Prose Before Hos

It had been a seemingly typical low-key Tuesday until two little words sent me running from the room screaming like Uncle Jesse threatened with a crewcut.

Field. Trip.

Obviously I was still nursing my blisters from last Friday’s Magical Moronity Tour.

But once the rushing air stopped clogging my ears, I discovered this trip might actually be a good time. A great time, even.

Tuesday’s only evening class is Upstairs Woman doing X-Treme Teens. I can’t for the life of me remember if I’ve ever talked about this. I must have mentioned it at some point. But it’s basically an “anything goes” class. Whatever she feels is a timely topic, she covers. This week, taking the hoodlings to a teen-acted, teen-produced, teen-everythinged presentation of MacBeth was apparently appropriate. And Co-Workerette decided that I should be the second adult chaperone, not her.

Not that I’d ever complain at the prospect of seeing my absolute favorite work of Billy S.

Hark!

The best part about the trip was how I didn’t have to worry whether she could get us there in a timely fashion. Upstairs Woman has special insurance that allows her to be liable for hoodlings riding in the Hoodwagon, which is essentially the most stereotypical, gigantic, rusting, pollutant-emitting, nasty football pads-smelling, one-of-four-doors-working, Shamu-of-a-van this side of the Continental Divide. She also has access to MapQuest and a printer, along with a rudimentary knowledge of traffic laws. Whee!

Only about eight kids ended up going. I wasn’t around for the previous week’s class, so I’m not sure if she prepared them for this. She certainly didn’t before we left. Which was kind of puzzling. Because if they’re going to get something out of this, it’s probably not best to assume their crap schools have somehow fit “Understanding Shakespeare” in between crossword puzzles and mathless math. So I did my best to quiz the people sitting around me in the Hoodwagon on their Shakespearian knowhow. You can imagine how this went.

Me: So… do you study Shakespeare at school?

Pixel: *shrug*

Me: You think he’s hard to understand?

Pixel: *shrug*

Me: Do you have any idea what you’re going to see?

Pixel: *shrug* I just wanted to go somewhere.

The rest of the van was much too engrossed in belting out rounds of “Um-barrr-ella (ELLA!) (ELLA!) (EH!) (EH!)” so I resigned to at least being able to enjoy it for myself.

We piled out of the whale van at some little arts center across the city just as the play was starting. I still have no idea how Upstairs Woman managed to find a space, let alone parallel park that monstrosity. Anyway. The kids all filed into the back row of the tiny theater until we urged them all to sit closer. I sat next to Pixel and Red a couple rows behind everyone else. This worked well for me because I was just as interested in surreptitiously observing their reactions as the performance itself. Probably more so. It’s what I do.

Shakespeare, as most people probably discovered during bouts of Curricula Force Feedus, is HARD. Hard to really grasp and analyze and relate and ENJOY because it simply does not make any sense. Or rather, does not make sense without effort on the reader’s part. So my expectations hovered slightly above zero for my peeps to comprehend any semblance of plot or story. For most people it’s like trying to understand a second language. For them, I’d imagine it’s like trying to understand a second language while standing on their heads and humming O Dem Golden Slippers.

Everyone seemed oddly fascinated throughout the three witches spiel in the opening scene. But after the sixth “… um… line?…” in 30 seconds from the poor, stage-phobic/amnesiac MacBeth, the brood began collectively nodding off.

Pixel and Red seemed to at least be watching the stage with open eyes, but I couldn’t say for sure about those in front of us. A shame, too, because I was thrilled that a MacBrotha was playing MacBeth. The cast consisted of all teenagers, probably averaging around the same 15ish age as ours. It was also a very racially-mixed group, which would have been great exposure, had any of ours been paying attention.

I want to say that the “teenage production” hook was both the best and worst part of it. The best, of course, because it opened up more doors of opportunity for our kids regarding ways to spend their time and talents to explore. Certainly we have more than enough drama queens who need an outlet. But because this was a teen Shakespeare club, practice time was probably next to nil, epidemic procrastination syndrome did not equate to remembering lines, and general performance anxiety for at least half the cast translated into a mind-numbingly boring adaptation.

I briefly considered writing “…um….LINE?” after every third sentence in this entry because that literally is how the play went. But I’m not that much of a masochist.

Despite that, following along was fine for me, because I knew the story, the characters, and a good number of the lines. But for the brood, it probably amounted to a lot of ye olde blah blah blah-ing, mayhap.

But there remained a shroud of hope — this play, I knew, would eventually get violent!

I don’t work with a big staff. I don’t even work with a small staff. In fact, most of the time I’m on my own with the kids, so I don’t have anyone else off whom to bounce ideas or comments or general observations of perfect irony. Mostly it’s just my head and me. Cool.

So I make bets with myself. It works out, because obviously, I never lose.

This time the bet was “when the nodders-off, particularly Tyson, will snap awake and become entranced by the performance.” Naturally I guessed the especially murderous and sword-wielding latter-acts.

You would not be-lieeeeve the sheer velocity with which heads shot up for those fight scenes. We’re talking whiplash-caliber jerks, here.

Also there was that endearingly predictable eruption of laughter when MacBeth wonders aloud, “Who’s there? What, ho!”

Thankfully this was apparently the “abridged” version, and it ended within a reasonable hour or so. I was surprised that the best part of the performance ended up being the question and answer session with the cast after they finished. Before taking questions, each of the 25-ish members said their name, age and school. The majority of the public school kids were, unsurprisingly, from Woodrow Wilson, which is in far Northwest DC. It’s hardly a toenail’s likeness to Sidwell Friends (private school catering to the Elite Beltway Offspring), but it’s a still light year or two away from the atrocious Cardozo.

Wilson is much more racially integrated and the number of low-income students drops considerably. Maybe those kids are more exposed to opportunities like this because a parent is around to encourage it. I doubt the correlation is a coincidence. But the girl who played — brilliantly, I might add — Lady MacBeth said she had to find a club like this to join because her school doesn’t have art and drama classes. Yup, gotta love those budget cuts. Unless the budget never existed in the first place, which is entirely possible around here.

Our kids had a couple good questions for the cast. Too bad I can’t remember what they are now. But for the most part they seemed intrigued that other DC youth could be into something besides sitting around after school. I asked Pixel and Red on the way out if they enjoyed themselves. They nodded, and Pixel added that she thought the play was “real funny.” Yup, nothing cracks me up like a Shakespearian tragedy.

They may not have understood any of it, but the exposure was worthwhile. It’s impossible to fully comprehend this idiosyncratic bubble they live in until you’ve experienced it yourself.

The Hoodwagon sputtered back home, but not before making an obligatory stop at our neighborhood McDonalds. Like most trips into the “other DC,” it was equal parts culturally fascinating and socially distressing.

So foul and fair a day I have not seen.