My Last Year Teaching

 

    26 July 2024

    I have to return to the building on 31 July for meetings. Students arrive 7 August. This will be year 21.

    There will not be a year 22.

     I have promised myself for my own mental health to set the deadline.

      In the words of Salieri "I'm slowly watching myself become extinct".

      I did everything right. I brought the theatre back: Thescon, Bobby G,  travel to NYC, scholarships, five shows last year---hell, one of my kids won a STATE wide activities award.

       But I can't stop the steady decline in building enrollment.

       I can't stop the revolving door in choir and band.

      I can't stop the change in administration.

       I can't stop the evisceration of performing arts at our only feeder school.

      I can't stop the fact that when you google our building a shooting comes up.

      The principal cut IB theatre.

       Then she cut my mid level classes, leaving me with only beginning and advanced.

       She cut tech theatre.

       And I have to return next week as half time theatre/half time LA12. Leaving me no opportunity to recruit, or bring back IB, or even get a musical mounted.

       So. 

       I am clearly not wanted, so I will go.

       I can't put the energy in if I'm half time, and I will not. There's no point, that building does Not Want Me.

       So I will chronicle the last year of a 21 year teaching "career".

       Assuming I make it to 1 August. It's not looking great.

Theatre is Hard

 

    I'm writing this at 10 am the morning of the closing production. I don't mind naming them, because I have nothing negative to say, and my job is over so they can't fire me. But I am not naming them out of habit or PTSD.

   The last five years have been a very specific kind of hell. I am not alone, and I am not complaining; simply stating. Becuase if you're reading this, you live in the same country that I do and have your own hellscape stories. And while I will give lip service to appreciating the shift in lip service to taking care of one's mental health, the words are as empty as any other spoken to us in recent years. One cannot take care of one's mental health without expensive insurance, or expensive out of pocket appointments and meds. The mere fact that an advertising entity suggests mental health support is available to me, a regular person, when they know it is a lie is causing a mental health issue. I expect insurance companies and the government to lie to me. But now they're using "mental health" to peddle their pharmaceutical fallacies. 

   I do have insurance. I have Kaiser. 'nuff said, eh?

   I have used theatre as therapy my entire life. I tend to rework Tom Hanks' words in A League of Their Own.  "Yes, theatre is hard. It's the hard that makes it great. If it was easy, everyone would do it."  She was always there for me. She got me through high school, college, my twenties, parenting and teaching.

    Well, she was getting me through teaching, but that's another blog.

    After we reopened in 2021, I took every job I could directing and teaching. I stacked them--I would leave rehearsal early at Hinkley to make it to rehearsal at Mines. I worked like that for a solid 13 months.

    And around month four I realized...I didn't feel any better. Worse, my directing was falling away from me, I could feel it running down my arm like shower water, and puddling at my feet where it would evaporate. Gone. Moments, connections, techniques--even  mechanics were leaving me. One college show I actually wrote in my notes "I am sucking at this".

    There is the self preservation part of me that wants to blame a post Covid world. People have foggy brains, mental health struggles and students are afraid to be seen and separated from their phones. Combined, these elements make directing not just "hard" but frequently impossible. I used to drag shows across the finish line on my own; now I draw boundaries. I am no longer the one stitching and building and teaching and designing. It it fails, it's not on me. I hate it, and I hate that kids will allow it to fail. So that's a hit to one's mental health.

   Which is why I took the gig to direct Gilbert and Sullivan with a community theatre this summer. High school theatre has become impossible--there's more to that story but everyone's tired of hearing me bitch about admin--so maybe community theatre  would be better.

    I did not have to stitch or build. I did do a basic design, and had to teach a bit. From that perspective, it was better. The actors were all adults. They all want to be there. On the surface, this experience should have renewed my faith.

   It did not.

   This group of people are all heart, positive and dedicated. Yet I was a grumpy dick. I wanted to work at the level I had been used to ten years ago, only to be faced with the fact that that level doesn't exist in community theatre. Instead of doing what I used to--finding a way around it, making connections and building community--I wielded theatre like a scepter and whacked people with it. I hope you are appalled reading this; I am appalled writing it. This approach made my mental health even worse, and now I have guilt mixed in. I was punishing actors with theatre instead of building them up. And I knew it, and came home angry after each rehearsal. Great. I'm fine, it's fine, stop looking at me I'm fine.

    This is not who I am.

    The mental health hits, three known bouts of Covid and fights with admin have left my brain disconnected as well. I have to take notes and send rehearsal reports via email, I can't give them live, my brain won't form the words. I've tried to return to being the funny/sardonic director in the booth, and the same turrets- esque verbal salad is happening. Maybe it's early onset dementia. Maybe it's stress. Maybe it's Maybelline. Whatever it is, I can't verbally communicate the way I used to, and I'm forgetting what I did or said five days ago. In June I pledged to walk every day, I  missed one day and completely forgot about it. I told this cast I'm glitchy due to the motorcycle accident almost ten years ago---which is somewhat accurate, that's when it started---but I don't believe it. The bike wreck rung my bell and disconnected irreparable synapses, but that is not the only issue. I've been told I suck by administrators for so long now that I not only believe it, but I'm living it. I suck at this.

    And so...in conclusion, all in all, to sum up, I'm done. 

    Theatre is hard.

    Too hard for me.

    Immma buy a llama and live in Delta and talk to no one.

    Scene.

Today's Contemplation-Commutes

 

    17 July 2024

    I had no idea that my commute was contributing to the decline in my mental health until this week. It's not the distance -between 28 or 34 miles depending on which direction you travel via my google map. I originally thought that was part of it, and it likely is. I refuse to drive I70 from Lakewood to Aurora due to the increasing number of commuters driving over 90 miles and hour and the decreasing--arguably absent--presence of police. The anxiety this combination creates has arguably caused a cornucopia of mental health issues.

    This summer, I have been subbing at what I call The Pony Preschool in Arvada. As suggested, the preschool farm houses five ponies, two goats and a pig. The children are treated to daily pony rides. I signed up for this because my mental health has deteriorated at an alarming rate, and the show I picked up to direct and keep me sane this summer is not working as it should. I hoped to cleanse my palate by engaging outside of the public school system, with an independent business owner who had chosen preschool and seemed like a good person.

    The choice was perfect. While the work is exhausting on my 58 year old arthritis ridden frame, my cognitive issues have quieted. I load 18 preschoolers on and off of ponies for thirty minutes of my day and my brain stops screaming. I delight in preschool speak. A very quick sampling:

         Me:  

        Yep, you have to pull your unders all the way up after you go potty, or your shorts get bunched up.

            I'm not the boss of  your water bottle.

            Please stop touching your brother.

            Do I look like a trash can?

            Is one googley eye and one paper eye OK?

        The Kids:

            Water is good, it tastes great and is good for us. Not like spiders.

            That is my oldest parent. (It was his grandpa)

            Which sister are you? ( My sister Karie and I work together, and look way too  much alike).

            Do you like my drawing?

        I have also encountered the true meaning of leadership while at the Pony Preschool. In my building, there is a lot of finger pointing and buck  passing because nobody is leading.  The director of this preschool, who had at least 10 teachers in the building at the time, walked down to the horse trough to retrieve a dead mouse. I can think of many reasons that is not her job,and only one reason that is is: her school, her responsibility. The move impressed me.

    That's all well and good, but it is not the thesis stated in my first paragraph.

    My commute during the school year is Lakewood to Aurora. Whether I choose I 70 or not, I pass a lot of homeless folks. A Lot. There  are encampments, solos, duets, folks by the hospital sleeping in a wheelchair, or under a shopping cart--which was am impressive demonstration of  flexibility as I watched them unfold from under the cart.

    My commute the last few weeks has been from Lakewood-Green Mountain, specifically- to  Arvada. West Arvada, specifically.  Specifically, 74th and Quaker. So the west edge of Arvada. I drive 6th to 93, and turn left on 64th. And I see...trees. Sky. Small businesses. School of Mines. More trees. Quiet neighborhoods. Trees. Tree lined streets. Sunshine. Commuters enjoying their own drive and not exceeding the speed limit.

    Know what I do not see? Homeless folks.

    It wasn't until this commute that I realized part of my commute misery is what I see along the way. I arrive at work during the school year not just physically tired, but psychologically exhausted by what I've witnessed on my drive in. I drive 50 minutes to arrive feeling like I've already worked all day. By exquisite contrast, I arrive at the Pony School feeling uplifted. Positive. Smiling.

    Smiling.

    Knowing I have a lovely return commute home keeps me buoyed as I schlep Biddle Bops on and off of ponies, glue colored cupcake holders to tongue depressors and escort the boy line to and from the potty and handwashing five times in three hours.

    And that's really all I wanted to share today. Your commute is tied to your mental health. Sorry if you already knew that, I'm frequently late to the party.

    Thank you for reading.

July Drivel

 

I've taken to writing bullet points. Thank you for indulging this lazy writing. It was 102 degrees yesterday, that's a good excuse for lackadaisical journaling. Scattered and out of order, like my brain. It's fine I'm fine stop looking at me.

* As of yesterday, 38 people have quit the building. I am not one of them, unfortunately.

* The Gondoliers opens next Friday. Today is sitzprobe and I am not there. Because I made other plans. Because I have a headache and  why do I need to be at sitzprobe, it's an orchestra rehearsal. And I am a pill. Mostly I am a pill. And fat. But that's another bullet point.

*I am picking up sub days at a pony school. It's physically more rough than I'm used to cause it's preschool and there's no where to sit. Hilarity ensues for the fat old woman leaning against the cubby shelves like Tippi Hedrin taking a filming break in her hobble skirt. Except I'm wearing a jumper and arthritis shoes. HA!

* It is  not a school for ponies, it is a preschool for human children that has ponies. And two  goats and a pig named Piggie Alan Poe. Which these children take for granted to the point that they will pass on their pony ride for the day. They "don't feel like it". Are You Kidding Me? If I was four years old and attended this camp or school, you'd never get me off of the ponies. I don't care how hot it is. Bring it bitches, I'm riding a pony. 

* And the reason I chose to pick up sub days at the pony school is that by July, I was on season 6 of DEXTER and it started to suck. May as well work. 

* Speaking of sucking, I am doing just that at directing this summer. I'm so stubborn, clearly both education and theatre are done with me, but I refuse to leave. Mostly because theatre and education pay my mortgage. Happy to go if something else falls from the sky. Everything gets solved if an asteroid falls on my head.

*Segue to asteroids. Last year, at some point, the news said  there was an asteroid or meteor or space junk that was passing close to earth. It was going to split up and possibly chunks would fall to earth. At 5.30 pm. So I left rehearsal and stood by my car at 5.30 pm, hoping to be beaned by a space rock. My stage manager, who was waiting for his dad to pick him up, asked what I was doing. I told him. "I'm waiting to get smashed by an asteroid." He looked at me with a side eye. I didn't laugh or let him off the hook. I simply stood by my car looking at the sky. He got into his dad's car and they drove away. He watched me through his car window as one does a wounded animal who may or may not make it across the road. When I was not mushed by a meteor, I got into my car and went home. Maybe next time.

* Somatic yoga is a thing. It is supposed to help us plus sizers strengthen our weakened scaffolding, and "release trauma". Many women are shown sobbing on their yoga mat in these advertisements. I did not sob, and I also only did about ten minutes a day. So instead of the full trauma release howl, I'm just experiencing  low level depression all day, every day. I don't want to do anything except binge Dexter. I venture outside once a day hoping for an asteroid, so it's a step above my usual malaise, so I know it's working. 10/10 recommend.

*Texas has ammunition in vending machines. In grocery stores. Buena Vista Colorado has one too. That's all. Just thought I'd mention that.

* Sometimes you spend your vacation money on fixing your fence and deck. Sometimes you spend it on groceries. What a great time to be alive!

*A preschooler asked my name. I blanked. I asked their name, hoping for a clue. It was "Bodhi". That did not help me, so I said to call me Bananaface. He  told  me I was silly and walked away. How do we forget with age how to do that? To just shrug and walk away.

* My cat Houston has been on the dining room chair for two days. She is alive. She is shedding. She is hot and not interested in moving. Good for her, making choices for herself.

* I lost my bifocals, and my old prescription is just off enough to make a true comedy of me both  writing rehearsal notes and reading them aloud to actors.

* My WW key is sticking. Must be done.

              SCENE