Dramatic Paws

When I was a kid, I watched the movie “Fame” about a gazillion times. I too wanted to have massive amounts of talent, to dance and sing and act and spontaneously break it down in the cafeteria. The idea that you could go to school surrounded by your people, and learn cool stuff in addition to math and science and boring old history, that every day was a musical, well, it seemed too good to be true.  Alas, I don’t have that kind of talent. In fact, I am still trying to figure out my talents. 

But for kids who do, there is a school like that in most cities, a performing or fine arts center, so the students of today can explore their creative side, and maybe, just maybe, one member of their graduating class will be an extra on CSI.

I never took drama in high school, so I don’t really know if it’s like Fame or High School Musical or Glee. My younger daughter, S, is currently taking drama in seventh grade, but so far, it’s not really shaping up to be a fictitious art school experience.

At S’s school, it’s very difficult to get drama as an elective because it is extremely popular. The teacher that used to teach it was adored by all her students, and the entire middle school would have gladiator style fights to try to get placed in her class. Unfortunately, she doesn’t teach at the school anymore. There’s a new drama teacher, one who walked off the set of the Hobbit, complete with short stature, smart little vest, and odd hair growth in uncommon places.  A lot of students were exceedingly disappointed their beloved drama teacher, the one they thought they would bond with over a semester, come back to visit while in college, and eventually friend on Facebook, was gone, leaving this troll in her place.

The funny part is that S didn’t even register for drama. She wanted keyboarding or Spanish, but thanks to an injury that required us to rearrange her electives, she was placed in drama against her will. I couldn’t really do any switching around since the school already accommodated her broken foot and knee scooter, so she just had to deal with it. Deal with it, I said to her.

This may come as a surprise to you, but I don’t want to be that mom. The pain in the ass one, always making demands and seeking special treatment for her children. I prefer to approach school much as I would a prison sentence. Do what they ask of you, don’t get involved in yard fights or romances, keep your nose down, and do your time. If you’re lucky, you make it out alive with a little time off for good behavior.

S was pretty unhappy about the drama class, but I pointed out to her that it wasn’t going to be much work. Just participate when you have to and you should be fine, I told her. For the most part, that’s kind of how it’s going. She has to write the occasional monologue or small skit, but for the most part, they play a lot of games.

What kind of games? Well, this is the part that I am not really clear about. Most days, S gets in the car and gives me a debriefing. What quizzes she had, what she did in PE, who talked to whom, the deliciousness of her lunch, and then, the daily drama game. As far as I can tell, at least three days a week are devoted to drama games, and they all appear to be some version of Seven Minutes in Heaven.

Maybe you played it as Two Minutes in the Closet, but whatever version you experimented with, it involved the same thing, right? Intimacy was initiated at a party by pairing up two victims. The unlucky couple would go off privately and explore their budding sexuality while waiting for the timer set to two or seven minutes to go off, at which point they would step out of the closet, away from the forced groping and straight to the public humiliation awaiting them from their so-called friends.

The games in drama class don’t involve a timer or a closet. Instead, they all involve a blindfold and some probing. Basically, one person in the class is blindfolded and then must connect with a classmate in some physical way, thus ending the turn until the groped individual dons the blindfold and takes a turn grabbing at his or her classmate’s body parts. Hilarity ensues, perhaps, but so does some level of sexual assault. Basically, the blindfolded person, who in S’s report is always male, puts out his hands to feel up the other students. She has had her hair grabbed, her hip and waist caressed, her knees fondled. One time she had to endure the breathing of her male classmate on the nape of her neck. She spends drama game time with one arm across her chest and the other one protecting her virginity, down there.

The games have different names, like Statue or Zombie, but they always involve the blindfold and some heavy petting, not unlike Fifty Shades of Gray. Maybe they are more along the same lines of Marco Polo without the pool, but the potential to get past second base makes them more like rumpus room party games than lessons in acting. Unless the goal is to act like you aren’t uncomfortable or traumatized, in which case, they are quite effective.  

I suppose the point is to be more comfortable moving their bodies or to trust your fellow classmates to not do something horrible to you or just to kill time while the teacher continues his search for the Ring. At least there isn’t a class play we have to attend at the end of the semester, although I could see them pulling off Kinky Boots or Chicago or a Bob Fosse Classic like All That Jazz.

I keep telling S just to let someone have a little feel if that gets her an A. Better to do that in drama than Algebra, right?