Some kids have it rough. As if trudging through adolescence isn't enough of a struggle, one of my students lost his father in the past year. A handful of years prior, he lost his brother. And last week he was in the hospital himself. My heart breaks for this kid. He is a good kid and I can't help but admire his courage and tenacity already.
And my other students- how they have surrounded him with support and encouragement- they have made me proud in a whole new way. This weekend we put up two shows. One was Midsummer Night's Dream, and the other was a show we wrote with a group of teens a year and a half ago. This student who was in the hospital this week was suppose to be playing the lead in Midsummer and telling his own story in the new show. His absence was persistently obvious and deeply felt.
In the new show there is a scene where all the teens sit on stools and share moments of experiencing loss- from losing a pet hamster, to the loss of not playing childhood games anymore. My absent student had written about his last interaction with his brother. On Saturday, without warning, my students included this reflection in the scene. Before the final monologue, they each recited a line of the absent student's story, and said the final line in unison. It was the most beautiful, reverent show of love I have ever witnessed on stage. Out of a unified desire to honor the absent student, they shared a vulnerable part of his personal story, and they did so respectfully and creatively.
I have never felt so utterly proud.
And my other students- how they have surrounded him with support and encouragement- they have made me proud in a whole new way. This weekend we put up two shows. One was Midsummer Night's Dream, and the other was a show we wrote with a group of teens a year and a half ago. This student who was in the hospital this week was suppose to be playing the lead in Midsummer and telling his own story in the new show. His absence was persistently obvious and deeply felt.
In the new show there is a scene where all the teens sit on stools and share moments of experiencing loss- from losing a pet hamster, to the loss of not playing childhood games anymore. My absent student had written about his last interaction with his brother. On Saturday, without warning, my students included this reflection in the scene. Before the final monologue, they each recited a line of the absent student's story, and said the final line in unison. It was the most beautiful, reverent show of love I have ever witnessed on stage. Out of a unified desire to honor the absent student, they shared a vulnerable part of his personal story, and they did so respectfully and creatively.
I have never felt so utterly proud.
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