Give me a C!

For years, I taught art at an expensive upper West Side private middle school that prided itself on its charitable programs.  Eleven, twelve, and thirteen year olds who came to school wearing iPods, Tiffany bracelets, and True Religion jeans would spend the morning slathering bread with peanut butter and jelly for Gods Love We Deliver, bringing holiday songs to senior citizens in a local nursing hone, doing art projects with little kids in a shelter.

On this particular day, the children returned to the school for the afternoon, after having completed their morning o' good deeds.  Because it was difficult to corral them back behind their desks (and equally hard to corral the teachers who'd scatter a bit on the way back to the building), some in-school small group activities had been planned. 

Students were divided up into their community groups, three kids from each grade per group.  Each group was given a word to illustrate, in whichever way they chose.   We'd be sharing the results at the end of the day.  The head of school and several other administrators were known to show up for these internal celebrations.

My group considered themselves to be lucky because I was one of two teachers assigned to guide them.  Not because of any insane popularity, but because, as the art teacher, I had the key to the room with the good supplies.

COMMUNITY was our word.  How should we present it to the school?  The usual suggestions were tossed around--adorably predictable pre-adolescent stuff.  We could all trace our hands on a big piece of paper  We could perform a skit about basketball?  Maybe something about how gossip is bad?

Then Daniel raised his hand.  "Wait," he said.  "There are nine of us and there are nine letters on community!" 

Too good to be true, everyone agreed.  The enthusiasm was palpable.  The other teacher (Mandy--English Language Arts) and I exchanged a proud glance--thrilled that Daniel had brainstormed his group out of the usual and that all the kids were on board.

I was dispatched to the art room to retrieve some large construction paper, sharpies, yarn, and cray-pas. 

By the time I got back, the kids had chosen their letters--and were slotting in the rest of the skit.

They were to begin the project with enormous, beautifully-decorated letters hanging down from their necks--but the letters would be all jumbled up.  While they worked on drawing their letters and filling them in with colorful patterns, they excitedly plotted out their parts.

The first kid would be a lady who needs bread..."so I'll go to the store and by the bread from..."

The storekeeper!  "I'll sell the bread and take the money from the register to..."

The banker!  "I'll take the money and stamp some receipts and then see a suspicious car in the parking lot and call..."

The policewoman!  "I'll run the license plates and decide the car's okay, but then I'll get a flat tire and need to call..."

The mechanic!  "I'll..." and so on and so forth until this entire community of needers and providers has been described.  The big finale, of course, would be when the kids who had been standing in the wrong order would shuffle themselves into the right spot to reveal the big word...COMMUNITY.  Ta-da!

Mandy and I chatted while the kids honed their skit.  What a bright group, what a smart idea, etc. etc. etc.

Minutes before the kids were to go join the others in the auditorium it was suggested that they do a quick run-through.  Thank god.

First up was the girl--the lady bread-buyer.  She was wearing the letter M around her neck.
Then the storekeeper (O), the banker (Y), the policeman (C), the mechanic (U), then...uh oh.
'N' and 'T' were lining up in position.  Another 'M' and the 'I' were hanging out at the end of the group.  But right there in the middle were the policeman, the mechanic, and the N and the T. 

Mandy and I blanched, made eye contact, and burst into laughter.  Not the kind you can really let out of course, the in-the-pew teary-eyed internal implosion I remember from church as a kid. 

The kids were already starting their rehearsed back-and-forths...

"Umm, some of you have to change positions," Mandy called out.  The kids looked at her like she was kidding.  It was probably the first thing Mandy had said in the ninety minutes we'd been together.

"What?  Why?" they wondered looking down at their letters.

"Umm, no reason, it'd just work better" I offered.  Leaping out of my seat to lead 'N' over to the end of the line. 

'N' looked at me incredulously.  "But" he started, still trying to make sense of it all but only seeing upside-down letters.  All the kids were craning their necks down and around to see their jumbled letters.

"But the mechanic has to call the florist!" 'U' protested.

Did I mention this entire skit had flowed effortlessly from the kids?  Mandy and I had had no input, down the the part where I didn't even know why the mechanic had to call the florist, and couldn't remember who 'T' was anyway. 

"Well, just have the mechanic call the school-teacher then," Mandy offered.

She and I couldn't look at each other.  Our voices were shrill from withholding laughter, we were grinning ridiculously, and really pushing this switch-around.

Eventually the baffled kids complied.  It must still live in their minds as the day when the teachers went nuts.  Or serve as proof that teachers are indeed a suspicious lot, meddling in ways that are unexplainable to kids who, otherwise, had pulled together a really (forgive me) tight skit.

The skit was a huge success.  The Mechanic did indeed conjure up a reason to call on the talents of the school-teacher, who figured out why she need something from someone who eventually needed the florist.  It was definitely the best skit of the day.  Sandy and I did deep intakes of breath and grabbed each other's wrists as the little rearranging dance took place--would the 'C' be back in place by the time the 'N' made it over to the 'U'?  Would the 'I' get there to separate the 'N' and 'T' in time?  Would the 'O,' the 'M's and the 'I' snap into place quickly enough?  Yes, yes, and yes.  Phew!  The head of the school, a prim and intimidating woman, smiled from the back of the room.  And Mandy and I dissolved in laughter in the midst of the applause.