60 Years Are Too Many: Students

 

        I have a radio in my office. I have a radio because I do not have an intercom in the theatre. So if we go into lockdown--I don't know. It's awesome. I had the same issue at Hinkley, I once let kids go at the bell only to have amin herd them back into the theatre yelling at me because I had no idea we were on lockdown. Is that safe? Is that necessary? Is that kind?

     Also, I've been through a lock down at Hinkley- a real live shooting- and I just happened to be in the hallway when it went off and a counselor came screaming at us "It's real, get in lock the door! It's real!" Otherwise, I honestly don't know that I would have known. Until they started using the theatre house as triage and space to throw rando kids-I suppose I would have figured it out then. Maybe. Who knows.

        So I have a radio.

        Which means that I eavesdrop.

        And by "eavesdrop" I mean the radio is on my desk and I turn it on and I can hear it.

        This morning, at the beginning of first period while I was writing in my office, there were three calls for "support" for students inside of ten minutes:

        * Refusing to check in at the main office. She just stormed in and headed to the stairway. Kids have to run their ID through a checkpoint to get into the building after the bell. There is a single human at the scanner who is behind a desk and reliant on student compliance to the rules. She has no back up near her,and is not a large person. So if a kid just goes "Nope" and pushes past, there's little she can do but call for backup on the radio.

        * Refusing to behave in class, leaving the classroom, chased to the next floor by Culture Team, boxed into a different classroom and the call was for additional "support" in getting the kid out of the classroom and into ISS.  The Dean said "Should I call his mom?" and the answer was "She's on her way". So that's how that's going. Sounded like they were trying to corner a wildebeast. 

    * Kids in the stairwell, herded down to the next floor and trying to get on the elevator,  then running back up the stairs to another floor. It's like Chutes and Ladders around here.

    This is ridiculous. 

    Teach your kids better, parents. This is not an US problem, this is a YOU problem that you've pushed onto us. We need a full staff just to wrangle these people who clearly do not want to be here. If the family cannot manage to control the kid or instill the importance of an education in them, then let them roam free in the wild. Make them get a job at 15. Stop dropping them off here when you know we're just gonna call for you to pick them back up again.   

    Let's say you're a kid with healthy respect and an interest in learning. And on your way to class these are the kids you encounter. And then while in class, these are the kids pulling all the focus from the teacher, making it impossible for you to learn. So you switch schools.  

      How is this beneficial to anyone? Anyone? Bueller?

      Other fun issues include kids drinking alcohol/drunk on the stairwell, running from teachers and Culture Team and flushing their vapes down the toilets, causing bathroom closures and major plumbing problems.

        To be fair, at Hink the girls were using the toilets to chill their mini vodka bottles. So this is not a "This School Specifically Sucks" issue. At Littleton they got stoned down at the creek and attended class high, and filled their water bottles with vodka. Every School Is Like This. I promise you don't know because they're sweeping it under the rug.

        The perks of spending time in three buildings across three districts.

        I've seen kids hurl the N-word at people who tell them to go to class. I've been told to fuck off for suggesting a kid go to class. Two different buildings. One of them entitled, one a Title One.

        Teachers know this. This is not news to them. If we're able to get ahold of a parent, they will flip it back on teachers. We're not engaging. Their kid hates us/hates our class. They're bored. How dare we teach a content required to graduate at a pace expected of all high school students. How can we not believe their precious angel who never lies. Or conversely---why can't we control their monster that they openly fear and refuse to parent?

        A parent once lamented that their kids was in a gang. What should they do? The question sent back to them was "What consequences have they had growing up for disruptive or disrespectful behavior?" The answer was: none. They're "afraid" of the kid. So implementing a consequence at home at this point seemed useless. I suggested taking away their phone-at minimum, that was a start, right? Since the phone is also an issue in my classroom and I've been threatened when I required its surrender to enter class. No, she can't do that. He needs his phone.

        But I'm a failure as their teacher?

        Parents don't answer when we call because their kid is drunk/ditching/rude/failing. They don't attend conferences. Or, more heartbreaking, they are in an attendance meeting with admin and a court representative, and it's clear they have no control over their kid who has completely shut down, but nobody will take the step to remove their student from the building and get them more help than the school social worker can provide.

        It's volume. Court dates for truancy are not as frequent because there are so many. The sheer volume of under parented, trauma raised, dysregulated kids has overrun the system meant to keep them in school.

        These are facts. There is no room for your opinion or your own personal story of how you overcame trauma and poverty. You are not the majority. You are not the rule, you are the exception. Congratulations.

        Meanwhile, I'm over here in reality unable to teach my content becuase your kid is     disrespectful and won't participate, or stop talking, or return from the restroom. 

         I'll stop there. You get it.

            Scene.

60 Years Is Too Many: No Internet Weekend -This One Is Longer

 

        18 May 2026

        Off topic, I think I will finish setting up a substack. That seems to be a trendy thing.

        I only have six of you who read this, and one of you kindly called me on Sunday. I am fine, this is therapy and due to No Internet all weekend, you called me within an hour of getting it restored and I was still dysregulated. I am sorry I wasn't chattier. I love you.

        Cabaret Senior cabaret was Friday. I still call it that even though I have no seniors. Technically, we inducted two seniors into Thespians, but one couldn't attend and the other had senior sunset and couldn't stay. Senior Sunset sounds like a dementia diagnosis. Isis was inducted but then left early to meet her ride. She is a great kid and I was happy to induct her, and Lanora works with my peer to peer kids and earned her spot, but had her brother's birthday party.

        I  made the theatre 2 kids write original mononologues based in a general theme. I pulled the themes from known work, like "The fragility of the American Dream" (Albee), "The Horrors of War" ( Hemingway) and "Does love have to kill you" (unsure where I got that) and "The importance of companionship" from Steinbeck. Seven kids wrote monologues, but one was absent the day we traded. So the six traded monologues and worked on performing someone else's monologue so the writer could hear their words and edit outside of a vacuum. 

        Two of them performed at the choir fundraiser two weeks ago, it was really impressive.

        The writing itself is solid. J wrote a beautiful piece about loneliness after the death of a loved one. "Loneliness isn't about being alone, it's about not sharing your day with someone".

        Then I made them stitch together the two monologues to create some kind of scene. L has an IEP and reads/writes at a sixth grade level, so her piece was a narrative "Once upon a time" love story. She paired it with K whose monologue started "I know I killed my husband, but I loved him. Don't judge me." J paired his with P who wrote a monologue with a twist about his true love, who dumped him to date someone else so he killed the someone else. Turns out they take "kill" seriously in this class. And D and E's pieces---separately about the horrors of war and the American Dream, more about its facade than its fragility---worked together. Theirs came out the best.  It was a stellar unit lesson plan I made up ten minutes before class started. 

        Which is a central issue for me. I'm a 23 year veteran who does not value written, detailed lesson plans. You go to all of that trouble and ten minutes in, it's not working and you have to pivot. So why bother?

        Different topic.

        The kids were great. A bass solo, solos and duets and two established monologues--one Hamlet (the kid who was absent didn't get to do his own, so...) one Glass Menagerie and their "stitched scenes". We're setting the bar here in a way that I want. I don't want Thez Cabs to turn into mini choir concerts, which was happening at Littleton. I structured it this way at Hinkley as well.

        I have PTSD with cabarets at Kennedy now, as my dad died while we were performing our first cabaret here on 28 Feb 2025. He died at home. He was not in the audience. 

        Just thought I'd clear that up.

         AT&T When I got home from cab google fiber was having an outage, so we had no internet. Jim had been on the phone and was told it was a general outage. I'll address that in my next paragraph. 

        We were getting ready to leave to get lunch on Saturday when Harp decided to water board her phone. It recovered-ish--but we figured it had been heating up, and at two years old it was time. The phone is paid off, so we went to the Apple Store to get a new one. Only to discover AT&T thought we still owed $900.

        At this point, I should catch you up. Harp wanted a new phone a year ago. We went to the AT&T store in Golden during a hail storm. That doesn't matter other than it was annyoing. She couldn't find the phone she wanted and let the sales person talk her into one she did not want. After getting home, she decided to return it. Which we did, but the sales person said she couldn't take it back, we had to mail it directly to the warehouse. She gave me a tracking number and (we assumed) removed the charge from the phone number.

        Now you're caught up. 

        Guess what the Golden salesperson didn't do?

        Without throwing judgement on the man who is paying our AT&T bill for not noticing he was paying for a phone we do not have, the fact remains that we were paying on a phone we do not have. Yes, we keep the kids on our plan. You do you, we'll do us.

        So we found an AT&T store in Highlands Ranch to untangle the situation. I'll give you bullet points on our three hours at the store:

    * Not all AT&T locations are corporate. Some are "third party". The Golden store fits the second category.

    * Matt at the HR AT&T corporate store is The Bomb.

    * Corporate HQ could track that the phone had been returned but the charges were not stopped AND they sold the phone to someone else. If you're following, that means they were recieving two payments from two different people on the same phone. They could track it once it was pointed out by Matt, but "were not aware" otherwise.

        We went in panicked that we were going to have to pay off a phone we do not have, prove we returned the phone and a host of other Panic Button Issues. When Matt let us know we were in the clear AND it was all erased in the moment AND the money paid over the last year for the phone we do not have is now a credit---so we won't have a phone bill for a few months--we quietly reset and Harp said "This is such a win. I needed this. This sets the tone for the week." I appreciated that perspective.

        I was prepared, before Matt returned after his first call to corporate, to go Full Karen if necessary. H and I were both calm af upon entry, that would have made it more dramatic when I Lost My Shit. Alas, I was not called upon to perform. 

        It was a quiet win. A reasonable untangling of a situation that one person in Golden caused and another in Highlands Ranch resolved. It was four hours of my Saturday, including the Apple store, which I did not love. But hey, wins require sacrifice.

        Also I hate technology, and I hate corporations. So it was A Lot for me.

        No Internet On Friday night, Jim said he called google fiber and the AI bot told him there was a google fiber outage. They just forced an "upgrade" and increased our bill (still less than Xfinity who are The Evil Empire) and it crashed. As expected. So Saturday I spent dealing with AT&T and getting H a new phone but by Sunday I decided I was done. Even though I hadn't been home, I was annoyed feeling cut off. No Scrubs reruns, which is how I manage my mental health issues. No Facebook which is how I receive mental health issues.

        You see the issue.

        I had no choice but to read a book.

        But Sunday late afternoon, after schlepping to Starbucks to use their WiFi to get online and find a phone number to call the AI assistant bot at google fiber to find out there was still an outage I was done. I called the number. I told the AI assistant to go to hell and get me a human. The call dropped. Google Fiber texted me a survey asking how they did. I complied. The survey balked that it couldn't understand what I was saying. So I said it again. Then I got a text...from a human at google fiber. I could tell by her conversastion, trouble shooting and patience that she was she, not IT. After an hour texting back and forth, it turns out the outage actually flipped the jack off on the wall...I'm going with this, because the switch is difficult to reach at the bottom of the jack, which is covered by a plastic plate I had to unsnap to remove. There is no way the dog accidentally bumped it. So it's the outage that caused the physical switch to flip behind a plastic cover inside my house or I have a ghost.

        So the outage tripped the switch. 

        Now we have internet.

        Dead snake At some point on Sunday, while working in the yard, Jim noted a very large bullsnake dead on the sidewalk in front of the neighbor's house. He was at least four feet long. Parents, kids and dogs had been pausing all day, but nobody removed it ---including the homeowner. By five or six o'clock, the thing had begun to smell horribly. It died tragically, someone had cut off both its head and tail. Bullsnakes are good guys, but if you don't read and your parents never taught you consequences or kindness then this is what you do.

        People Suck.

        So when my friend from Canada called, Jim was out removing the snake from our neighbor's sidewalk. We decided to put it in an empty trash bin and leave it at the end of the street for pickup Tuesday. At least the smell would not permeate the neighborhood, and at least the poor snake was not displayed for all of Green Mountain to see.

            Happy Monday.

            Scene

60 Is Too Many Years Part Four

 

    15 May 2026

        I think Trump went to China to try and sell the US.

       We are no longer united, so we're easier to auction off. Why else would he go there with CEO's instead of actual diplomats?

       And I think China said no...not yet. 

       So that's cool. Guess I'll start learning Chinese.

        I haven't had a nightmare in a minute, being awake is enough of a terror. But last night I had a version of my famous Airport Nightmares. Usually I'm trying to catch a flight and can't find anyone--like my children. Or I run up endless ramps. Airports are very tall in my dreams, like skyscrapers. Or those stacked Carvana things that look like a matchbox car container. I rarely make my flight, and when I do it's a massive cargo plane thing and it's wonderful.

        Last night was very different. I was apparently with students, both sped and gen ed, but once at the airport, I had to go to two separate locations to collect the sped kids who were going to a different destination with me. I guess I just had to get the gen ed kids in the building. As I was walking behind the sped kids on the last ramp toward security, I realized I didn't have my bag. Any bag. Or ID. In my mind's eye I had both a red purse and a white purse that I had somehow left at home.

       White is a new beginning,higher consciousness. Red is passion.

       Cool. 

       As I've pointed out in my title, I am sixty. There are no new beginnings for me, I'm done.I left all hope and passion at home.

       Which is what the dream is telling me. You can't get on the plane and leave because your passion and higher consciousness are at home. So you're stuck. Because you're sixty, and you really shouldn't be here any more, as in here here on earth and the US, but here you are. Useless. Taking up resources. Failed at being even a baseline ATM for your struggling children.

    Dream analysis says being stuck in an airport is anxiety about a missed opportunity or fear of change. No Change Is Happening unless you count Country On Fire. Being stuck at the airport is listed on Dream Scapes as stagnation, procrastination or external obstacles. Umm...age. Being 60 and done is the obstacle. I am too old for a revolution. Luckily nobody is asking me to lead one. So the anxiety is horrible because there is nothing I CAN do and even if I was asked, I am OLD and cannot. This. Sucks.

    In addition to the subtle re-emergence of the airport anxiety nightmare, I have a friend who is a bit of a psychic who felt the need to tell me that I would be leaving educational theatre in 2027 (or 2028?) for "Something that hasn't been built yet".  Well, if it's on ME to build it, that's not happening friends.

    Sixty.

    60.

    Six. Zero.

    6.0.

    Six decades.

    Wasted. Accomplished nothing. No change, no impact.  Did not stop Reagan. Did not stop Trump. Did not make enough money to stay above water.

    Wait- what are the numbers in that song from HAIR? Not 6.0. 3.5.0. Three Five Zero. What does that mean? It's a rough song "Prisoners in N------town it's a dirty little war, three five zero zeroooo! Hold your weapons up and begin to kill, watch that long ..." I'm just singing it. I should look it up. Wikipedia:

       Mocking Casualty Statistics: The number represents 3,500, a false figure that was rumored to be the estimated number of Viet Cong troops killed per month by the U.S. military. The song mocks the military's attempts to use heroic propaganda and fabricated "body counts" to justify the horrors of the Vietnam War.

    OK. That's wild. I literally just heard the song in my head as I was writing. 

    And I'm living in repeated history and lies.

    Electronic data processing, black uniforms, barefeet carbines, mail order rifles shoot the muscle.

    I first heard this song in the eighth grade. I can still sing every lyric from HAIR.

    At 60.

    Did I mention I'm 60?

    UPDATE turns out Trump DID sell us to China. Or at least some of our farmland.

    Scene.

    

60 is Too Many Years Part Three

 

        14 May 2026

    I have too much time on my hands.

    Watching Suzuki videos for next year, I watched a compelling moment as a maurader stabs a woman in the leg while she is holding a child, and then tries to wrench the child from her.

    And it all clicked.

    That's how they control us. We will do anything for our children.

    Literally that was all I came here to write. But as long as I'm here, let's catch up:

    I have too much time on my hands.

    Due to field trips, I had two classes yesterday. In seventh period, two kids showed up. eleven are enrolled. Five show up on the reg.

    What the hell is the point?

    It's the end of the year, I've pulled every trick I can. If they even remotely want to work, they're doing The Things, even if they hate theatre. 

    Until now.

    Now they just stopped showing up and that hurts my feelings.

    And when my feelings get hurt, I can't handle it so I go Hulk and attack.

    I had 40 kids over two Theatre 1 classes in August. I now have 21, ten of which have shown up regularly since January.

    I do not take it personally.

    I used to. Not any more.

    Which sounds like a lie, because it still pisses me off and I go Hulk. But not because I got my personal feelings butt hurt.

    Because I've been lied to twice now, across two buildings: We Want A Theatre Program.

    You might, but your kids do not.

    They do not wish to be seen, or heard, or show up on time. 

    They do not wish to learn about theatre.

    Just give them the answers to the test so they can take the test and get back to their social media.

    Scene.

60 Is Too Many Years: Part Two

 

        13 May 2026

        Sitting in my office while both the Spanish band and the Shredder band rehearse for the concert tonight. It's a beautiful metaphor.

        Where was I?

        Hold please.

        Right.

        My country hates me.

        That was about it. 

        Scene.

        I just took a Nyquil, and I hope to sleep through the band concert. No Disrespect. But I'm old. Have I mentioned that?

        I'm 60.

        My colleages in performing arts are collectively my age.

        Their relationships with the kids are weird to me. We were all on the stage after setting up for something last fall, and the instrumental teacher's phone rang. Weirdly, he's 30 and answers his phone. Didn't text.

        His side of the coversation consisted of ordering two different meals from two different fast food places, with specific drink requests, depending on which one the kid on the other line was going to for lunch.

        The choir teacher was laughing encouragingly, as she's had the same experience, and I was dead quiet.

        I never give kids my phone number.

        Unless you are my stage manager or we're going to New York on a tour, I never give kids my number.

        I'm now the old teacher. I'm now JK-the guy who was the theatre teacher when I started at Littleton. 

        Oh my god....

        I passed out. Hold on.

        Wait. I have to lie down.

        Gray hair. Bad knees. Jokes nobody gets. More experience and education about theatre than these kids could possibly ever absorb.

        Old OLD old old oldoldoldoldoldoldoldoldoldoldoldold and irrelevent.

        Not as bad as the reanimated corpses in Washington. Still young by that standard.

        But most teachers have retired by my age. I only have 23 years in, and the country is burning and gas is $5 a gallon so I'm not retiring. Ever.

        I wish to have a choice. I can die here; I've rebuilt this department and I can keep going and die at the light board or quietly choke on a DayQuil in my office. Or I can cut loose, sell the house, move to the western slope and die working at Luv's truck stop.

        None of this was planned. Because I thought I was going to die in a fiery nuclear apocolypse at 20. Since the Federal Center was obviously a first strike target, I figured I'd take a lawn chair down at the 30 minute warning and catch the last rays.

        That did not happen.

        Clearly, as I'm whining at you right now.

        My colleagues are perfectly nice, but they don't get me. I'm the same age as their  parents. And I do not fit in, which was fine when I was younger and pretty, "quirky" was acceptable. Now I'm just an old crone with a colored headband around my neck, which is the Gen X version of a scrunci on my wrist. You never know when it's going up in my hair, or around my turkey neck. And it isn't cute. Because they know I'm hiding my neck. I used scarves at Littleton, very "Theatre Teacher Chic", but now those scarves are too bulky and hot and itchy because I Am The Fuck Sixty.

        I've only once had a real team mate. At Litteton my work wife was the person who had my job before I was hired, but took a full time lang arts position. She did my tech. It was great. She made us badges with "Carl" and "Lenny" from the Simpsons.

        It is the only time in my life I felt like I had a colleague. I felt like I belonged.

        The choir and band guys had bonded---they were the long term teachers who had come in together and fought the same battles, and I was the small dog that followed them around hoping they would pet me and say "And I will love him and keep him and call him George". My eventual flame out seventeen years later caused them undue stress, and while one still stays in touch via facebook, the other does not. We were colleagues. Work colleagues. That was all.

        The two kids here... I need a nick name for them...The Twins (they both have dark hair and are 30)...are stupid close. Laugh. Inside jokes. Help with set up and strike. Share kids. 

        Do they know how rare that is? Do they know how lucky they are?

        Does it matter?

        Nothing matters. Nothing happens. Nobody comes.

        We sit posting angry emojis on social media while our country burns around us.

        That was out there. Must be time to go.

        

60 is too many years

 

        My buddy Will died at 52.

       In that span of time, he wrote 154 sonnets and 39 plays. Yes, 39, I believe Pericles, Two Noble Kinsmen and Edward III should be included.

        Mr. Albee died at 88. He wrote his first play for his 30th birthday. He had three Pulitzers, a Kennedy Center Lifetime Achievement and two Tonys for playwriting plus one lifetime achievement. He also deeply impacted my psyche, and he is the one I blame for becoming a teacher. Not a playwright, a teacher.

        Tina Fey was head writer at SNL at 29.

        And that's all I'm listing because she was young and I'm depressed.

        I am 60.

        I do not have the talent of those I admire, nor do I have the drive to "achieve my dreams".

        I never had any dreams. Dreams mean expectations, and those only leave you full of anxiety in a snow storm when your dad runs out of gas because he never planned ahead.

        I remember thinking vaguely that I could go to New York and Do The Things when I was younger. Then I realized Do The Things meant spending all of my money on dance and voice classes, an agent, time off my paying job to go to auditions and living with six other people in a one bedroom in Astoria.

        Teaching was something to do because I had failed at running a theatre and I could get insurance. I had failed as a playwright. I had failed as an actor.

        Teachers teach because they failed at The Thing they are teaching. I fit that horrible stereotype.

        I hear Saleri in my head daily now, "I'm slowing watching myself become extinct."

        I decided to teach because I could do it while I took a class and was mentored while I was teaching, which was the only way it was going to work. When I called around, even with my BA they were gonna make me teach for free (student teaching) before getting my license. So I found a way around the side door, through MSU. All you have to do is get hired by a school willing to let you teach while you learn. Which I did. And it was the hardest thing I had ever done up to that point in my 37 years.

        I did it, and just four years later Jim lost his entire career, and the bottom fell out of the economy. The Recession. My job couldn't keep us afloat--we had to borrow money from his dad so we didn't lose the house. That plus cashing in all of his retirement. For which we are punished every year by paying too much in taxes and not getting a refund. Because How Dare You take your retirment money out early to save your ass in the moment. You will be punished for a recession that you did not cause. Those who did cause it got bailouts.

        It'll happen again. Gas prices and grocery prices have us stretched to the max, as we also help out the kids who have real, full time careers and still cannot pay rent and make their car payments because Fuck You Americans, the billionaires need more tax cuts.

        But I digress. Shocking, I know.

        60.

        I had no intention of living this long and it sucks.

        I'm tired of living through the same fucking history because only geeks like me paid attenion in class and learned.

        I'm tired of "teaching" people who have techno brain damage. That's real, not slander. Kids can't concentrate, think around problems or remember anything.

        I'm tired of colleagues half my age who believe they are entitled to a work life balance.

        I'm tired of amin half my age who believe they have new ideas.

        I'm tired of parents who shuffle off their feral children to school and then refuse to answer the phone when we call because their kid flipped a table/started a fight/refused to attend class.

        We are not supposed to live past 50.

        Our bodies used to tell us that, before medical breakthroughs enabled the reanimated corpse brigade currently hogging political office.

        Mamdani is just a guy with a moral compass and a uniquely well adjusted world view. We don't like that here, we're 'merican and we don't do empathy. Or have a moral compass. Or consider views outside of our own. So cearly he must be....A Communist!

        Because we didn't pay attention in government class and missed out on the real definition of communism and the historic examples of Why It Has Never Worked. We also ditched lang arts when we did close readings, and missed the many printed interviews where Mamdani openly identifies as a Democratic Socialist.

        But you go ahead and waste your time and energy on hate. It's what you do best.

        I still have one friend who fires on the right side of the spectrum, god bless him. He posted a meme blaming Biden for the Spirit airline bankruptcy. Because the Biden admin denied a merger with Jet Blue. Two years ago. Ummm...kay. I'll be over here in reality with Aaron Parnas, you enjoy your looney snack time. Would you like to blame Biden for the rising cost of gas and lack of fertilizer for planting as well?

        Y'all don't get to continue to point out "Sleepy Joe", who had cancer, and ignore or blow off The Orange Buffoon napping during every single cabinet meeting. Biden was shoved into the job simply to block Trump, as the democrats were shitting their pants instead of backing a viable candidate. They don't have anyone like Trump and this is a GOOD thing. Except Bernie, who I would have voted for, but they also decided to Fuck Bernie.

        I'm 60 and annoyed that nobody seems to have learned anything in the last...60 years. I can't imagine being 80 and watching this shit show. Knowing you fought for civil rights. Your friends were beaten and killed defending other people's right to vote and use a public restroom and attend school with white folks. Your mom fought for the right to vote---also beaten and jailed. You may have been a woman who got married because that's the only option you had, only to be trapped financially, unable to earn your own money, open your own bank account or get a credit card. 

        Why are women the target? Why are black folks the target? Why does our government hate us?

        More soon...

actual monologue

 Theme: The fragility of the American Dream 9 April 2026 12.15 pm

One of the greatest plays ever written, in my opinion, is The American Dream by Edward Albee. Of course I’m partial as I studied with the man for a year, and he produced my writing and coached me as a writer and human and teacher—I owe him A LOT. But I digress. He’d be disappointed. 

The American Dream takes place in the living room of Mommy and Daddy. Grandma lives with them but is being packed off because she is old. Mommy is domineering, Daddy is weak. In the scope of Mr. Albee’s work, these characters are familiar as they resemble his own adopted family in the Hamptons. As a man raised in wealth and privilege, Mr. Albee gratefully swung left of that and instead embraced free thought, art, expression and teaching.

There is a level of intellect necessary to process-let alone enjoy- Mr. Albee’s work. I do not feel like a snob saying this. Overall the intellectual capacity of people who attend plays over musicals is superior. It takes an understanding of language, philosophy and the human condition as well as stamina to sit through three hours of Who's Afraid of Virginia Woolf? Which I did–at the Alley theatre—because Mr. Albee directed it.

He was insistent that playwrights do not direct or act in their own work until after the first production. He said you can’t stop editing and fully engage in the power of your words if you’re always editing. I’d say he’s right. And I’ll also say I've acted in my own work, but only after it was produced the first time. It’s a way to get perspective, so many writers exist in a vacuum, and I guess that’s great if you’ve the confidence and ego—I’m looking at you David Mamet—but the rest of us value distance and another voice.

I blame Mr. Albee for my vocational choice to teach. I was full on going into theatre–acting sometimes, directing a bit but primarily writing. I wanted to Be A Playwright. That was my version of “the American Dream”, to do What You Love fully and make a living at it.

This was not my mom’s American Dream. Hers was tied to getting married and having kids and a home. That generation is the only one —arguably—that fully received the true American Dream: work an honest job for a good salary that allows you to buy a house and a car, an occasional vacation and retirement. The American Dream they were sold worked out for them, which is problematic when it comes to them understanding the struggles other generations fought through later. They elbowed their kids into it, and we are not OK–let alone recipients of the dream. Greed took hold of America in the 1980’s and never let go. Those unwilling to play Wall Street were left out. Left to lesser salaries as nurses, teachers, mechanics, clerks, cosmetologists, oil rig workers. Paid less to contribute to society, as inflation rose exponentially but salaries did not keep pace. The Trumpers sold empty bonds and hollow stocks to line their own pockets. And now our own children, who understand the fragility of the dream by calling out The Dream itself as false, will never have one career that pays the bills and buys a home,get married. Raise kids. Enjoy retirement. 

I feel like I let them down. I have never voted for a presidential candidate that won–a dubious distinction. Twice I voted against someone, not for someone.

I think Gen X means we’re the generation at the crossroads. Our kids will be the ones to walk the change across the finish line, but not until the billionaire boomers and tech turds are struck down. Our job is to use everything we have in us to keep them afloat. And that does mean financially as well. Even those with “good” college degrees find themselves unable to find work in an oversaturated  field, or up against massive Trump cuts to research and environmental support. My oldest is very into art/work trade—they’ll cut someone’s hair in trade for vegetables from their client’s garden. This is going to be the future, the way we will have to function when the financial apocolypse explodes. This will be how we respond after being bombed back into the stone age by corporate greed and unhinged gluttony.

The American Dream was pure once, but always fragile. It relies on everyone —government and society—working together to keep us all afloat.

Eat the rich is only the beginning. We must build a new society and make sure this never happens again.

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    My beloved Mr. Albee died in 2016. The same year we lost Alan Rickman, David Bowie and Carrie Fisher. They saw this coming and ducked out.

    They are collectively people who never bought into the American Dream, in any capacity. They saw it as both fragile and corrupt. Tenuous and false.

    A Lie.

    Mr. Albee's scope of work scathes the ideaologies that prop up the American Dram. For a man adopted into a rich family and given the freedom to float around Greenwich and Be Gay, he had no issue biting the hand that fed him.

    He held the honor of a Pulitzer committe member quitting because Who's Afraid of Virginia Woolf was "vulgar". He never finished a traditional Bachlor's degree because he didn't want to take math. He bounced through universities like a bee gathering honey, getting the art and literature education he wanted, and leaving when they tried to force him to take classes he had no interest in.

    The first time I had a piece read out loud in the playwriting class---which was the precursor to production the next year---I sat next to the actor who read my words at the front of the room and faced Mr. Albee. I curled into a ball which he only sneered at. Not cruel, just his way of letting me know that wasn't going to work. I was there voluntarily for his feedback, and I was going to hear his feedback.

    The first day of that class, he said "I can't teach you to be playwrights." He had that low growl of a voice and persistent twinkle in his eye that let us know he both meant that and did not mean it.

    What he taught me was how to think. How to listen, how to respond. How to write exactly what I want to communicate and how to stick to the central theme.

    And how to teach.

    Without knowing it, I was not being trained as a playwright. I was being taught to teach.

    I was still and English major when he chose my work for his class. By the end of that class, I'd switched back to theatre.

    I blame Mr. Albee for many things and one is dragging me back into theatre. Which --to be clear--he said nothing. He cared naught for degrees or titles. There were English majors in both production classes the two years I worked with him. It was the collaborative nature of theatre that I missed. That pulled me back.

        HOW AM I GETTING A MONOLOGUE OUT OF THIS

    The first time I ever heard my own words read by an actor, outloud in front of people---people who were also writers, and a professor who was a Broadway legend--- was in Mr. Albee's playwriting class. I worked with him for two years, and he kept insisting we call him "Edward". He even introduced himself to my husband at a cast party as "Edward". I could never do it.

     I sat at the front of the room next to my friend who had read the piece, pulled my knees to my face and wrapped my arms around my knees. Mr. Albee glowered. Once you got to know him, you knew that look and the perpetual twinkle in his eye. He was not cruel, he was just right and he had the Pulitzer and Tonys to back him up. And you were chosen---over three hundred writing samples were submitted for this class of ten people. The production class---the next step, where Mr. Albee would produce your play on the UH stage--was even smaller. That year it was three plays being produced. The following year---the year I was selected---it was four.

      My class that year was literally the audition class for the following production year. The ten of us plus whomoever applied from outside. This year, the year I was just in the clas, I also stagemanaged one of the productions. The playwright-Kevin- wasn't even enrolled, he was a local playwright    

    So no pressure.

    I sat and received all of his feedback, wordlessly. I wasn't angry and I didn't shut down: I listened. As he spoke to my piece, I sorted through every syllable. I breathed in every word, and exhaled the word with my feelings attached.

    He wasn't wrong.

    Absolutely everything he said was correct, and I made adjustments in my head before ever getting to the keyboard.

    Then it was my classmates' turn to give me feedback on my writing. The difference in feedback cannot be understated. Some wanted to impress Mr. Albee by sounding very intellectual (mostly English majors), and some wanted clarification for certain allusions in the script (theatre majors), and some gave nothing but positve feedback for the effort, but clearly did not believe I belonged among their ranks (English Masters' majors). My friend Paul was the only one who just spoke like a person to a person.

    Paul and I both felt like frauds in this class. Paul wasn't a 'reader', he liked Star Trek. Albee would push the reading agenda, and while I could respond because I read, just not always intellectual material, I could contribute to conversations. When Paul was called out by Albee to contribute, he was honest but not belligerent. He's not a stupid person (he has his Masters n English and works in Spring Texas at an alternative high school), and he doesn't judge himself as less. Also, he was chosen with me the following year. Proving that being authentic is the best approach. I've alwas attributed that to the Entitled White Man Comfort. Where as I--a skinny white woman with myriad self esteem issues--would have lied if I had to to look better.

    But I never had to. Because Mr. Albee believed I could write, and he believed I could take criticism and he even bought me lunch once to talk about my play.

    WHAT IS THE POINT OF THIS MONOLOGUE

    I suppose that's ultimately why I becamse a teacher. To believe in kids who would otherwise sit with their knees in their face, curled up into a ball. To let them know that feedback is relevent, and your response and defense is irrelevent. Learn or don't. It's on you.

    But I believe that you can, because I was taught by the best.