Bryson, Nora, and the Audition

These kids fight me on almost everything. 

Mrs. Corkin, your song choices are lame. Xylophones are lame. Singing is lame. 

I whine back at them, 'You're lives are lame if you're not willing to try new things!'

Towards the end of the year, I finally pick a song that they like.  I can tell. Despite their best efforts to come across as disinterested, I know they are into this song. You'll Be Back from Hamilton. Also for the first time this year, this particular class is stoked about a solo! (The first verse will be performed by "King George") 

And they immediately quiet down. They are respectful of one another's auditions. They encourage and applaud for their classmates. This is a strange experience for me: they're never this good. 

Bryson and the Audition

Think of your middle school class clown. Now surge the power up about 30%, and you have my 6th grade class clown, Bryson. 

He cannot even make it through our warm up exercises without making a strange noise/gesture/dance move to get everyone's attention. But he's a good kid. In spite of his annoying attempts for attention, I like him.

When the solo auditions roll around, Bryson is uncharacteristically bashful. He turns away when I ask him if he'd like to audition. He says, "nah" and waves away the idea. 

I push just a little, "Are you sure? I mean, dramatic loud moments where you're the center of attention... Isn't that kind of your thing?" I tease,  "You should audition if you want." 

He pauses for a moment, really pondering what I said. He says, completely straight, not even a glint of humor in his voice, "I'll only audition if everyone chants my name, loudly."

I laugh out loud. And the whole class chants his name, "BRY-SON, BRY-SON!" Eventually, he stands up, "Alright, alright, if you insist." 

How do you bottle that kind of confidence?!

Nora and the Audition

One shy girl pauses after class. "Mrs. Corkin?" She squeaks out. This is the first time I've heard her make any noise. 

"Yes, Nora?" 

"I want to audition for the solo, but I didn't want to to do it in front of everyone." 

With a huge smile, I say, "Can you do it right now? In between classes?" She nods her head and I play the music. 

She is so off key, and so off tempo, and I'm so proud. 

I tell her that she did awesome. And that I'm so glad she auditioned.  She runs out the door so suddenly that I think I said the wrong thing. 

But she reemerges from a bustling passing period hallway, with her friend from class--another shy girl. "Mrs. Corkin, Jacqueline wants to audition too." Jacqueline does not look like she wants to do anything but leave immediately. She looks terrified, and physically tries to swat the whole thing away with her hands.

"I don't want to audition"

"No, it's fine, she's cool," says her brave friend, Nora. (The 'she' in that sentence is referring to me. Which makes me feel swell-- One never gets over teenager approval of coolness.)

I ask if she would sing with Nora. She looks away, embarrassed, but nods. Then they sing it together, and it's terrible. But I'll never forget watching that one painfully shy girl helping another shy girl out of her comfort zone.  I hope they want to speak up more during class. 

They don't utter another peep for the rest of the year... But at the end of the year reflection, under the question "What is one thing you will remember and take forward from choir this year?" scrawled in barely-legible writing is Jacqueline's response: That I tried out for a solo. 

I'm delighted she will remember her bravery. I will too.

Victor and the Prank War

I thought my classroom was haunted.

I would come to work, and my chairs had been rearranged. Nothing drastic, but I always put them in order before leaving, and I always arrive the next morning with one section slightly scrambled. 

I confide with a class that I think I have a ghost. "Something's been moving my chairs!"

One particularly-trouble-producing boy, we'll call him Victor, starts chuckling. 

"It's YOU!" I deduce from his reaction, that he is the chair-shuffling culprit. He couldn't contain his giggles. 

"Maybe" ... laughing like he's the cleverest little prankster to ever exist.

"I'm going to get you back for this, you little punk" I said with a wink and a sparkle in my eye.  

He hates my class, as far as I can tell. He is a cool kid  on campus, and this class is not very cool. 

After that little encounter, where I catch him for his crimes, his relationship to the class doesn't really change. He certainly doesn't try to sing or anything crazy like that.

But he will hang back, try to be the last one to leave the room so he can have his moment with me to throw down: "I'm waiting, Mrs. Corkin" in a taunting tone that says, I  don't think you're really going to do anything.  

To which I reply, "It's coming... Just wait." He smiles and leaves. 

The second-to-last day of the semester, I enlist some help from the adults. Our school resource officer (aka policeman) pulls Victor out of class, walks him down to the front office, and makes him sweat, thinking he's in trouble. Then, the front desk secretary asks his name, nods disapprovingly, clicks her tongue, and hands him a note. 

He cautiously unfolds the paper. The note reads, "Dear Victor, Gotcha! :)  -Mrs. Corkin"

He tells the whole class about our little prank war--like it is the coolest game ever. This little skirmish against each other means we are actually on the same team.

It is so funny. Not in a HaHa kind of way but in a 13-year-olds-are-strange-and-unpredictable-creatures kind of way. I shouldn't be mad they're not what I expected. Sometimes, you need to meet them where they are. 

Long after he is no longer my student, he still waves at me. He'll throw up the "I'm watching you" signal, with a smile, before almost running into someone in the hallways.  Up until the very last day of school, a semester later, I see him sneak in and out of my room, and he waits until I catch him, so he can flash me his big grin.

Alex and the Song

Surprising Spaces. 

We'll call him Alex. He was kind of a bugger. A kid who made it clear that he didn't really like my homeroom class (which, to be fair, I didn't either). He was the kid who rearranged all my push pins, and stole rubber bands so he could launch them across the room in a finger gun. He was the kid who groaned at my choice in background instrumental music. He was the kid who right after I instructed, "you can do origami, but no paper airplanes, please" made a paper airplane and threw it at my forehead.  He and his friends would say things in Spanish, testing whether or not they could get away with their own secret language under the teacher's nose. 

 (I luckily squelched that pretty early when one kid said to Alex, "Tienes alguna comida? Tengo hambre" to which I replied, "You guys know you can't eat in here" they both gasped, looked at each other wide-eyed, and never tried anything like that again. I didn't tell them the only other phrase I could've caught them on is Donde esta la biblioteca"). 

One day he nods his head in the direction of the piano. "Yo, Mrs. Corkin....You know how to play that thing?" I smile. He's not in one of my music classes. 

"Ya, Alex, I can play that thing."

 A challenge in his tone, "For real? Show me. What can you play??"

"How about happy birthday?"

"ok, ok, cool." 

I play the familiar ditty on the piano and he clicks his teeth and scoffs on his way out the door--unimpressed. He's made fun of me for my taste in music before, nothing new. 

Over the next few days, he starts to kind of wander into my class during passing periods. Just stopping by. Sometimes just sitting in the back while I teach another class for a few minutes until I notice him, "Alex, are you supposed to be somewhere else?" Then he bounces out the door. Undeterred, he keeps coming back. I think he kind of likes hanging out in my classroom. Which is weird, because I thought he hated my classroom.

One day, he pokes his head in and sheepishly says, "Hey, yo, Mrs. Corkin. You think you could teach me how to play happy birthday?"

I grin. 

"I think I probably could."

For four days straight, he wanders in, en route to somewhere else, sits down at the piano, and learns two or three notes of the sequence at a time. 

He then proudly walks into the middle of my other classes, sits down at the piano, shows off his skills playing Happy Birthday with the confidence of Billy Joel. 

Before I usher him out, because he is actually supposed to be in another class.

 

Like most experiences with 6 and 7th graders, I'm not entirely sure what the moral of the story is. 

Children's opinion of you is not reflected in their behavior. Shooting hand sanitizer across the counter, or reading books upside-down, to get out of reading, is not necessarily a middle finger. 

I assumed Alex thought I was lame, but somewhere along the line, I created the space he felt comfortable wandering into, escaping to, learning from, growing in. 

The songs I think are basic, are still awesome. He was so proud of himself for learning that song. 

 I realized he's probably never played any piano except for mine. 

I hope he caught the music bug and wants to be a pianist. I hope he remembers the first song he ever learned was happy birthday. And that he learned it from his frazzled 6th grade homeroom teacher, Mrs. Corkin. 

Josue and the Martian

Because of Covid (and some Emmy-award-level drama through the administration), there was no longer a position for me at the high school where I taught last year. 

So I moved to another school in town--an intermediate school: 6 and 7th grade. This was a very different demographic than high school performers. Low-income school, lots of English Language Learners. Lots of tough kids. My bleeding liberal heart loved the idea of really changing a kids' life through music. But the day-to-day was not that romantic. 

The next few blog posts are about my time teaching 6-7th grade goobers. 

Josue and the Martian

Three weeks into school. This is very different than teaching high schoolers. 

6th and 7th grade. 11-13 year-olds.

Remember what you were like then?

 Now multiply that by 40. That's what I have to teach three times a day. These creatures are like aliens to me. They might as well be a different species. They can't really sing. They don't sit still. They don't really listen, even when they are quiet--which is not often.

This was the recipe for my year: 

Take 42 barely-pubescent children

Gently fold them in the same small classroom

Beat until submissive -Kidding-

Remember they've just came out of quarantine (played video games endlessly for months). 

Now cover their mouths so you can't tell who's talking. And you have to learn all 120 of their names using just their eyes and hair cuts as distinguishing features. 

Most of them are there because there's not enough room in art or PE class, and they have no hesitation telling you how much they hate your subject matter. 

This one kid--we'll call Mav--is literally bouncing in his seat. When we do our introductions, he is "Mav the Martian" and wiggled his entire body for a whole minute before we could move on to the next child. He cannot stand still. He cannot sit still. He cannot stop talking. 

I finally threaten that I might his move him to another chair across the room, and he immediately freezes and goes silent.  I am surprised: This tactic is not usually that effective. I made a mental note that Mav really doesn't want to move seats. 

After class he comes up to me, "Uh... teacher?" 

I reply with a snarky, "Yes... pupil?" I can learn 120 names without noses, and you can't remember one teacher name?

I can see he is confused by my response--my awesome sarcasm does not land. I then recognize that he doesn't know what pupil means in this context, and sigh. They'll never appreciate my humor. 

I try again, "Ya, Mav, what's up?"

"Um...You said you might move my seat, which is fine and all, but can I please sit next to Josue? He doesn't speak English, so he gets lost and scared in class if I don't help translate." 

*cue heart melt. 

The next few days, I observe the way Mav watches out for his English-learning friend. 

This Mav kid immediately changes from being one of my least favorite, to one of my most. He is certainly not a model student. I can't even call him a good one. And he hates singing--and he makes that clear to me often. 

But I love his spirit. I love watching him be protective of a fellow student, Josue, who could easily feel lost,  isolated, and overwhelmed in a classroom where you don't speak the language.

For our Christmas (virtual) concert, we sing a song in Spanish. As we're learning it, I put Josue in charge of his own group to help with the pronunciation, and he beams with satisfaction that he can contribute.  

Though Mav doesn't like choir, Josue does. He likes choir a lot. And without Mav annoying my class, and watching over his friend, Josue might never have known it. 

Fairy Vampire Queen or Bad Birthday Cake? The Purple Hair Saga

We all go through hair events. Mine aren't usually spectacularly interesting. Like the time I went red (and I looked like I'd fallen in a bucket of dirt) or the time I got a perm (and looked like a wet dog). But when it happens, it genuinely feels like the most important thing in your life at the time. So I'm writing a whole blog about my current hair event: Purple. 

A fundraiser at school was called "Teacher Torture," where if the kids raised X amount of money, teachers would do something unpleasant.  Like the social-studies teacher would wax his legs, our media instructor would get eggs thrown at him, our principal would engage in a rap battle, and I would dye my hair purple. The others were more like actual torture (like the math teacher having to come out in full drag) but mine was like throwing me in the briar patch. "Oh...Please! Not PURPLE HAIR!"Secretly very excited. At one point I was nervous they wouldn't raise the money, and I'd have to donate myself to reach the goal because I'd already bought the hair dye.

I really loved it.

Went to prom as a chaperone, sporting my own prom dress from 10 years ago. The floor-length, pleated black and-blue silk never going out of fashion. And I felt like a Fairy Vampire Queen.

The picture doesn't do it justice--but with the hair, and the gown, and the face, it was fierce. I felt like the feisty, mystical heroine of a teen fantasy novel.

Then I decided the purple was too quirky to have the same boring haircut. I needed a change. And like the random, spontaneous being I sometimes am, I decided to cut it myself.


No, I have never cut my own hair. No, I have not cut anyone's else's (besides buzzing a kid's afro at a basketball game in high school, and a boyfriends' in college who thereafter banned me from ever cutting hair again). But I've watched someone cut my hair at least 50 times... How hard could it be?

It was a bizarre impulse I can't quite describe. Strangely empowering.  I felt like a 6-year-old who was searching for control and finding it in destruction... Just slicing through a chunk of hair. 4 inches, gone. A totally, completely irreversible act. Chop chop slice chop slice chop chop chop.

I even layered it--like I'd seen the pros do every time.

Then I blow dried it, and styled it, and felt pretty darn good about myself.
Bam! Haircut! Layers! I just saved myself $50. Shear Brilliance (see what I did there??)

Not bad for a 1st time hair-cut, right? 

My brother's dog was staying with me. And he looked up at me with pleading eyes that unmistakably said, "I wish I could change up my style that way. I want something fresh, and a little funky. But subtle." How could anyone not respond to such a reasonable and specific request? So I dyed his ears purple. and then we matched.

He clearly is thrilled about his new 'do.

Fast forward a few days-- I washed my hair, and let it dry normally, and discovered one side pretty drastically longer than the other. Also, the awesome layers I was so proud of, looked more like a 3-tiered, Dr. Seuss cake. So it wasn't quite as victorious a venture as I'd thought. 

But you know what? Unlike other hair fiascos, it does not feel like the most important thing in my life right now.
Which is liberating.

Razzle and Dazzle 'Em

The last vestiges of glue have peeled off my eyelashes, the last sticky remains of mic tape have rubbed off my neck, the calluses on my toes are healing--I think I've finally accepted that Chicago has closed. 

I’ve been reminiscing about the whole process (as one does in post-show depression), and remembered the funny conversation that lead me to that audition in the first place: 

In class, one of my students floated the idea that you should never turn down the opportunity to audition because you learn something every time. I said, "Absolutely! Always take that chance! If nothing else, it helps to show your nerves that come during an audition, so you know how to better deal with them for the next one." (Or some inspiring crap like that) 

The following dialogue was like out of a Disney movie with a snarky kid who makes the grown-up reevaluate their life:

"So when's the last time you auditioned for something, Mrs. Corkin?"

"Well, I, um.."

"Or better yet, when's your next audition?"

"I don't really..."

"I'm going to audition for Chicago next week--You should too!"

"What?"

"Didn't you just say you should take every chance to audition you can get?"

"Well..."

"Great! I'll see you there!"

Then, of course, the night of the auditions, I decided she was right. I was constantly asking my students to be vulnerable, to put themselves out there, and to learn from their experiences. What a hypocrite I'd be if I didn't take the chance to learn something? 

If nothing else, to be able to better empathize with their little nerves (because it had been a while). 

I was somehow late, and so unprepared: no dance shoes (just socks), no headshot, no resume, no monologue even. I knew a song from the show (because who doesn't know a song from Chicago?), but I had to look up the words to make sure I had the right order. 

I forgot what it was like to be nervous for something, to put yourself out there, to be vulnerable.

And of course, the happy surprise ending that I got cast. Well, now what?  Then came the inner debates I had for weeks--can I even DO this show??--1st year, full-time teaching (I'm already overwhelmed), music-directing the musical (I'll be on my feet for 15 hours straight for most of two months...) On the other hand, what a fun role! And I don't have any friends in this new city, I'd like to have friends! I miss friends! Heck, I miss theater! So with my boss's blessing, I committed. 

Look at that GIANT on the right--you see my concern!

Playing this role forced me to address some vulnerabilities I haven't felt in a long time (too tall, too clunky, too squishy, too fat, not trained, not enough ______, yada yada, blah blah blah) All those pesky things we're forced to examine when putting ourselves on display on a stage.

My role was double cast--with a gorgeous, petite dancer (who was also our phenomenal choreographer). So the temptation was strong to compare my giant, ogre-like, towering frame to her lithe, flexible princess-ness. 

Icky, un-pointed toes. You get the picture. 

 Next to my cute, little Velma, I looked like a ginormesaur.  Oy vey! 

But I kept thinking, what would I tell my students? Would I ever let their insecurities about how capable they are as a dancer keep them from dancing? Never. 

Would I ever look at another tall woman and say she shouldn't be dancing? Never. Why can't we grant ourselves the same grace we grant others? 

And whether or not my cast even knew about them, those insecurities of mine were met with support, love, laughter, and friendship. And no comparison--simply the chance to learn from one another. 

To say I gained friends is an understatement. It was an honor to be a part of this crew: chock-full of the most generous, kind-spirited, talented performers and crew-members. Builders, every one of them. It was all hands on deck, and no hands complaining. I learned so much. And (once I got over myself a little bit) had so. much. fun.

What a crew, huh?? Gorgeous. Every one of 'em!

The takeaway: Be vulnerable. Be generous, don't compare, be willing to learn. Always audition. 

So the grey, sticky remnants of mic tape gone, the bruises finally healed, my eyelashes growing back: no physical proof stuck on my body, the only thing left to keep is the memories, and the songs forever stuck in my head, and all that jazz. 

Just a few memories for honorable mention:

• Trying not to blush when we first blocked the racier scenes, barely knowing each other. I tried desperately to be mature but definitely giggled at all the sex jokes along the way.
• Scrambling to find places to rehearse when we inevitably got kicked out of the big rooms. 
• That moment we realized our director, Josh was serious about throwing baby dolls across the stage.
• Colliding baby dolls across the stage. 
• Stretching/warming up in slightly inappropriate places.
• Costume malfunctions, pinning and pressing, and snapping things into place, in hopes they'll stay.
• The awkwardness of trying to get in and out of the lira (except for Ashlie. who looked incredible doing so).
• Pure bliss waltzing with a strong partner like Andy when trying to be a lifeless puppet. Waltzing with Andy under any circumstances is bliss.
• Not being able to squeal with pure JOY in seeing Tony finally make it across the stage on a unicycle because my mic was on. 
• The various swear words accidentally muttered through the speakers because mics were on :)
• Learning New swear words from Barb every night.
• Crissakes! (noun, kri(s)/säk/ē(s), clever expletive.)
• The comfort levels of walking around in underwear backstage growing: again, we started out tentatively modest, then didn't have time to care. As one cast member said closing night, "I guess it's no longer acceptable for us to be in our underwear around each other..."
• Fire-alarms leading to us all to stand outside in the cold, in our classy 1920's lingerie. Twice.
• Taping a garbage bag to the door frame so that the smoke machine didn't cause the fire alarm to put us out in the cold in classy 1920's lingerie again. 
• The sweet relief of taking off the wig each show.
• The excitement of opening night, of sharing our fun version of this story; and the swell in our hearts on closing.

  

  a happier version of me does not exist than
  the moment the wig came off every night

Is Anybody Waving Back at Me?

Until this school year, getting out of bed has always been a struggle (I mean, it's still a struggle actually removing the warm covers from my sleepy body, but the metaphorical struggle of not having ample purpose to get out of bed in the morning is solved!).

I've never felt this kind of support, encouragement, community, excitement, and love at work. 

A week into the school year, the ladies on staff threw me a surprise bridal shower. Full on balloons, and temporary tattoos, and cupcakes, and a three-trips-to-the-car-and-back pile of presents to give me. And they barely knew me. 

Me & my bestie Steve.

On top of that, I have an amazing, competent administration that genuinely cares about the best education possible for these kids, and also the best PD and resources for the teachers (like sitting in on rehearsals run by Steven Schwartz).

Plus I get to immerse myself in musical theater. Like, THAT IS MY JOB. I teach about the history and the impact of the history. I teach directing, and I get to direct. We explore, we workshop, we choreograph, we build as classes. I teach a group of 160 self-selected demographic of talented students, excited about the subject, and willing to try and grow (when does that happen in high school??) 

I feel like I went from last year's episode of living in The Twilight Zone, to running the whole darn television network. I feel so lucky and so grateful. Dream job. 

...

Today, one of my best singers, we'll call her Amy, came to me and asked if she could chat.

"Mrs. Corkin, I'm sorry to waste your time..."

"You're not wasting my time! What's on your mind?"

"My mom thinks whatever I do is great, so I can't ask her," she said chuckling, but her eyes brimming with tears, "I... kind of panicked... cause I just... don't think I'm good enough, and I... need to know if I should be.. you know... doing something else? Am I wasting my time?"

At her audition, she sang a song called "Waving Through a Window" from the musical Dear Evan Hansen. A teenager seeking for belonging, belts the phrase, "Is anybody waving back at me?" An emotion paralleled in her watery eyes right then.

It was this funny moment--realizing the impact I could have in this job. What I said might very well be remembered by that girl for the rest of her life.

Because I remember that exact fear. I was Amy.

I had that gripping panic at 15-years-old, then again at 16, then about twice a year for the next decade (still do, sometimes. who doesn't?).

I remember that desperation for an authority to tell me I had a talent worth pursuing.

I walked into my college voice teacher's office and asked her if I should bother continuing. Internally begging her to tell me I wasn't good enough so I could move on, live in the world that wasn't make-believe. Or to tell me I had the perfect potential and the world would be at a loss without me on the stage.

But she didn't tell me either. She basically said, "I don't really know."

When I realized I wasn't going to be on Broadway (at 15), I constantly thought I should've been spending my time doing other things. Should I have learned to be a computer coder instead? Maybe. Should I have become fluent in a second language? Mastered the Piano? Understood/cared about football? Maybe.*

But I can't think all that time doing theater was a waste. I honestly can't think any of that time was a waste. The musical theater world is a place where we collaborate, we create, we connect. I wouldn't take back any of those experiences.

"Amy." I chose my words cautiously, looking at her face reflecting that feeling 'Is anybody waving back at me?'
"Objectively, you were one of the best auditions for the company. That's why you made it on. You have talent." I watched her face and waited for that to sink in. "But even if you don't do this professionally in the end, do you think it's a waste of your time?"

She paused, thoughtful. Then she responded quietly, but strong. Looking me straight in the eyes, "No. I don't."

I smiled, "Me neither."

I hope we're right. But I've never felt more peaceful that I was doing the right thing than I am right now.

*as a dear friend once told me, "Don't 'should' on yourself."