Derek Haines's blog

Kids On Stage

For a complete change of pace today, please welcome Machelle Allman to the Vandal Blog with her thoughts on kids’ theatre. Enjoy!

Kids On Stage
My freelance gig was to review children’s theater for a local print and internet parenting magazine.
There are those who would think that this comprises one of the circles of hell, and there are times that I agree with this assessment. However, I think it’s important to support the arts beyond buying the latest and greatest in whatever pixilated form, and I, like any good parent, want to infect my progeny with my own values. So my son and I go to many plays and puppet shows a year, and I get to write about them. People often ask me about bringing kids to the theater – at what age, what kinds of shows to go to, etc. If your kid can sit still for a half hour to an hour at a time, then the key is what the show is like.

Our first theater experience was an outdoor performance of The Sound of Music, when my son was three years old. We sat on benches cut into the side of a hill, and the lovely Maria entered the space from behind the audience, on top of the hill. She came down the aisle, singing that glorious opening song, carrying her guitar case. My son promptly stood up and shouted, “Oh! Mama, she’s got a piano!” After the laughter died down, I wondered if the poor actress playing Maria had heard him or if she just knew she made her big entrance and everyone broke up. The Sound of Music is not children’s theater, we discovered, but I have seen this mistake made many times in real children’s theater-that is, giving the lead diva a wonderful, lyrical number to show off her coloratura chops, when the kids generally could not care less. She goes on and on, and you have yelps of “What’s she yelling about?” and “I need to go pee!” in the audience.

That said, kids will forgive a lot, and will suspend their disbelief at the drop of a hat. I’ve seen wigs fall off, puppeteers appear at inopportune moments, and technical failures that would make The Wizard of Oz look like Peter Jackson, but the kids just let it go by and let themselves be enthralled with the show. What makes it worthwhile? There are a few things that I’ve identified:

1. There’s a story with a clear conflict and goal. In The Borrowers, they want to get outside without getting eaten. In The Elves and the Shoemaker, they need to pay the evil tax man. In Bunnicula, they want to figure out what’s happening without getting eaten. Hansel and Gretel…Hm. There’s a lot of getting eaten in children’s theater now that I think about it. The last thing you want is 50 kids in one room together with no idea what’s happening. That’s how unauthorized wiggling, shouted interruptions, and impromptu crying jags occur. Although usually sobbing parents can pull themselves together if given a minute.

2. Physical comedy. Falling down is always a winner. So is the old kick in the seat of the pants. Especially if the actor winds up, breaks the fourth wall, and asks the kids, “Should I?” If you ever doubt the power of the coliseum mob mentality, watch a bunch of five year olds screaming for one actor to YES! kick another actor in the pants. Cherubs, indeed.

3. Hope. Kids are sensitive little boogers, and they really need to leave on an up note. Not everybody gets the happy ending all the time, but somebody, preferably the lead, really should. My boy still has a hard time with Charlotte’s Web because sure, Charlotte’s babies make friends with Wilbur, but Charlotte herself dies. Children’s theater is not the time to get all literary and worldly with the script or the direction. Yes, they were just screaming for the kick in the pants, but they need to know that generally the world is an okay place to be.

So if you want to take your kid, your nieces and nephews, or your crazy grandpa to the theater, or if you are the type to try your hand at a script, keep these few things in mind. I’ve made the mistakes so that you don’t have to. Just ask the box office if anybody falls down or gets kicked in the pants during the play, and you’re golden.


Go to Machelle’s Venetian Blond Blog
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Branding A Child ’s Brain

I was intrigued recently by the concentration of a young child of four years old watching a DVD. The intensity of his gaze and the length of time that his attention was held was quite a contrast to the activity and tantrums that preceded the ninety minute DVD. I started to think that his little brain was being etched with these images, as he was staring so intently.

Then I started to think about images that I have retained from my childhood, and the more I thought, the more images came to mind. Not from a DVD mind you, as there was no television for me, but from imagery that was still repetitively etched into my mind.

One of these was Mother Goose. I can remember my nursery rhyme book so vividly and the pictures, all in black, yellow and orange that were my reality of what England was like for a young boy in an Australian country town. Maypoles, fayres and rats. Then there was the Queen. Sitting on her horse, dressed in red with a sword on her hip. And me, standing to attention for the Anthem. We all had to get out of the car to stand though, because this happened every Friday night at the drive-in.

Do I need to mention Noddy, Big Ears, Golliwogs, Dick & Dora and Mickey Mouse?

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Negativity

The very first word that is used with a degree of dexterity by any young child is the word no. In any language, the usefulness of this one small word is so obvious to a young mind. So useful in fact, that the necessity to use the affirmative is usually a few more years in the making, and even then is used in extreme moderation.

Our propensity to be initially negative to any give idea, offer, situation, plan or change seems to be a basic human trait. In some cultures it is a form of politeness to say no to even the most trivial offers of kindness or generosity. So what is it about negativity that is so cool?

Personally, I just love negativity in all forms. It has the ability to delve deeper into a topic and extract reasoning and justification that agreement cannot hope to achieve. By arguing the exact opposite, you place the onus of responsibility on the opposing view to prove its point by reasoning and example. In my case, I love to write from a negative viewpoint as it provides me with the opportunity to use thousands of words to justify myself to myself.

Another beautiful aspect of the negative is its ability to provoke. This can simply be a point of view that is opposite to the mainstream view. For example, if I was to express the view that George W. Bush was a really cool guy because he had a neat colouring book and yo-yo collection and that he was just a bit misunderstood when he invaded Iraq, I am sure I would provoke a lively response.

The double negative to me is another wonderful way to express negativity. It is a frowned upon grammatical no-no, but to me it is merely double the fun. I don’t know nobody who don’t like them. I haven’t heard of no place that isn’t hot no more since we got global warming is view I wholeheartedly agree with. But then again, I haven’t done nothing to help the cause neither. While on the subject of double negatives, it worth noting that without them we wouldn’t have no good blues music at all.

The one dilemma I have with my passion for negativity is that if the laws of physics apply, and opposites naturally attract, does this make me a positive person? This notion would cut down my argument in an instant. Would this mean that the young child using negativity with sublime dexterity was actually displaying absolutely positive tendencies? Does this undermine my want to be a positively negative individual?

In the end, I suppose it doesn’t really matter because I am Swiss. So therefore, by the fact of being a very proud Swiss citizen, I must remain utterly, completely and totally neutral.

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Childhood Memories

At age four, many things can be confusing. My first recollection of total confusion occurred behind the kindergarten I attended. I had been playing in the sand pit, and being a country boy, saw no need to make the journey indoors, when all I needed was a pee. The back fence seemed a far more convenient place. Mid way through the exercise, I noticed a co-attendee standing at my side. I immediately established that she was a girl because she had a dress on. She pointed as only young children can do, and asked ‘What’s that?”

I was at a loss as to how to respond to such a stupid question. I recall I checked the fence to see if there was a spider or lizard that may have been the subject of her inquiry, but no, she seemed to be pointing to my, as I new it then, Willy. “Willy!” I responded and was lost by the stupidity of this line of questioning. Maybe this was just a name thing. I had struck this before. Parents seem to go to extraordinary lengths to invent ‘home grown’ names for things they had trouble dealing with; so one thing could have ten or more names in the street.

“Where’s mine?” she asked. (Later I was to discover that question is a very female domain, and not restricted to the under five year old demographic!) “Your what?” I naturally replied, still awfully confused. (To this very day, I still become awfully confused under intense questioning by a member of the opposite sex.) “My Willy!” she replied almost angrily. “I dunno.” I responded, accompanied by the almost mandatory shrug of the shoulders. “But I want one!” she started to cry.

By this time, I had completed my assignment, and had replaced all my personal equipment back in my shorts, and was readying to return to the sand pit, where action was aplenty. “Look between you legs.” I said as I started to return to the sand pit. I was thinking how stupid girls were. It was at this point that my life changed. In an instant she had her dress held up and her pants down to reveal, (to my complete and utter astonishment) nothing! I cannot remember if I felt sorry for her, but one thing was clear at that point. She very definitely did not have a Willy! She insisted I look, and I had to admit she was right. There wasn’t even a small one hiding.

An excerpt from : An Uneducated View of Sex, Food and Politics
ISBN/EAN13: 1449509347 / 9781449509347

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The Comfort of Humour

My upbringing was very normal for the nineteen fifties and sixties in Australia. Boys were meant to be tough creatures who showed no signs of pain, suffering, confusion or emotion. One emotion was permitted however. That was, being happy and contented with life’s lot. The standard was set primarily of course by my father, who was a perfect role model, and by my male relatives, friends and peers. Being tough, hard, unemotional and without fear were the attributes of a real man.

I remember stubbing my big toe on a rock when I was about five or six. My toe nail was pointing north, and there was blood gushing in abundance. There was pain in abundance as well. But before my first tears of pain had completed their gravitational journey down my cheeks, my father’s voice reminded me of my obligations. “Boys, don’t cry!” he said as he doused my bleeding foot with cold water from the garden hose. This was accompanied by the sound advice to have our dog lick my toe as it would help stop the bleeding.

On another occasion, I managed to gash my leg on a rusty nail while climbing a picket fence at the back of our house on my way to my friend who lived behind us. Once again, blood was everywhere and the screams of my friends, and myself of course, attracted my mother’s attention. Naturally she came running, saw the gaping wound in my calf, exposing my shin bone and proceeded to belt me vigorously on the backside while saying, “You father told you never to climb the fence!”

I am sure these two examples highlight the social conditioning I was accustomed to as a youngster. So, what was the result? Humour. It was, and still is the best protection I have from crying my eyes out when pain, suffering, sadness, anxiety or grief threaten to overcome me. In memory of my parents I can give you prime examples of how I habitually manage adversity with humour.

I was unfortunate enough to lose both my parents in the same year. They died within a few months of one another. My dad went first in May. Very suddenly. However, the poor bastard only had a measly five months peace and quiet before my mother got fed up with no one around to nag, and decided to up and die, just so she could get things back to what had been normality for fifty-five years. My poor father. He deserved a little longer.

Then, as Christmas approached for the first time without my parents, I suddenly realised the economy of losing them both. It was a much cheaper Christmas with two fewer gifts to buy and post. The silver lining of the black cloud of death. But then my daughter went and ruined it all by replacing my parents with grand kids, so the economy didn’t last very long.

Humour has always been my protection. It saves me from dwelling on negative thoughts for too long so I can get on with drinking beer and telling jokes. It saves me on washing snotty handkerchiefs and finding machine washed tissue pulp in my Levi’s. It saves me from crying.

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