First Day of School

 Today is the first day of school for my students in Oaxaca. I miss them today and regret that I am missing another school year with them.

I think of how, when I went to my friend Kath’s dance recital at the beginning of the summer, the director of the dance school stood up and told the kids how proud she was of them, and told the teachers how well they had done. She had broken her foot mid-season, and they had to carry on without her, and those teachers made it all happen. Kath and the other three moms choreographed their own dance and performed it for hundreds of people. I’d be proud, too.

I think of how the Shakespeare play I had planned to do with my OCS students at the end of last school year had to be canceled when I couldn’t go back. We were going to attempt Henry IV, Part I, our first history play. Every year for the past six years, I’ve done a play with all my 7^th through 10^th graders, some 24 of them last year. I divide the play into two parts, because I only rehearse with two grades at a time, 7-8 or 9-10, and then I pull the whole play together just in the last week before the performance.  I do the play right at the end of the year, because even though it makes scheduling a nightmare with all the grad activities coming up, English class goes out with a bang. It’s an end-of-year memory-maker. Last year I had them all perfectly cast, and had all their scripts printed out, and had their props figured out, including bright yellow hose for Ryan, who was supposed to be Falstaff, when I found out I was moving to Oz. The teacher who graciously took over for me last minute had to cancel the play, of course. But I couldn’t help feeling sad because I knew what the play does for the kids. It makes them work hard, push for excellence, and be creative and responsible, and maybe best of all, it pulls all of us together as a team. In years past, when they came out at the end of the play for the final bow, I was just bursting with pride. It was always the emotional high of the year. There is nothing like it. My great adventure with cancer just doesn’t compare (heavy sarcasm).

The last play we performed was The Tempest on the school’s two-leveled play structure. We called it Shakespeare’s Playground. Isn’t that cute? The kids worked hard. They would tell me how many lines they could handle, and I would try to match their roles with what they could do. They would surprise me. There was JD, who never got his lines right but paraphrased them in a JD way and made us all laugh. There was Noemi, the sprite Ariel, who was so busy flitting around and jumping off benches and climbing ladders (as she was supposed to do), that she had to stop and catch her breath before she could get her lines out. There was Anna as Prospero, who had way too many lines but assured me she could handle it, and of course nailed them all, every time. There was Niclas, who was the evil Caliban, and who plastered his face with mud, and made evil, scary noises, and came out stomping on bugs and banging firewood everywhere to show how evil he was, all the while keeping the sound system going, which was playing, “I’m having a really bad day.” Every last one of my kids made the play work. Every last one. Even Joel. Who said he wanted no lines at all, but still hauled sails, and still yelled, “Heave ho” with a will.

When you work at something good together, really putting your back into the thing and making people glad of it when you are done, no matter what it is, God is glad.  He designed us to love good work and excellent service. He calls us to it. He blesses it. And just as God is there when doctors and nurses are competent, and when moms dance grace, and baby angels try, I think he is there, too, on that school playground, clapping with everyone else, when 19 nervous kids and one proud English teacher attempt 45 minutes of Shakespeare’s Tempest together--and get it. I miss this.