I am not exaggerating when I say that I owe my very life to the teachers, coaches and camp counselors (yes, I went to theatre camp – Camp Harand, anyone?) who taught me how to act and, in the process, taught me how to live.
This past October I was delighted to be asked to present two days worth of workshops for CETA (California Educational Theatre Association: http://www.cetoweb.org) at their annual retreat at Asilomar, CA. We had a blast. To honor them and the extraordinary work of teachers everywhere, I wrote this poem.
Poem – Ode To The Drama Teacher
And as you stand there: Aghast
Because we’re three days from Opening Night and
Ado Annie still doesn’t know her lines and
The Dream Ballet is a Nightmare and
The Light Board Op just got Detention…
Let us now praise You.
You, the Permanently Fatigued.
You, the Loyal-to-the-Point-of-Self-Neglect.
You, the Keeper of a Thousand-and-Eleventeen Secret Dreams.
You are the one who makes it all Look So Easy.
Who would have expected that the most important Skill you learned getting your BA
Was Juggling?
Juggling Paperwork and Personalities and oh, right – weren’t you supposed to have a
Private Life around here somewhere?
But even though you are Sick to Death of
Spoon River Anthology
You still puddle up every time you hear
There’s A Place For Us
No matter how Off-Key.
And while you still remember when you
Brought the House Down in
Midsummer
You now love This House.
You have created a House where any child – no matter how Flamboyant, no matter how Shy –
Can embrace their Inner Ethel Merman (and thanks to those English 101 classes you now must teach, you are keenly aware that using “their” in the previous sentence is increasingly considered correct and honestly, it’s really the only sensible answer as writing “his or her” is as damaging to poetry as the participle that dangles.)
And you have created a House where any child – no matter how Flamboyant, no matter how Shy – can dive straight to the Deepest, Darkest, Quietest corner of human suffering and bring a room of teenagers – and yes, you, too – to silent tears.
You have made a Home for the Misunderstood
A Family for the Misfit and a
Safe Spot to land no matter how bad The Mid-Terms are.
Because despite all the Budget Cuts and
The Paperwork and
The Meetings about the Meeting to Schedule the Meetings and
The Truancies and
The Parents
Dear God The Parents and
Did we mention The Paperwork?
Nothing on this Green Earth compares to watching a group of kids
Learn the true meaning of Ensemble.
And nothing compares to the pure joy of watching The Ones whom you knew would Eventually Get It
Finally. Really. Get It.
And nothing nothing nothing compares to The Confidences shared in low tones as they seek you out in
Your Office,
The Choir Room
The Front Seat of the Van on the way home from Fullerton.
You aren’t teaching Drama.
You are teaching Life
Which we all know is a Comedy – a Chekhovian Comedy – but a Comedy nonetheless.
And you aren’t teaching Choreography
You are teaching them to Dance.
And you aren’t teaching them how to be a Character.
You are teaching them how to be Themselves.
So here’s to you –
Making room for Art in a world that seems to have no room for Art.
(Because, by the way, that room has been repurposed as the new Standardized Test Prep Center – you don’t mind rehearsing outside, do you?)
And here’s to you –
Scrounging around for new shows that somehow match the sets you already have
Because some Genius on the School Board has
Recently Announced that not only can you not perform Huckleberry Finn
Or Anouilh’s Antigone (probably because he couldn’t pronounce it) and
Given the flap over theScene from M. Butterfly last year, I guess
March of the Falsettos and The Vagina Monologues are
Out of the Question for the Spring
So Oh Dear God it looks like it’s going to be
Arsenic And Old Lace one more blessed time.
But that’s OK
I love Arsenic And Old Lace.
So here’s to you –
Making room for Another Coffee Mug with
Those Damn Masks on them
Making room in the Chorus for
Just One More
And
Making room for Each and Every Child
To Be
A
Star.
© 2011 Samantha Bennett
If you would like to share or reprint this poem, I’d be honored. Please include my full name and website address (https://therealsambennett.com) and here is a bio you might want to include –
About the author: Samantha Bennett is a working actor and writer based in Los Angeles, and she’s the creator of https://therealsambennett.com, an organization dedicated to helping creative people get unstuck from whatever way they’re stuck, especially by helping them focus and move forward on their goals.
Poem – Ode To The Drama Teacher
And as you stand there: Aghast
Because we’re three days from Opening Night and
Ado Annie still doesn’t know her lines and
The Dream Ballet is a Nightmare and
The Light Board Op just got Detention…
Let us now praise You.
You, the Permanently Fatigued.
You, the Loyal-to-the-Point-of-Self-Neglect.
You, the Keeper of a Thousand-and-Eleventeen Secret Dreams.
You are the one who makes it all Look So Easy.
Who would have expected that the most important Skill you learned getting your BA
Was Juggling?
Juggling Paperwork and Personalities and oh, right – weren’t you supposed to have a
Private Life around here somewhere?
But even though you are Sick to Death of
Spoon River Anthology
You still puddle up every time you hear
There’s A Place For Us
No matter how Off-Key.
And while you still remember when you Brought the House Down in
Midsummer
You now love This House.
You have created a House where any child – no matter how Flamboyant, no matter how Shy –
Can embrace their Inner Ethel Merman (and thanks to those English 101 classes you now must teach, you are keenly aware that using “their” in the previous sentence is increasingly considered correct and honestly, it’s really the only sensible answer as writing “his or her” is as damaging to poetry as the participle that dangles.)
And you have created a House where any child – no matter how Flamboyant, no matter how Shy – can dive straight to the Deepest, Darkest, Quietest corner of human suffering and bring a room of teenagers – and yes, you, too – to silent tears.
You have made a Home for the Misunderstood
A Family for the Misfit and a
Safe Spot to land no matter how bad The Mid-Terms are.
Because despite all the Budget Cuts and
The Paperwork and
The Meetings about the Meeting to Schedule the Meetings and
The Truancies and
The Parents
Dear God The Parents and
Did we mention The Paperwork?
Nothing on this Green Earth compares to watching a group of kids
Learn the true meaning of Ensemble.
And nothing compares to the pure joy of watching The Ones whom you knew would Eventually Get It
Finally. Really. Get It.
And nothing nothing nothing compares to The Confidences shared in low tones as they seek you out in Your Office,
The Choir Room
The Front Seat of the Van on the way home from Fullerton.
You aren’t teaching Drama.
You are teaching Life
Which we all know is a Comedy – a Chekhovian Comedy – but a Comedy nonetheless.
And you aren’t teaching Choreography
You are teaching them to Dance.
And you aren’t teaching them how to be a Character.
You are teaching them how to be Themselves.
So here’s to you –
Making room for Art in a world that seems to have no room for Art.
(Because, by the way, that room has been repurposed as the new Standardized Test Prep Center – you don’t mind rehearsing outside, do you?)
And here’s to you –
Scrounging around for new shows that somehow match the sets you already have
Because some Genius on the School Board has
Recently Announced that not only can you not perform Huckleberry Finn
Or Anouilh’s Antigone (probably because he couldn’t pronounce it) and
Given the flap over the
Scene from M. Butterfly last year, I guess
March of the Falsettos and The Vagina Monologues are
Out of the Question for the Spring
So Oh Dear God it looks like it’s going to be
Arsenic And Old Lace one more blessed time.
But that’s OK
I love Arsenic And Old Lace.
So here’s to you –
Making room for another Coffee Mug with those damn masks on them
Making room in the Chorus for Just One More
And
Making room for each and every child
To Be
A
Star.
© 2011 Samantha Bennett
Created especially for the CETA (California Educational Theatre Association) Conference, Asilomar, CA, October 21-23, 2011
11×17 and laminated – perfect for the office, backstage, rehearsal room or classroom!
Interested in obtaining permission to reprint content from this site?
Email Us: Samantha_Bennett@TheOrganizedArtistCompany.com
You all might remember Audrey from the other day – she wrote me this:
“Hi Samantha!
I am on your email list and receive your beautiful poems and ideas.
I just wanted to thank you cause those emails have been inspiring for me.
I recently wrote something for my boyfriend that I titled: In Praise of The Stressed Worker inspired by your poems and that was the only way I could reach his heart. Everything else didn’t work but that poem that I did more for me in honor of him really spoke to him.
So thank you for the inspiration and also for all the love and understanding of others.
thank you, Audrey”
I had a request to publish her piece and she graciously agreed, writing,
“Hi Samantha!
You can for sure put it on your blog, I would be happy that you do because I really feel your beautiful mission and you indeed influence me to write but also helped me understand and accept my dad after the grumpy poem..:)
Thank you for asking. Audrey :)”
English is not Audrey’s first language, which I think really adds to the cadence and lilt of her writing.
It’s a pretty long piece, so here’s just the first stanza:
In Praise of the Stressed Worker
You sit there looking at your phone
Texting about work again
Even if you are supposed to be off
You got so used to that rhythm,
You know hotels by heart, eat out almost all the time, getting around pretty good. Sometimes you are craving for somebody to make you some nice comfort food.
You got so used to that rhythm, that sometimes you wonder what you would do if you had more time. Though, there is a list of things you aspire to do but you’re too busy right now. Maybe later.
You’re family guy with a big heart even if you can’t stand being around them too long.
And they all admire you and love you and care about you….
So now here’s my question for you: who in your life needs YOU to write them a poem? Will you do it?
Here’s how I know: because if you really needed to lose weight, you’d be doing it already.
In the same way that you always feel like you need more money, but it’s when the rent is due (or those shoes go on sale) that you actually find the money.
So if you’ve been torturing yourself about how you look and you are letting your mind be filled up with an endless swirl of thoughts like, “Why is my belly like that? And my hips. I used to be so much thinner. I should go to the gym. That girl over there is so skinny. I wish I looked like that. I wonder if I should try hula-hooping or pole dancing? Silly. I wish I could just snap my fingers and change my body. Maybe a juice fast? I don’t really like juice….”
(Familiar?)
Then I am here to tell you right now: CUT IT OUT.
(Now, clearly, if your weight is a medical issue and you still aren’t doing anything about it, then you must just rally all of your internal strength and get a bunch of people to help you right now. Seriously. I don’t care if you are thin or not, but I do care that you stay alive.)
I have a little story for you.
Here’s what happened:
I was meditating the other day (and, as usual, half-running my list of complaints about myself) when I suddenly felt a BOLT of energy – like a wrecking ball of energy had just hit me square in the chest – and I suddenly saw the complete absurdity of my endless self-criticizing.
1) I have a BEAUTIFUL life.
2) Life is very, very short.
Therefore, for me to spend ONE MINUTE obsessing about something as trivial as my weight is not just ridiculous, it’s a bit obscene. In the way that having a bowling alley in a private home is a bit obscene.
I was suddenly shocked at myself. That I would spend even one minute of this glorious life beating myself up seemed, at the very, very least, pitifully ungrateful.
I seized a pen and wrote:
My Poor, Ever-Lovin’ Body…
My precious, delightful, ungainly, grace-filled body
That has lived through
So much neglect
So much disdain
…and you have only ever loved me
Breathing for me even when I forget
Patient so patiently waiting for me to love you
Or even like you a little bit.
You always do your best
Even with me disapproving all the time
Oh the things I have said about you
Still you helped me as best you could.
Stockholm Syndrome.
Tell me what I’ve done
Show me every scar
Each tender spot
I’m noticing how soft your skin is
Right here
Right here
And this light I see in your eyes
How could I ever miss how beautiful you are?
© 2011 Samantha Bennett
So, as a consequence of that blazing moment I have started a new spiritual discipline:
I have spent the last several days mentally refusing to worry about how my body looks.
And I gotta tell you, it is appalling how many times an hour I start to think, “Oh, my weight is so…” and then I have to say to myself, “Stop. Think about something more interesting.”
And then 3 minutes later I’m right back. “My thighs…” and then, “Stop. Think about something more interesting.”
I cannot begin to count the amount of time I have spent over the years just idly hating myself.
Well, as of now, I am reclaiming that time and that mental energy.
I have made a sign for over my desk that says:
IF YOU ARE THINKING ABOUT YOUR WEIGHT YOU ARE JUST BORED.
GET BACK IN THE GAME.
And I challenge you to do the same.
Let me know how it goes, OK?
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New Year. New Poem. Enjoy!
Women Who Workshop
A scarf from India
A top that’s Loose around the Middle
Very, very, very Sensible Shoes
And an Unceasingly Kind expression
(The uniform of individuality).
You, the Bright-Eyed.
You, the Generous volunteer.
You, still working out That Stuff with your dad.
In hotel ballrooms and
Church basements and
Yoga studios and
Campgrounds and
Korean spas and
Montana ranches, Bahamian Beaches and the
Herbalist’s office
You are becoming.
It’s so becoming.
You, becoming.
And you’ve learned to
Bring a sweater and a
Thermos of hot water and
Lots of extra tissues.
You have stood in a circle
You have lain prostrate
Your bookshelf groans with
Helping Insightful Books and
Your Journals burst with line
After line
Documenting
Your becoming.
You’re becoming.
You are becoming.
Sensual
Intellectual
Hard-headed
Tender-hearted
(so tender-hearted)
With your Full-Moon Necklace and your
Chakra-Balancing Necklace and the
Beautiful Gold Ring that you
Hand-forged in that Post-Divorce Workshop
Out of the engagement ring from your First Marriage and the
Wedding band from your Second
Now you marry only yourself.
Standing before your Altar
You promise to
Love
Honor and
Cherish
Yourself
From this day forward.
You recognize that some might call it an
Indulgence
To spend time and money on
The Issues That Challenge You.
But those people can screw off (compassionately)
Because the Rush of
Self-realization when you finally put That Betrayal behind you
The poem you wrote about your daughter that
Still makes you cry
(And OK, fine – that delirious eight-day affair with that Yoga Guy –
Sweet Heaven he was gorgeous – and so bendy – )
Cannot be matched by anything that can be
Found inside your own condo.
You have found freedom.
You have healed your Inner Child and
Embraced your Inner Queen.
You are even developing a side-long glance
Relationship with the word “Crone.”
You are curious – becoming – laughing – becoming – stretching –
Because as the wise woman said If You Stop Stretching You Die – sharing –
Because that’s what Heaven’s Children do –
Rejoicing in your growing awareness that no Workshop Intensive
In the world is better than your own becoming
Coming to be.
© 2011 Samantha Bennett
Stay alit with good ideas.
Stay alit with kind thoughts.
Stay alit with amusement.
Stay alit with compassion.
Stay alit by thinking of the children you cherish.
Stay alit by remembering the ones you love who’ve gone on.
Stay alit by humming a little tuneless tune to yourself.
Stay alit by questioning your assumptions.
Stay alit by exploring.
Stay alit, alive and beautiful by spending 15 minutes today on the project that means the most to you.
