeare's plays? The three things his characters wanted were...what?"

"Love!" from Belinda.

"Revenge!" from Henry.

"Power!" from Geoffrey.

"Excellent, that's right. So, here's what happened to Richard the Third. He has an older brother Edward, the King of England. What do you think Richard wants?"

Hands fly up and bottoms bounce out of seats. I've inadvertently created a new game show.

"Yes, Beth?"

"King, king! He wants to be the king!"

"Right, so what's the theme of Richard the Third...what is it he wants?"

"Power!" and they scream the roof off of Room 39.

"At the start of the play, Richard limps alone on stage, dressed all in black with his terrible hand and this lump on his back and he's in a bad, bad mood:

"Now is the winter of our discontent
Made glorious summer by this son of York;
And all the clouds that low'r'd upon our house
In the deep bosom of the ocean buried.

"And Richard starts killing people off so that he can become king."

"What happened? Did he make king?" Nathan wants to know.

"Oh yes, he made king all right, but it didn't last long because this play is a tragedy and what happens at the end of tragedies?"


"Dead! He's dead, right?" shouts Kate.

"As a doornail, you bet. Get your pencils ready we're going to scan the iambic verse."




I've taught them how to scan the verse. They all have a copy of the speech and each child, buried over a journal, marks the stresses and asks Rachel and me if they have it right.

"Now, I want each of you to write about when you wanted power in your life."


CHILDREN'S WRITES: Journal Entries

Dear Journal,

This is the worst day I wanted to have power. I wanted to have power to make my sisters clean my room and do my chores. But I couldn't. It started when my mom went to a long trip. She went for 3 hours. 1st she went to work for an hour then she want to the park for another hour, and that when I though about that I made them clean my room and other stuff while my Mom went to take care of my cousin for 30 min. even though they were the last min.s. But then I knew my mom was coming but I didn't care I had a bad feeling. So I told one of my sisters to cook me food the other to buy me chips and the last one to change the TV channel 4 me. But my plan got ruined NOOO! My Mom she got mad know my plan was ruined I cryed all day my screamed all day I learned to let my mom rule my sisters. The end.

—Susan, 5th grade

Dear Diary,

I wanted power over my teacher because she always used to boss me around and I didn't like it. I wanted to take her out of that school and have a better teacher. We all didn't like her and we wanted revenge. After that she had left from that school and we were happy & proud.

Love,
Meara

—Meara, 5th grade

Recess: APB

The Shakespeare Club is looking for Michael Richards.

Seriously, if you or anyone you know can get to the man...please get to him...and here's why:

Ten-year-old Luis watches "Seinfeld" religiously and is a fan of Michael Richards in particular.

I suggested that perhaps he could write a letter to Mr. Richards.

"Oooo, that's tight, Ms. Ryane," Luis beamed.

I found out Richards is represented by William Morris Endeavor Entertainment and that's where we sent the following letter:

Dear Mr. Richards,

I like the way you act on "Seinfeld." I like the way you come in the door.

I am a fifth grader and this is my last year in elemntary school. I came out on a play "Twelfth Night" and I played the prat of Sir Andrew Aguecheek. Watching Seinfeld helped me on my physical comedy. When the people would laugh it felt like a big wave of warm water falling on me.

I would love it if you could send my a signed picture of your self. Thank you for all the laughs you gave me.

APB on Michael Richards!

Couldn't he use some good PR?

Answer the letter, Michael. It's the tight thing to do.

Polly & Ethan: Double Play

March, 2009

William Shakespeare had twins, a son and a daughter: Hamnet and Judith.

It's likely these children influenced his writing. In his first play, "A Comedy of Errors," the riotous, rib-cracking fun arises from the antics of two sets of twins and, oh my, who's who? I'm so confused and I'm wetting my pants!

In Year Three of The Shakespeare Club, I first introduced the story of "Twelfth Night." We watched a movie version together and I had more than one club member slip me this idea:

"Ms. Ryane?" Geoffrey whispered.

"Yes?" I whispered back.

"Next year Ethan and Polly should play the twins!" He elevated his whisper.

"Do ya think?"

"Yes, because they really are twins!" And he bursts into full voice.

"Get out."

And it's true, I have a pair of ten-year-old twins, Polly and Ethan, in the club. I've said it once and I'll say it again: Sometimes casting is so easy.

When we did "Romeo & Juliet," Polly was one of our two narrators and she wanted to play a part so badly. "But, Ms. Ryane, I could learn lines...I could."

Ethan played that naughty boy, Mercutio. He struggled both with his vocal level and with learning lines, but he got his performance up to snuff in the nick of time.

When Polly was in the first grade she was held back a year "because I didn't talk or something," she tells me.

Ethan, also held back, spent his first three years in remedial study. He told his teacher he "felt dirty" in those classes even though he collected copies of Shakespeare's plays and read them at home.

In "Twelfth Night," Viola and Sebastian are at sea in a terrible storm. Their vessel is ripped apart, as are brother and sister, and they spend much of the play trying to find each other in the zany world of Illyria.

Polly, as Viola, has the longest speeches in the play. A child who had a history of not talking or something now has to carry the show.

Ethan, who is entirely self-conscious about even standing center stage, needs lots of coaxing to speak up and face out.

The three of us have challenges ahead, but none more so than the recognition scene at the end of the play:

SEBASTIANSo I stand there? I never had a brother.
Of charity, what kin are you to me?
What name? What parentage?

VIOLETOf Messaline. Sebastian was my father.
Such a Sebastian was my brother too.

Viola takes off her cap, revealing her true identity. Brother and sister step toward each other and give the audience a big aaahhh moment as they hug.

"Okay, Polly...Ethan...hug. No really, a nice hug...not hit and run."

I begged for months, never sure it would happen. They never embraced in rehearsal. Not once. They slapped at each other, they faked a fast half-clinch and separated quickly back to their corners like scaredy-cats in a prize fight.

"Okay, you two. I know this feels seriously weird to be hugging your brother or sister on stage in front of all your friends and stuff...but it's not about you anymore...it's about what's best for the audience and I think they deserve it...don't you?"

Shrug, shuffle, shrug, shuffle.

First performance...it happened...lightning fast...but it was there. I caught it out of the corner of my eye.

Then, the reaction....They heard their teachers sigh. Aaahhh.

Second performance...it happened again...slower. Ooohhh.

By the final performance they were milking it and I swear Shakespeare from on high murmured, "Yes, kids...that's what I wrote....Good stuff."



CHILDREN'S WRITES: A Journal Entry

Dear Dad,

Methink thy brother Sabastein is gone down in tis sea. Drown tis Sabastein, water filled thy lungs. Thy hope tis is not true, but the possiblites to high and I think only thy capin and me survived. Doom thy feel and hope he is still alive if not I might as well die. This news I hope you don't belive as much as I do.

Sincerely,
Viola

—Polly, 5th grade

Eduardo: A Writer

As I continued my writing hour each week with Luis, I asked his fifth-grade teacher, Mr. Byron, if perhaps he would like me to teach memoir-writing to his kids. He thought it would be a good idea and I found myself facing his class.

"Here's the theme."

I wrote on the board:

When I was five...

"Think way back to when you were five years old."

I suggested they make a shopping list of ideas.

"One-word ideas or feelings of being little and then, fast — write those down. Maybe favorite toys or people. Maybe things you didn't like — tastes or chores. Quick, quick — make a list."

Many of the kids got right to it, and then there was Eduardo. He of the dark curly hair, the penetrating brown eyes that followed me as I paced, and the clear stubborn gaze of someone who wasn't doin' nothin'.

"Eduardo, can you remember when you were only five?"

"Nope."

"How about eight?"

"Nope."

Eduardo was a fellow of few words, or so I thought.

Certainly, he was immovable and I couldn't make him pick up that pencil. Nope.

Meanwhile, many in the room picked up theirs and, using their lists, formed sentences and paragraphs. Some bravely read their stories aloud. I applauded the use of adjectives. I cheered when a boy wrote of attending his first day at school, wearing a pair of overalls and looking up and up and up.

Mr. Byron, seated among his students, wrote like a man on fire and asked to share his story: an interesting tale of his child-self and a neighbor's creepy cat.

Everyone got into the act...except Eduardo.

The next day, Sydney, the fourth-grade teacher, called me over. Standing next to her was Eduardo.

"Eduardo has something he'd like to share with you, Ms. Ryane. Go on, Eduardo. This is someone who would really like to hear you."

And he began.

"One night...it was really late and dark and like midnight or something...my mom and me and my sister and my brother and my dad...we were all coming home from work and we were driving down the 405. I was with my dad in one car. My mom was driving in front of us with my brother and my sister...and...and...."

The tears started. Slow drips, one after another, rolled down his cheeks and fell off his jaw. We ignored them.

"And a tire came off my mom's car. That made it crash into the side and off the road and my brother he goes far...flying, like a mile away and we run and we can't find him...and people in houses are calling us to help and the police come and finally we find my brother and he is in a coma."

The tears flowed faster. I dug for a tissue without breaking eye contact with Eduardo, and he went on.

"And the doctors said he won't make it...and the priest comes...and my mom is praying and no one thinks he will make it."

"What happened to him, Eduardo?" I asked.

"He woke up after a long time. He made it. He is so strong and now he plays the piano with one hand because the other hand is still wrecked but he can play...he can make music."

"Eduardo, if I gave you your own journal, do you think you might be able to write this story down? And maybe others about your brother and your family? Or how you see things in the world? Because I will tell you something...I think you might be a writer."

He took the journal and the pencil I handed to him.

The next day he showed me, on his phone, a video of his brother playing piano.

"He wrote that song," Eduardo told me.

And for the rest of the year Eduardo shared with me pages and pages of his stories.


CHILDREN'S WRITES: A Journal Entry

Dear Olivia,
my dearest to my honest, true, and lovinglet heart.
You are my only once live, thou eyes sparckel in the gleaming sunlight, thee is in my warm heart. 'Tis is thee wish my love my heart my soul my wish my light and my partener. We were destant to be together I love you and I always will!

Truly yours,
With love,
Orsino.

—Kate, 5th grade

Hard News: 'How Does It Feel?'

Stan Bosch, a motorcycle-riding priest, seems to have found his calling at a little school in South Los Angeles by asking the simplest of questions and sticking around for the answers.

"How does it feel?" can unleash torrents of truth.

"How does it feel?" can release a pressure cooker of nightmares.

"How does it feel?" can ignite the flame of possibilities.

Bravo on Stan Bosch for asking and asking and asking again.

Encouraged to talk about it (LA Times)

photo by Michael Robinson Chavez/LA Times

Belinda: As Boundless As the Sea

When she was six years old, she stood on tip-toe at a microphone and announced her first-grade class and their song.

I froze, tingled, grabbed her teacher's arm and asked, "Who is she? I want her for The Shakespeare Club."

"That's Belinda."

Belinda arrived on Planet Earth with a voice, a point of view and raw talent. When she was eight, she played Juliet, but I couldn't for the life of me get her to look at Geoffrey, her Romeo.

"Belinda, you're spot-on. You understand the language, the character and the actions, but you have to look at him when you say, 'My love is as boundless as the sea.' "

I took Belinda and Geoffrey into the library to work privately, away from the rest of the group. They giggled, they half-looked at each other, they scanned the ceiling, the floor, the door, but...nope, they could not play the scene to each other.

"You know what, guys? When the audience comes to see the play, they know that they're not really in Verona and they know that the swords are pretend...so we have to give them something real. That's the stuff that goes on between the actors. The real stuff you to do. You have to mean it or the play won't work."

They listened quietly to me, shot each other sidelong glances and agreed to try once more for my sake...and...and....

Belinda kneeled, as if on Juliet's balcony, she spread her arms wide and looked right at her Romeo.

My love is as boundless as the sea.
My love as deep. The more I give to thee
The more I have, for both are infinite.

Geoffrey stuck his hand inside his jacket, pulled out a lollipop and handed it to her.

Real stuff. I'm not making this up. Worth the price of admission, wouldn't you say?


CHILDREN'S WRITES: A Journal Entry

What I learned today is that Romeo didn't want the name Romeo Montague because he liked Juliet Capulet and the Montagues and Capulets had war.

The prince said "We must stop this fighting."

The Capulets and the Montagues fighting remines me of my mom and dad.

William Shakespere was telling us about theme because people just can fight and fight until their son or daughter dies.

My character is Juilet. She lives in a castle.

—Belinda, 3rd grade (Year Three)

Recess: Why Do We Do Yoga?

Good question. Why do we do yoga or journal writing or vocal warm-ups or Shakespeare, for that matter....Why do we do anything? Gosh, I'm pooped just thinking about it.

Here's what I look like after a Shakespeare Club meeting:


But I'm way off-topic.

"One time an actor wanted a part very badly. He studied the play, he studied the lines and when he went in for his audition, he was feeling pretty good about his chances...until the director said, 'By the way, there's a point in this play where I would need you to leap from one side of the stage to the other...think you can do that?' "

They love hearing stories of people who can't do stuff.

"What do you think happened?"

"He couldn't do it!"

"Exactly. That actor did not get the part but another actor did...because not only was he a good actor but he could make the leap. He was in shape and he was ready."

"Did the other actor cry?" Darby asks.

"Well, I think he felt bad, but I don't know if he actually cried. Here's the thing: as actors we always want to be able to do what we can imagine our character doing. So, we must be ready. Are you ready?"

"Yes!"

"Warrior One."


"Warrior Two."


"Warrior Three."


"When do we learn Warrior Four, Ms. Ryane?" Belinda asks.

"There's no Warrior Four...it's not like Harry Potter. Anyway, we have to work a little harder at the poses you kind of, sort of, know. Ready?"

"Ready!"