Worst of Times, Best of Times

It was the worst of times; it was the best of times.  It was Tuesday afternoon on the Ides of March.

2:20 P.M.

I walk into S’s classroom and find him with his head down.  His teacher has started a lesson on literary essays.  I have to admit that I sort of understand there being a little resistance to literary analysis when you’re a third grader.  Nonetheless, the teacher is doing her best to make it entertaining, and most of the students are doing their best to draft an essay.  S. is not going there.  I walk up to his desk.  “Hi S. How’s it going?”  Not sure why I said this, when it was clear that it was not going well for S. 

 “NNNgggg.”  That’s my best approximation for the grunting or growling sound that he makes as he hides his face in his arms.

“Let’s see if we can get some of your ideas down.”  

“NNNgggg.”  He had better ideas yesterday.

“Let’s take out your writing folder, like Ms. K. just said.”

“NNNNGGGG!”  He is getting more frustrated.

“I’d be happy to do the writing for you, if you tell me what you want to say.” I know the physical act of writing is very challenging for him.

“NNNGGG!”

“Can I just get your folder out so we can see what you wrote yesterday?”  I reach for his desk. 

S. swings his arm out from under his head and WHACK, hits my arm with a fair amount of force for a third grader.  

“All right.  I don’t like being hit, S., but I can see that you aren’t ready to work on your writing right now.  I’ll be over there working with C.  If you decide you’re ready, just let me know.”

He spends the next 20 minutes on the floor reading or staring at a book.  I venture over two more times to see if his mood has softened.  We do not get any writing done.   I leave feeling pretty useless.

*****

3:30 P.M.

The buses have gone and the pick-ups have departed, so I head to the auditorium. We have a rehearsal for the musical, and I’m meeting with one of the students who’s helping with the lighting.  O. is waiting for me in the audience.  We head to the booth at the back of the auditorium.  I show him the switches on the wall.  “These are the lights for the  inside of the booth.  When the show is on, we’ll have these off.”

“Okay, what about these?” he asks.

“Those switches control the house lights. That’s the overhead lights where the audience is.”

“Oh, so those should be off, right?”

“During the show, yes, but when the audience is entering or exiting, they should be on.”

“Got it.”  He’s taking this all in, and he’s being very serious.

I show O. the dimmer switches that control the aisle seats.  “These will be on during the whole show.  They’re low lights, but they’re for safety.”

“Oh, you mean like if there was an emergency and they had to get out?”

“Right.”

That was the easy part.  The next thing he needs to learn is the light board.  I show him how there is a board for the sound people and a separate board for the lights.  He and another fifth grader will be handling the lights.  “So this is the board that you’ll be controlling.”

His eyes light up.  “This is so cool.  What do these buttons do?”

It doesn’t take me long to show him the little that I understood about the light board.  I’ve only had about a one-week head start on him.  I show him the sliders that control the LED lights above the stage.  I show him the controls for the different colored lights that are aimed toward the stage.  

For the next hour, we watch the rehearsal, read the script, read through the director’s lighting notes, and play with the board.  He figures out how to make the lights flash on and off during a fight with a dragon.  He figures out how to make it look like a sunset in another scene.  We experiment with dimming when the villain is on stage and brightening when the villagers appear. 

By the end of the hour, O. has surpassed me in his understanding of the board.  He has volunteered to bring in his charging brick to power the star projector.  He has gladly accepted a copy of the script so he can read the story tonight, and he has asked me to email him the lighting notes from the director.

At 4:30 the stage manager knocks on the sound booth door to tell O. that his mom is here.  The rehearsal is over, but he is still exploring the buttons.  “I wonder what this ‘top sync’ button does.”  We shut down all the boards and turn out the  lights.  O. dashes off to meet his mom.  As I am locking the door to the booth, O. comes running back.  “My mom says I can stay longer if you need me.”  I thank him but assure him that he has done plenty for one day and besides, everyone is going home. 

“Okay, thanks.  I’ll bring in that charger tomorrow!  Don’t forget to send me those directions.”

As he dashes off, I realize the pain in my arm has disappeared.  Now I’m just hoping I’ll be able to keep up with O. over the next few weeks.

• Slice of Life