60 Years Are Too Many: Racism, District PD's and Preschoolers

 15 June

    No one of taste needs to repeat what was said last night after the UFC fight.

    No one of intellect is surprised.

    Which is why it is heartbreaking.

    Also he's now investigating Gavin Newsom.

    I hate it here.

    Which is why I guess I am grateful  that the district PD I have been assigned has gone sideways, causing a New And Exciting Distraction. 

    All who know me know the motorcycle accident in 2015 seriously snapped my brain synapses. Like permanently. They do not reattach after the age of 50. So since then, the brain fog, in ability to remember names ---I'm  a TEACHER---or names of a thing I'm looking at, let alone lines, is frustrating. I'm not old, this is not because I'm 60. It's because I wrecked my motocycle and landed head first, skidding 30 feet on the left side of my body. That's also why I have a limp, but I digress.

    The point is that things like reading comprehension have become a struggle bus.

    I've adapted, but this particular PD was a bitch.

    It's The Latest And Greatest manifesto on forcing culturally responsive equality in the classroom.

    Because nobody is teaching equitably, I guess. Or some suits at the district without real job descriptions got jumpy and needed something to do.

    It's hours of video and journaling and reading and all saying The Same Thing that everyone already knows. Kids Learn Differently, So Adapt.

    I know. Shocking.

    Their culture, language, religion, history all inform how they learn. 

    So does their emotional state, autism, Down Syndrome, disabilities, Tik Tok and Snapchat addictions.

    After wasting hours of my life I will never get back, I lerned my mistake was to lead my answers with MI/S kids -special needs-and ELL-English Language Learners. Because it seemed to me, the whole thing was about inclusion, and those populations are the two I have the largest number of, so I led with them and how I include them.

    I submitted my answers,and was chastized for focusing on only MI/S adaptations. The grader's tone was "That's nice, but there are other kids."

    OK, so I rewrote my answer to include ELL.

    Again, I Did Not Pass the class. She wants me to be more ...wordy...about All Kids. This time she said not to include MI/S or ELL. Talk about all kids and how I teach in a culturally responsive way. Because, as she pointed out, there's a lot of culture in theatre...

    I had no idea. Really? 

    And how come I'm not forcing kids to talk about social injustice? She was really hot on social injustice. 

    Ummmm...because it's not in my content to force the issue? It comes up naturally in scene work and play reading later, but stage combat is taught the third week of class. Which is where my Spanish speakers create scenes about being pulled over by the police, police brutality and ICE. Isn't that a social injustice issue? We don't TALK about it, and I do not PLAN for it. It's not my lesson plan, and no, I'm not going to create a lesson plan about it just because they shared their personal experiences. Want to know why?

    I Am Not A Counselor. I am not qualified, it is not my job.

    I have been give one slide per question to use as my answer. In some cases, there are three parts to the answer, all on one slide. And I'm supposed to choose one unit, which I decided was stage combat.

    I was being precise and to the point, but that was wrong.

    I expanded the second time, but that was also wrong.

    So I added slides and literally took every vocab word they gave me and added What I Do To Support That Word in class, which sounded very much like I teach everybody and do not differentiate for anyone. 

    So I'm quite pissed at this point, largely because I read the questions and I answered them deliberately pointing out how flexible theatre is, only to be told I don't force kids to talk about their personal lives enough.

    By the time I got to the third edit, I knew I wasn't "doing it right', but she kept telling me I was vague and wanting me to add "social injustice" when I do not do lessons on social injustice.

    I came home today exhausted. I've written five pages of responses that had to be edited to three slides---to which I added two more---and I know I Did Not Pass. Because I cannot grasp what it is I'm being asked to do. If I understood, I'd just make something up. But I can't make up that I deliberately create lessons about domestic abuse because a kid is abused and created a scene about the abuse. That's for counseling to deal with, not for me to dig farther.

    I have been teaching theatre for 23 years. I teach Spanish speakers, Swahili,  Tongan, Maori and Chinese speakers. I teach LGBTQ kids, black kids, brown kids, autistic kids, kids in wheelchairs, blind kids, severe needs kids. I teach them all equally, I adapt to each one and I can't pass a class on culturally responsive teaching because I do not use their personal lives directly in my lesson plans, or force them to talk about social injustice?

    I call Bullshit, Hal.

    I just spent a week struggling with feedback that was supposed to be precise but kept telling ME I was vague. I wasn't vague, you just don't want to know what I do for my kids.  I wasn't vague, I told you specifically how I adapt to get MI/S kids on stage and involved, and how I communicate with MLL kids. I  wrote in paragraphs, and then in bullet points that had to be edited down for the slide but was not In Depth Enough. I went back to the slideshow class to pull specific vocab to attach to What I Do and I have concluded that if I don't pass, and somehow this effects my employment, then my employment ends here.

    I repeat this mantra constantly: If you wanna know how I teach, come watch me teach.

    We in the performing arts do All Of The Things---adapt, differentiate, counsel, feed, listen support, lather, rinse repeat---but we do not base our lessons on these things. We still have to teach our content. Music is music. Words are words. We can discuss how they impact you, but a lesson on Why Mozart Is Just Like You is not a real thing. I have way too much PTSD about the plays I taught in Litteton being "triggers" for the kids, I will not be forcing personal issues  into a lesson plan. I supposed I could say I teach Fences to every class, but I don't. Ugh. What Do They Want?

    I can't even lie and make something up that fits what they want, because as soon as I think I know, I go back and read the feedback and I'm not creating lessons to specifically reflect a kid's personal life. I think I know what they mean, and it's not authentic. Teach Fences for the one black kid in class. There are no spanish plays that I am aware of that are appropriate for high school students. I think I know what they mean---let the autistic kid tell his story in a scene with non autistic kids--but, that assumes that they want to.

    I did write a version of this: they tell their stories in scenes. I force nothing, I'm just there to allow it to happen and teach them how to structure a story and project. They give feedback in a circle, and share their lives and cultures in two speeches in the fall.

    If I'm not mistaken, and clearly I am---re: snapped synapses---they want me to forcibly ask a kid about their personal life and then build an entire lesson around that kid's experiences. I can't even lie about doing that because I can tell you right now it would fail. They have to reveal in their own time. They have to trust the class and trust me. I get it---I've had kids from Kazitstan and Moldovia do speeches about their countries. But I didn't then do an entire lesson on the theatre of their country. I didn't see that it was necessary. It means more to them to share it and have it recieved--and then have a scene partner suggest their culture or personal life is included in the scene. It's about them connecting, not me forcing the connection.

    I get it-force the white kids to learn about the other kids. I do show and tell in high school for precisely this reason.

    I disagree that I should then build an entire lesson on each diverse student's culture. That's not inclusive, that's intrusive.

    I could lie. I could make something up.

    I don't want to. 

    If this is where culturally resposive teaching and equity is going, I'm out.

     I don't know where I'd go, because preschool is not my jam. At least summer camp. It's too many kids with limited ability to communicate their legion needs.

    It wasn't even that hot today and I'm wiped out. The late bloomer talkers are also wanderers and have no interest in doing what the other kids are doing.

    I dunno man...we'll see. I clearly am not understanding the assignment.

    Scene.

60 Years Are Too Many: Politics and Pony School

 

    11 June 2026

        Tomorrow is my dad's "heavenly" birthday.

        I see that UFC on the White House lawn is going Thunderdome.

        Medicaid and social security are now "entitlements" according to Mike Johnson.

        Voter rolls are being purged, but I-A Colorado Female-received my primary voting ballot in the mail. I am mailing it today.

        I exploded a severely overpressured bag of vanilla wafers all over the Cracker Jack room in front of eighteen under five year old Bears.

        I told a four year old to suck it up when it became clear she was maniuplating my teaching assistant by playing helpless and I intervened. Nope. Not on my watch.

        I feel every second of 80 years old at 11 am daily. Walking on uneven ground and standing for three hours-even at 30 I would have struggled. The three summers I've worked at the pony school I've noticed. I'm on my feet all day teaching and directing at the high school, but I'm moving. I can sit down in an adult sized chair if I want. Literally preschool is standing in one area helping with craft, then standing waiting for potty and handwashing, standing on the playground (concrete or gravel), standing at science (uneven ground) the barn (uneven) the field (uneven). Every year I'm exhausted and say "remember not to do that again" and yet I do. Because money.

        I need to commit to spelling out or using numbers. What's the rule again? Spell out one through nine and use numbers for double didgits? Did I make that up or is it real? Also, how do you spell didgit? Didgit? It doesn't look right. Because it isn't! Digit? I have always added the second "D" but I could not tell you why.

        Also I have a sudden need to own my car. I'll have to double payments, but if I do I can pay it off by December.

        I am going to do the same math with the house. It has been tugging at me for two years, and now it's unrelenting. Need to own car and house.

        Why is Trump so determined to destroy Iran? At the cost of our own economy and lives. Admittedly I've always been a fan of leaving the middle east alone unless they Do Something To Us directly. He started this, and I have no idea why. Even if they did have a nuke--which I guess they could?---it can't reach us. We're being run by a bully and his toxic hypermasculine, racist sychophants. Because that's who America Has Always Been. Not George Carlin-George Bush. Not Mr. Rogers-Mr. Reagan. Entitled trolls who want revenge for not being chosen for kickball.

        Dogs want out again. I need to locate a fourth pair of shoes for today. Nothing is working, and I'm arriving home barely able to walk. 

        Because...I'm 60.

        Scene.

60 Years Are Too Many: Pony School

 

    9 June 2026

    I just typed the date and realized my dad's birthday is this weekend. Which explains why facebook popped the memory of us in Genoa spreading his ashes. 

    Duly Noted: Post Forthcoming

    So first two days of pony school, let's set it up.

    Summer camp is three weeks in June and three weeks in July. Pony rides, crafts, science, copious amounts of outdoor play time, petting goats and a grunty pig with at least one water day---A Big Deal, a castle water feature and general spraying shenannegins. They also have in house field trips; IE the aquarium sends a volunteer to teach the kids about the ocean with shark teeth as a prop, or the Arvada fire department, or the bread maker-neither of whom have the cool shark teeth but still, super cool.

    The sessions are 8 am -11 am and noon to 3 pm four days a week (Fridays off). There are four classrooms. The regular campers are age 3-5, and the Mustangs (the pony kids) are 6-10. At least in theory, I think the oldest last year was eight. Mathmatically, there can be eighty kids in the camp at one time, but I find that to be an insane posit. Generally the Mustangs are a small group of four to six kids, and the three camper classes are about 15 kids each. There is one teacher and an assistant in each class, with additional staff to manage science,snack and craft. There is no indepenent lesson planning: it's summer camp. It's all planned, teachers just show up and wrangle kids. Sounds great, huh?

    This is my third summer at the school. In 2024 I dipped in to sub. I was not the lead teacher, I was just helping out. My sister works there full time -she is my contact. It was fine, I just followed the lead teacher (who was my sister) and did what I was told. I monitored potty breaks, handwashing, cleaned the tables three times (at least) each session and lifted  children onto the ponies. There was one spectrum kid who needed one -on-one and I was The One. I liked the drive a Whole Very Lot, as I was still at Hinkley and driving through an honest-to-god Aurora shit show daily to arrive at a building that was also an Aurora shit show. So driving from Lakewood to Arvada along highway 93 to help preschool children ride ponies and create crafts was like heaven. Fresh air, no traffic, no homeless encampment and only thirty minutes. I was almost as excited about the drive as I was the job. That drive helped me solidify my need to leave Hinkley. Which I did.

     Last year they asked if I would be the pony wrangler. Duh. Yes, please. I was as "full time" as one can be at camp, with  both AM and PM classes, both very small. I think I had seven kids in the morning sessions and five in the afternoons. Great kids, really happy to be there and excited to work with the ponies. 

      This year the director called to ask if I could "help out". I assumed she meant with the ponies, but she said she actually needed an AM lead teacher. For preschool.

      I'll let you think about that.

      I am not the person I would call to work in preschool. Firstly, I cannot cuss at them. Secondly, I cannot cuss at them. But I'm a nice guy and I do love the pony school, so I said sure. Then she asked if I'd also do two PM days a week with the Mustangs. Sure. I'm happy to help and dang I do love those ponies. How hard can preschool be? I saw it when I was wrangling the ponies, and I subbed. I also raised two children. It should be second nature. I've been teaching high school for twenty three years. I can do this. Right?

       Today was day two and here are the things I have to say:

       I am not a preschool teacher.

       Even in a pony school camp. I am only AM, and have different kids M/W and T/TH. I have eighteen kids under the age of five in each class. Just me and my delightful twenty year old, blue haired assistant who is learning as she goes. She was a barista, no preschool experience. Well...I'll leave that decision to your discernment. One could argue working with the public as a barista is akin to wrangling preschoolers.

      The AM Mustang teacher asked me on Monday if I was married to doing the afternoon two days a week. I said "I thought she needed the help, I'm not married to anything." Turns out this beautiful person, a teacher during the regular school year at the pony school, had meant to take the summer off. Because teaching preschool is hard and she wanted a break. But then finances dictated differently, and she agreed to be the part time pony wrangler, then sat down again with a budget. Long story short (Too Late)I happily gave her my two days so she can feed herself, and tried not to let on how delighted I was to let it go. Last summer was great---the first summer I didn't direct a summer pop up---but physically exhausting. I'm much older now---I'm SIXTY if you missed it---and I don't think I could have done preschool mornings with pony afternoons. 

    I have eighteen kids in each class. Here's Tuesday's breakdown:

        * Four children aged three have never been outside of their house. No social skills, no concept of paying attention to their surroundings. They each should have their own attendant because they wander off, toddle away- quietly tunneling under the barn in search of a barn cat an older child told them existed, or following children in another class onto the wrong playground, or back into the building, or trying to get into the goat pen-or walk around trailing a jump rope behind them and paying no heed to "girls" bathroom and "boys" bathroom.  Me too friend, but for a different reason.

        * Two children are definitely spectrum even though they are four years old. Which just means additional support is needed from myself and my lovely assistant.

        *Two children (a different two) have speech delays and cannot be understood. They are sweet, engaged, positive and chatty. I just have no idea what they are saying.

        * One of the four "newbies" to preschool cried  95% of the morning.

        * One other newbie got her underwear wet under her dress on the slide. We'd been outside for five minutes. It took ten minutes to change her and we had to write up an incident report.

    You are smart people who read the first paragraph. There are two adults in this classroom with these kids.

    So after two days, I have declared this entire experiment Not Sustainable and made sure the director was aware. One of the other spectrum kids in another class had a full meltdown after he was stopped from throwing rocks at the cars waiting to pick up kids. I watched one of the new teachers try to get him to sit in a chair, he was all arms and legs and screaming and her face let me know that while she may be new to this preschool, she is not new to preschool. I had to walk The Weeper (the one who cried most of the morning) directly past The Rock Throwing Consequences to get to the pickup line. She stopped cold and stared at them, I had to practically pick her up to move her along.     

    I am grateful that the other teacher wanted to take all the Mustang classes. Those kids are clearly about as young as I can manage, but after two days, we can reasonably conclude that I Am Not A Preschool Teacher, and doing AM preschool and then ponies may have been a Bridge Too Far. Dude. I don't have time to look at everyone's craft and oooh and ahhhh at your skill because I'm trying to help everyone create their craft and direct those done early to get out puzzles only, no toys, no don't go outside, no you can't go to the bathroom alone, no we're not going outside yet, please put this on the drying rack, thank you for helping, please put your backpack back in your cubby, no you can't take your babies outside with you they'll get lost, cry all you want the answer is still no, yes I know you want your mom...etcetera etcetera etcetera ad nauseam.

      I am not judging anyone but myself. Three year olds have to learn somewhere, that's valid. A summer pony school camp sounds like a great way to get them socialized. It actually is.

     It's just not my jam. Not my ice cream flavor. I like the ponies and I like the older kids who want to wrangle the ponies. Just like I only like high schoolers who like theatre. Same thing.

    And these aren't behaviors. The kid throwing rocks at the cars is a behavior, and a different kid was doing the same thing last summer. Been there, done that.

     These kids are just new. They're new humans. If they see a bunny, they run after it regardless of the terrain. If they don't want to paint they don't want to paint. The Little Weeper wouldn't go into the barn because it was too scary. Which is great when ten of them are already in the barn and seven are outside the barn playing on bouncey balls and she's clutching your hand refusing to move in any direction. Or when one of them needs artistic affirmation or to tally the number of cats in their household, all of them must speak up simultaneously to contribute, while the dog owners discover they must speak louder to be heard. My high school voice does not change for preschool or even the elementary pony wranglers, and I sound mean. I'm told that is why they like me...unsure how that makes sense.

    Luckily,  I am never shy to ask for help, and today I sat down after class with the office manager and said "I know she (the director) loves feedback. Are you ready?" 

     She was ready.

    Turns out it was pretty obvious things were not going well. The part time office/craft person and other part time office/floater person will be around Thursday to help wrangle my T/Th class, as it was evident building wide that the balance was off and it had nothing to do with my classroom management. It's like the class balances in high school, all the behaviors always end up in the same class. How did all of the New To Preschool kids end up in my class?

     All in all, to sum up, in conclusion: the last two days have been a rough week.

        

    My coffee mug---featured in the blog outside/inside, my pink pony club hat--which I think one of my children bought as a child in Steamboat--posed with a gifted "gem". The "gems" are scattered over the playground for the kids to mine and discover. 

60 Years Are Too Many: Buena Vista

      5 June 2026

        Jim and I generally get out of the house at least once a year, on our anniversary. Or therabouts, depending on school calendars.  Sometimes twice a year, birthdays and anniversary.

        Usually we just do an overnight within an hour's drive. But this year, we went to Buena Vista. We've never been to Buena Vista before, but a new hotel opened who does business with Jim's company.

        So it was an excuse. Or a reason.

        Colorado mountain towns all look pretty much the same. Even the infected tourist traps like Breck and Steamboat have a similar footprint. It was just blown apart by commerce.

        So it was no surprise when we arrived at the outskirts of Buena Vista to find a few small, old ranches, a dilapidated hotel and a Dollar Store.  It could have been outside of Ouray, or Delta, or Durango or Trinidad.     

        Main Street contained six coffee shops and two or three bakeries (that I counted). Super cute mountain town. Every town has the abandoned movie theatre still standing with their dusty marquee. This one is The Pearl. It may be under renovations currently, it may have stalled out while being renovated, but it is not open. 

        There is still a brew pub up there, Eddyline, who have their brewery and pub on the west outskirts of town---it's great, they have a giant grain processor---and also pizza and burgers. Then they have a restaurant on the south end of Main Street that does not have pizza, but they do have burgers and their brew. I mention this because it seems brew pubs have been closing rapidly in Colorado over the last few years. It's also possible that there are still plenty of them, breweries and pubs, and we just don't go to them any more. When Great Frontier sold to Old 121 we stopped patroniziing all pubs. I would love to say why, but it is less likely that we stopped because I screamed about mergers and more likely that the timing just matched up with us being over brew pubs.

        The proprieter at Eddyline sufficiently skunk faced me when I asked if they had Coors Light. I'd just gotten off of the electric bike and wasn't truly firing on all cylinders. I knew where I was, I knew they didn't have Coors Light. I am unsure if some dark nugget in my brain sent a message that said "Be funny, ask for Coors" and I didn't process but instead just spoke, or I just honestly wondered. Either way, he responded appropriately and I didn't indicate that I was kidding. It was fine. He asked a few minutes later if he'd responded appropriately, giving me a chance to pretend I had set him up and let him off the hook. I just said "Yep, that was solid".

        Jim rented two electric bikes for a few hours. We bought one for Genoa at Christmas--a smaller version --it is very light,folds, and works getting them to work and back. These were nothing like that. They weighed 75 pounds each. All of the controls on the handlbars are black. I struggled. They're also tall and my knees do not fully bend, and my hip freezes and my thumbs don't work and my eyes have always been a struggle. Not just because I'm 60---it's the mileage, not the years.

        I thought about Writing A Whole Thing about the electric bikes but bullet points are best.

        *Why do they make controls black on black? Even at 23 I couldn't see how to control anything like that.

        *I am 60. It's been a minute since I mentioned that. Due to my unfamiliairity with the bike and the physical exhertion that caused a pounding headache as I actually pedaled uphill, I did not enjoy the first part of the ride. In fact, I stopped fully thinking I was having a heart attack.

        * I switched bikes with Jim, who understood how it worked but did not show me. But as soon as I pulled over, the throttle turned itself off, and there I was again pedaling. 

        * A mile or so later, after abandoning the canyon road trail, we tooled through town and Jim was able to show me where my throttle was. That's when it clicked that it was turning off every time I stopped. Electric bikes are a lot more fun when the electric part is engaged. Otherwise you're just pumping  pedals on 75 pounds of metal.

        * When we returned, the proprieter checked the bike and said I had pedaled 93 percent of the time.

        We walked from the bike rental to the pub, sat at the bar and I asked if they had Coors Light.

        Scene.

        

60 Years Are Too Many: 2025-2026 Theatre Postcards.

 

    3 June 2026

        A few outstanding moments from this school year, downloading from my brain between jobs.

                                                   * Dishes

        We rehearsed Mamma Mia during choir classes. That was the only way to get the show up, I had to literally kidnap three choirs. Good thing the choir teacher agreed. Or maybe it was her idea. It probably was. I think it was her idea.

        So one tech week day in second period, we had nothing to really clean up vocally or with choreo as a group. I worked with one or two actors, and then we sat around the blue table. It used to be the black table we sat around for Odd Couple. Once it was brought on stage it stayed all year. Anyway, I said "If you're bored, we need to do dishes".  

        I'm used to having to teach kids skills that are unfamilair: I'm teaching theatre. But also things like dialing a rotary phone and rolling paper into a typewriter. Generational stuff. However, on this day, I discovered Not All Kids know how to do dishes.

        Two girls were voluntold, one tall, one short-perfect comic duo. They were supposed to simply wash the plastic glassware. There is a paint sink in the shop, and a bottle of blue Ajax dish soap, and a dish cloth and paper towels sitting right on the counter next to the faucet.

        First, they loaded the tray of glasses back to the shop. One returned. "What do I wash them with?"

        "The dish soap on the sink."

        She exits.

        She returns, holding the blue bottle of Ajax dish soap.

        "This?" she asks. She then pronounces is "AH-Jax".

        There is much laughter.

        She exits.

        She returns with her partner behind, holding a tray with wet glasses.

        "You washed them?"

        " Yes."

        "With what?"

        "Water."

        "What about the AH JAX?"

        "Um....we were supposed to use that too?"

        We wave them away.

        The same one returns. "Do we have like paper towels?"

        "Yes, they're on the edge of the sink. So is the dish towel we're using. For the glasses only, nothing else."

        One returns with the glasses.  They are still wet. "Did you dry them?"

        Blank look.

        "Did you wash with the towel and soap around the rims?"

         Blank look.

        "That's where the germs are. Do it again."

        One of the boys at the table can barely contain himself. "I do dishes, I vacuum, I have chores. What is going on?"
           

         The taller girl reenters holding the dish soap in one hand and the dish cloth in the other.

         "I have chores. I vacuum. I do the dishes, they're in a machine. I put them in the dishwasher. Nobody washes dishes like this, why would I know how?"

        "I know how," replies the boy, smiling.

          The choir teacher cannot, at this point, even remotely keep it together. She's been laughing since the first re-entry. I have a prop crew chief who would have washed the dishes during sixth period. It's his job. But we were trying to keep choir kids engaged. So I got to say it:

        "Never send a choir kid to do a techie's job".

             

                                               * Forgetting Lines

        This is generational. All kids struggle with lines, however this group has had their frontal lobes impacted by phones and chrome books, tik tok and snapchat, AI and texting. Their attention span is the length of a tik tok. I do make them read entire plays aloud in class---and when forced, they do it and they actually seem to enjoy it--which is only one small step.

        How do you learn lines when your attention span is thirty seconds?

        I don't have an answer. But I do have a story about what happens when they go up on their lines.

        They panic.

        There isn't any awareness of "This is my job, how embarassing that I've forgotten", it's "OK, stop, wait, I'll remember, hold on...." That was fun. So I spent most of Odd Couple teaching baseline skills-which was expected. I expected to do this, the theatre has been dark for years. What I didn't expect was the complete lack of self awareness on stage. Going up on my lines in front of an audience is a nightmare. Christopher Durang wrote a whole play about it, and these kids expect everyone to wait while they think of it.

        We do improv in class to prevent this, but remember this is their first acting class, ever, and their first show, ever, so we had a lot of obstacles.

        Then the opposite happened with a choir kid on the musical. When she went up on her lyrics, she broke down crying.

        There is a middle ground there, guys: it's called improv.

        So after getting two shows mounted this year---according to faculty, Chalk Beat and the Denver Post we're talking a decade since the last musical--I now have a few kids who know how to do this. Only two of which can get Theatre 3 in their scheule next year, so we have to do the musical after school. With new kids, not in class. Lather, Rinse, Repeat.

                            * learning to manage different personalities

            Doing both shows this year was very much like my father described being "taught" to swim in the navy.

            They threw you overboard, and if you did not drown, you were in the navy.

            My kids in theatre class and the choir kids have had exposure to dealing with different personalites.  Even though there are moments when I have to say "That's just L", there are other moments when I have to intervene. Like when a kid tells another kid to their face that they aren't dedicated enough to be president of Thespians. I lit him up pretty fast. This is the same kid who literally bossed the choir teacher off the stage when she was fixing notes with the cast because he wanted to start a set change. Nope. Sorry buddy. 

            I've worked with plenty of spectrum kids, and as we know I have an actual Peer to Peer theatre, which is essentially Unified Theatre. I can read the difference between "different brain processing" and "learned asshole". His was the later category, and while everyone did their best to deal with it, it was still a struggle. 

            It'd be fine if I wasn't building everything from scratch and running low on patience as I have to scaffold every tech and actor moment. I became a micromanager, which I hate. I like to build collaboratives--which I am doing, I just have to micromanage the behaviors and safety and design and "how to talk to actors" and "how to talk to tech" and "we're all working on the same show stop being butt hurt" first.

            "L" left his post at the traveler because he had screwed up a previous set change. He literally disappeared and nobody could find him. Total brain lock meltdown.

            "A" told ensemble members they were kicked out of the show for not attending reheasals. Neither myself or the choir director said any such thing.

            "S" missed an entrance because she was in the parking lot sobbing. She had a toothache and was tired.

            That is not a complete list, believe me. Multiply that by eighteen kids. We had five that were pretty solid, but even they started to crack.

                                       * The Best Costume Human Ever

        One of the reasons I said yes to Mamma Mia was the ease of the costumes.  For the most part, we had stuff upstairs and kids could bring it from home. Simple khaki pants if you work on the island, tourist clothes/party dress and wedding clothes. The catch is those ABBA costumes. Those I do not have in the shop.

         I found some crappy ones on Amazon just to get a feel for prices. I tried Disguises---I will always shop Disguises as I'm a rabid supporter of local businesses--however they were struggling with their communication skills. So I called my friend Rachel who was Annelle to my Ouiser years ago. She has her own costume shop, and she rents and loans and is magnificent. She saved me on Christmas Carol at Hinkley because everything in that shop was a size six and my actors were not. 

        The opposite issue was present with Mamma Mia; my Dynamos were all size twos and under. And one was very short. 

        Without missing beat, Rachel pulled not just size appropriate and adjustable Dynamos, but also three matching Disco Duds for the three dads in the show, and additional sparkles and capes and tops. So Great.

        I am so blessed.

                                                   *Great Parents

        When I arrived last January, I had a parent who took photos at our Cabaret, and made Thespian water bottles for the new inductees with their names on them.

        This year, a mom volunteered to do the alterations for the Dynamo costumes. I can alter-ish, but if someone else wants to do it I'm happy to hand it over. It was so thoughtful of her, and she was just thrilled to have her daughter in a musical. Most of these kids/parents never thought they'd get to be in a show when they enrolled.

        I have parents who smile and rejoice at how far the kids have grown since the first cabaret in February 2025. Of course it's...three kids who are still around,but I'll take it.

         I'll take it.

         Scene.

60 Years Are Too Many: Mandatory Trainings

 2 June 2026

        Believe me, I am very aware my prediction did not come true. But I'll hold on until the end of June. 

        I love to carp and complain about the multiple trainings I have to go through every year at the beginning of the school year.

        I also have to do the same trainings on a different platform to work at the pony school, or PA school where I was doing summer musical pop ups for years. I also hate that they charge me for fingerprints to work at these places when I'm a TEACHER and my fingerprints and background check are ON FILE with the CDE. They just want to steal more money.

        Ok. So.

        I just did my child abuse reporting training. Let's say I've done this at least 30 times, conservatively. But this time, I felt enraged.

        Here's why: I HateThat We Need This Training.

        If only if only parents would parent. 

        Which we all know is complicated by job loss, stress, no access to affordable childcare or health care. 

        We all know the statistics. And by "we" I mean Six Gentle Readers. You guys are educated and kind and reasonble humans.

        Just because a kid is low income does not mean they are victims of abuse. It means their parents cannot afford to feed and clothe them. That's not parental neglect, that's societal abuse. It causes stress. It puts the family in a pressure cooker, and increases the likelihood of child neglect or abuse. Know how you fix that?

        Affordable child care, free parenting classes, affordable healthcare and mental healthcare, job stability, ACTUAL SUPPORT. It doesn't fix everything--there will always be outliers who are simply cruel or deranged---but these elements put in place for everyone would change this country.

        My Cuz and I were talking. She was raised poor--like poor poor--in Denver in the 1970's. I was not aware of any insurance or monetary concerns around my healthcare as a kid. I got a physical before camp, my toe stitched up when I fell off my bike, my leg soothed and wrapped when boiling water was tossed on it. We just went to the doctor or the hospital.

        My Cuz's experience was very different. She said they went to a building that was "County Health Care". She was just a kid, she doesn't remember what it was called, now she just calls it "The County", but she remembers the exact location. I have vague memories that "Free Clinics" existed in Denver. Not in the suburbs where I was. 

        But they existed. My Aunt had three kids as a single parent, and she provided for them the absolute best that she could. So medical was The County, and food stamps were groceries and my Cuz has lived one of the most frugal, impressive lives I know. We're both 60, and from where I stand she is rich. She learned how to live close to the bone, and how to invest even tiny amounts of money to grow an actual "portfolio". Yet she still gets nervous when she has to spend money. Which I love about her and is also off topic.

        The point is there was something in place, funded by Denver, that allowed free or very low cost care to humans. Where did that go?

        Unfortunately, we've all seen or experienced abuse in some form. I cannot fathom severe child abuse. I had all of my buttons pushed as a parent and made some poor choices, but I never abused the kids.

        It's ridiculous that teachers have to be on top of signs of child abuse, as well as feed kids and regulate them and be a shield against bullets. 

        Here's the thing, if you are hitting or abusing your child and leaving marks, and then sending them to school, in addition to Whatever The Hell Is Wrong With You that causes you to abuse your child, you are either irrevocably stupid or irretrievably narcissistic  Did you not think we would call CPS?

        Story Time.

        When Genoa was in preschool, we called it the Little Church Preschool in Platt Park, I was still occasionally acting and sort of running a theatre. I had stage makeup in a tackle box, as one does. Genoa and Harp used to love to play in it. Why not? We also made jello and squished our toes in it. This surprises no one. The thing was that I neglected to remember was that they were going to preschool the next day, and I had not put any base on their arm or body before they dug five fingers into the bruise wheel and drew fingerprints across their torso. Sister Harp helped by painting their back.

        I did the best that I could scrubbing it out, but theatre people know: if you didn't put on a base you're bruised for days. 

        I took her to school. I pulled her and her teacher to the side. I showed her the bruise wheel, the small digging finger impressions, and Genoa's remaining body art. I could see her calculating, and she was not wrong. I wasn't a teacher yet, so I didn't know anything about mandatory reporting. She chose to believe me after talking to Genoa, and I am eternally grateful. 

        Now that I'm a teacher and I've been in this game for a minute, I understand how desperately we do NOT want to call CPS. Not because we're chicken. Not because we do not love our students. But because we know CPS are overwhelmed, and we know the process and that the likelihood that nothing will change is higher than the likelihood that the parents will win the lottery, pay for excellent health care, sign up for mental health counseling and live their lives instead of just surviving. Or the other side where the parents have money and strong legal council and because of their position on the social ladder they will deflect and attack until you stop asking questions. They'll do the same to CPS. 

        Which is why I do not work for CPS. Nobody is ever going to tell them the truth. How exhausting must it be to care enough to do this work, to investigate homes and parents and offer resources to assist through difficult times and know that nobody wants to talk to you, those who should tell the truth are too afraid and everyone else is silent or lying.

        Anyone wanna respond to these sweeping generalizations?

       So in conclusion, all in all, to sum up: I hate that we need this system in place and that it is collapsing under the weight of human need and lack of funding. 

    Scene.

60 Years Are Too Many: Postcards Over Days

     1 June 2026

                            

        I've gotten used to doing this daily, so having an interruption was a disruption causing dysregulation nation. See what happens? So...I'll sum up since I was busy actually doing things instead of watching kids rehearse or whatever the hell it is I do for a living.

                           Thursday night I met with Kris and Megan

        I have known these two since high school. We weren't close friends in high school due to a difference in intellect: theirs is higher than mine. Megan is a college English professor and Kris is a social worker for Kaiser.     

        They hate it when I point that out the smart thing, but truth is truth.

        And here's what I love about seeing them-I don't have to talk. I tend to yell and lecture or I get foggy and flummoxed, and have noticed of late that I speak in a defeated monotone that depresses me. So I don't like to talk. It's nice to be in a space where limited speaking is an option.  

        Friday  I signed out, listened to retiring teachers who are younger than I am, turned in my  keys and the dog bit me.  Boring. You know that already. It was fun.

        Saturday spent with my Cuz Lisa and my Aunt and Uncle and Other Cousin

        My Cuz lives up in Grand Junction. She was down for her niece's graduation, and chose to spend some time with me. Our spare room that we redecorated has come to be known as "The Ancestor Room" and the other one is "The Cats' Room".  The ancestor room has my dad's Navy jacket, the box that kept his ashes, a windmill, portraits of his grandparents and of Jim's dad's grandparents and The Hated Accomodation for his service because it is signed by Trump. Turns out when your dad dies and he gets The Thing, you don't get to request that a different president signs. I think they get A Lot of complaints, because as soon as she said we could receive the paper, she added "It's signed by the sitting president of the  United States" and repeated herself on three different occasions.

        Anyway, that room is also referred to as "Lisa's room". 

        So she was staying here Saturday night, and she conned me into going with her to my Aunt and Uncle's house. I am not friendly---you're aware of this, O Gentle Six Readers--but my Uncle was my dad's best friend, and losing my dad was a blow for him. I haven't seen him since we scattered dad's ashes a year ago. So I went.

        My Uncle is known family wide as an Equal Opportunity Racist

        He is also Mexican. I'm not sure how much that matters, but it's an added descriptor to explain the following.

        So I grew up with him calling us "h)^>s", which my chidren yell at me to stop saying . He would tell off color jokes about Mexicans who were also thieves, and honestly I can't even rewrite anything he said to me on Saturday. Let's just say at 83 years old he's as sharp as a tack and hasn't changed a bit. I didn't even bother to react or rebuff during his ten minute political monologue. I sat quietly, hands cupped under my chin, and blinked happily. I'm not going to change his mind so no reason to waste my breath. Even when I agreed with his perspective I stayed quiet. I listened, and he was surprisingly on point if you take the current economic decline out of the equation. He has that Old Man Thesis that nobody wants to work. OK. I'm not going to change your mind, and I'm here 'cause you were my dad's bestie and I know you miss him.

        Fun side note. I was told to stop repeating my uncle's jokes because they were racist---even though the man making the jokes about Mexicans is Mexican, I guess the racist part is me repeating them, even when I'm doing so to help explain his personality. So I stopped. But when I started at Hinkley, I asked some of the Mexican kids what their take was on these jokes. They exploded with laughter and said "We all have that uncle, he tells the same jokes! You are not racist to tell us this stuff, it's familair--we know this guy!"

        The Wyckoff family has some very specific traits:

        *We talk louder than anyone else in the room, which means volume must be increased many times over the course of conversations. Or--like me---you just stop talking because it's easier to listen and slows down getting overwhelmed. This trait is exacerbated when three people in the room are wearing hearing aids that they refuse to turn up or are simply ineffective.

        * We hold many conversations at once. There were five of us in the living room, and four conversations: My cousin Dawn and I, Lisa and my aunt and uncle, me and my uncle and Lisa and my Aunt. At any given time any one of us could have contritubted to a separate conversation-in fact we did. When my Nana and Grandpa were still alive, it was much worse as they would talk simultaneously and you had to struggle to follow both monologues coming at you. I ended up talking more than I expected as Dawn is in an education related field. Stuff in common is nice.

        *Saying good bye takes as long as the visit itself. I am historically the one to walk through the center of the room and simply leave. My Uncle has been known to walk to a door and stand there with it open, shaking his head and rolling his eyes while growling "Damned Wyckoffs!"

                                                     Sunday at FanCon

        It used to be ComicCon but now it's Fanzine...Fantopia....Fan Expo. That's it. So I call it Fan Con. I also call Pride Fest "Gay Con". I'm not wrong.

        Maybe eight years ago Harp and I started going to Comic Con. I get my steps in and she wears a costume and bonds with like minded people. Or getting a signed copy of The Princess Bride and Cary Elwes saying "You are a cutie" as he hugged her. It was awesome, her eyes were saucers. He IS her childhood, she'd been watching Princess Bride since she was a toddler. I've been to some great panels and there is some nice artwork,but my central objective is people watching.

        We took her partner this year since he's never been, and today (Monday) is his birthday and she didn't want to not include him the day before his birthday. This was not a normal FanCon Sunday-which are traditionally the slower day, which is why we go. This year the elves and hobbits and whatsitsis descended upon the convention center on Sunday.

        OOF.

        I asked loudly on more than one occasion "Who is stage managing this thing?" It was not well managed at all. However, while I was judging the overpopulation of 3D printed figurines--and by 'judging' I mean making rude faces at them and refusing to stop at any table containing such -- I happened upon a young lady dressed as Seymor Krelborn, holding her homemade Audrey 2 puppet plant in a planter. I felt both old and delighted at the same time. Somebody who knew musical theatre in place teeming with anime titties and D&D dice? O Rapture!

        Mismanagement examples:

        * Orlando Bloom was to speak at 1.30 pm in the Blue Bird Ballroom 1. He or someone else spoke at noon in the same ballroom. The crowd forming a single line massive curve was pushed to the center of the lobby while they emptied the previous house. At 1.15. The house holds a thousand people. There were ushers with signs bellowing "If you're going in, squish to the center, if you're exiting, follow the sign and go around the outside (of the people in the center)."

        Who stage managed this?

        * Ahead of time, people pay for a spot to get an autographed photo of Orlando Bloom. There was a ten a.m. slot that was either overbooked or his other talk started at 11 and he had to leave. Either way, when the 4 pm people arrived, there were 10am folks in line who had not had their photos signed.

        Who stage managed this?

                                          Monday Pony School Training

        And here we are, Monday 1 June 2026.

        First let's acknowledge that my prediction was wrong. I did not wake up to a Big Beautiful Announcement. 

        So I drove to Arvada for pony shool orientation. Which is funny, as this is the third year I've done it. But review is good, even though the new clips are dificult but I'm glad they are there, Rocket reared up at the pony circle last summer and almost hurt himself. But I had to ask for help with the clip, and then relaized my arthritis has gotten worse and I couldn't get the cinch tight enough. UGH. I'm 60 dude. I'm starting to feel it. And in the heat this summer, walking on uneven ground near and in the stables...I'm grateful for the quiet and respectful teenage assistant. He's the same kid they gave me last year, he's awesome. He was impressively calm when Rocket got spooked, and also when we forgot to lock the corral and the ponies escaped. THAT was a good time. They're like dogs playing keep away. Such funny personalities. Anyway he's great, even though I'm pretty sure his grandparents are my age.

        You know: 60.

        My fave pony Taz is still in his residency at the Farm Preschool. All of them were! Last year, Aspen had left the corral for a greener pasture when I arrived, but this year Taz, Orbit, Sky, Rocket and Trixie are still there. So are the goats ---my class got to contribute to naming them last summer---Butterscotch and Smore. And Piggy Allen Poe is as grunty and ugly as ever, what a delight to see his grey hide and wirehair mohawk. He is only allowed to free range outside of the barn if the ponies are corralled, but someone moved a trailer on the neighboring property that used to prevent him from wandering down to the cul de sac, so now he's more closely monitored. He moves pretty quick for a porker.

        I love him. I get him. When it's 100 degrees out he just lays in his water --a kid's swimming pool--and looks defeated. Last year a kid asked me why his water was so dirty. My response "He's a pig" went over beautifully. He understood. Kids get it. I get Poe. 

        Scene.