Women's March

I looked at Jaden, trying to keep the frustration from my voice. He had a hangdog face with puppy dog eyes and whispered, “Are you going to give out more lines, cuz Jess got more last rehearsal…?” (Jess is his twin sister).

“No,” I told him firmly, “I’m excited you’re a part of the musical again this year playing one of the Wickersham Brothers. One thing we don’t do in KSA Theatre is count our lines and measure our worth on that. You’re part of the show and that’s awesome because I wasn’t able to cast everyone who wanted to be in it this year,” I said with a tiredness and a guilt at my lecturing tone.

“Okay…” he mumbled and tilted his head to the other shoulder, causing his dreads to swing across his back.

“And Jaden” I added, “You actually have two parts. Wickersham brother #1, and understudying JoJo. It’s up to you whether we choose to give a show or two to understudies. If you work hard and have a lot of energy around it, maybe you can do a show as that part.”

He sighed with heaviness, his 6th grade self seeking to reconcile his emotions and the logic of what I’d said.

“Okay, see ya next week Ms. Calhoun,” he said softly and grabbed his snack and script and plodded out of rehearsal.

Little did either of us know, that we’d see each other sooner than our next rehearsal on Monday…

As I drove home, I remembered being in 8th grade and my mom congratulating me on getting a small role in Joseph and the Amazing Technicolor Dream Coat. I had been into theatrical music long before I had the courage to audition for a show. I would stare longingly at my reflection in the window of my folks’ car with my headphones on, and cry to Pete’s Dragon music. If you want to bring me to tears any time, anywhere, play “Candle on the Water” or “It’s Not Easy.” I could have just won free tickets to Paris, finally gotten one of my manuscripts published, or found a still pretty good Twizzler under my couch. Play Pete’s Dragon, and it’s a waterpark all over my face.  I was also the kid who had double versions of “Broadway Kids Sing Broadway” CDs just in case I lost one on our road trip and it didn’t make its way back to my room. In another blog I can go into more detail about my middle school theatre experience becoming the foundation for what I do with my life and how I recently ate apple pie at Christmas with Mr. Neal (my 7th and 8th grade drama teacher of 20 years ago).

In 8th grade I had gotten the role of Levi, one of Joseph’s brothers. Definitely not the lead. Not even a gender that matched mine (though my tomboy nature welcomed the chance to play a brother). I hung my head. And instead of trying to tell me to buck up, my mom told me a story. She said, “Annie once when I was in high school there was this girl – Stacy Krepp – and she had no lines in the play. She played this old woman who sat on the back of a train car most of the show. But when the show was over, she’d get a standing ovation every night because of how detailed and silly she made her part. She stood out even next to the lead soloist because she believed her part to be important even though it was small.”

Stories are powerful. And that one stuck. I put everything I had into playing Levi. I even gave him a special backstory. One in which he’d had an accident with a goat at a younger age, leaving him with a funny limp that made dancing difficult for him (in a fun way) and walking averagely difficult. This coincided nicely with the fact that my dancing skills looked like I’d played soccer my whole life. Which I had. Levi even had an emotional backstory; one in which the goat hadn’t survived said accident, making Levi a little shy and introverted but still able to project his lines to the back of the audience.

I got home from rehearsal, worried that I hadn’t handled the conversation with Jaden quite right. I had missed the opportunity to help him see that he was valued even if his part was small. I was too tired to join Rob for a postering party/play reading in preparation for the LA Women’s march the next day. I was exhausted but wanted to put something on the blank sash Rob brought home for me late that night. I wrote my favorite feminist, civil rights, and education quotes on one side, and then a list of current students on the other. I march for my students: for their civil rights, and for their right to an exceptional education and arts program regardless of what part of the city they come from and what color their skin is.

The morning of the march was unbelievable. Clear blue skies broke through after a day of torrential rain. Trains were packed with pink hats and men holding signs that read “Women’s rights are human rights.” It took two hours to get down to Pershing Square in LA and when Rob and I came up out of the subway, the roar of the crowd was emotional and breath taking. I cheered with Rob and couldn’t help feeling like this was one giant musical – the real life kind – the spontaneous kind – the best kind. Our voices rose up and random drummers kept time: “Show me what democracy looks like! This is what democracy looks like! Show me what equality looks like! This is what equality looks like! Show me what a feminist looks like! This is what a feminist looks like!”

The crowd was said to be between 750,000 and 1 million. Incredible.

After a couple hours of marching, we came to a stop near city hall and out of the corner of my eye, I saw a bouncing kid with swinging dreads.

Jaden?!

“Jaden! Hey! I’m over here!” I shouted.

He ran over with Jess and their mom, who smiled at us.

“This is wild!” she said laughing at the craziness of finding each other in the crowd.

“Hey Ms. Calhoun! Look at our posters! We used quotes from our essays,” Jaden said beaming up at me along side Jess who also held hers up

“Wow! Those are amazing you guys! Check out my sash. I put your names on it.”

“Really? Where?” they echoed each other.

They searched my sash for their names and grinned when they found them.

We all stared at each other for another moment, soaking in the magic of what had just happened: two kids found their teacher in a sea of voices and fists raised in support of women, LGBTQ friends, the earth, equality of religion, colors of skin, and the arts. Soon, the crowd whisked us off in different directions as we said goodbye.

This moment was magic.

And profound on a number of levels.

What were the odds that I’d find anyone I knew in a crowd of almost 1 million, let alone the kid that had been on my mind from our long rehearsal only fifteen hours before…

Stories connect and unite us. They are powerful. Lived stories are powerful like this one – where millions of men and women around the country created the biggest march in US history. A story of resistance and unity against a new president who has sought to divide. A story that Jaden and his sister and I were a part of together – our paths crossing miraculously amidst almost one million people. The story we’re about to share in the musical we’re doing is powerfully similar to the Women’s March. Seussical speaks to standing up for those who don’t have a voice, and the very small being needed because their voices carry the same weight as the very large.

Maybe Jaden needed a story from me. Not a lecture. The irony of needing my mom’s story when I was playing “Joseph’s brother” and Jaden needing it while he’s playing a “Wickersham brother” makes me laugh. Tomorrow I’ll remember to tell him my mom’s story. The one that led me to make the most out of something small and turn it into the movement that is my life in the arts. The Women’s March was an historic day. But one moment is not a movement. I won’t stop telling stories and being a part of the living ones that continue to create change.

“The future depends entirely on what each of us does every day; a movement is only people moving.” – Gloria Steinem

**Names of kids have been changed to protect privacy