Sock Puppet Tears — Annie Calhoun

Yesterday I cried sock puppet tears. There were about 40 puppets in little rectangle boxes on a screen I call my “classroom” and they were horrible. So horrible I couldn’t contain myself and did the “lean out of frame back in frame” move - the zoom equivalent of LOL on mute. 15 year olds were composing choreographed routines with sock puppets and for the first time since March 6th 2020 when I had my last day in the physical classroom, it felt like a true high school moment. I heard the long lost cacophony of giggles, groans, tentative offerings from shy kids and strong arming from perfectionist self appointed group leaders. This activity is intended to have horrible wonderful results. And it delivered.

It’s been a tough last two months for 9th graders in our school. The steady energy and ‘cameras on’ started to fizzle in February and now I have to spin and twirl to get half. This was one of the reasons for the sock puppet “assignment.”

A couple of weeks ago I experienced the most stunning sadness when a girl who is usually cheery and funny burst into tears during ten minutes of self work time. All the other students had their cameras off and there she was, camera on intentionally so I could see her as she sobbed silently behind her muted mic. Her little sisters who share the room were doing literal cartwheels in the background. And it took everything I had not to cry with her and for so many reasons. Because I feel it too. And because all I had to offer were quiet nods and furiously typed empathy in the chat. She'd read what I wrote and then nod and then sob some more. It just kept on and on. She wouldn't turn off her camera. She needed to be seen. And the visual loneliness of one child sobbing while 18 black boxes surrounded her... It was too much. Finally, there was a burst of care through the dark screens in between my tissues of typed comments that couldn't catch all her tears. "We are here with you" typed a student who is one of the most compassionate I've ever had. And that is what this year has been. Fragile, tender connection through fuzzy tear stained screens.

I learned recently that if I put my students in groups of five or less in new meet “rooms,” they begin to turn on their cameras. In physical class there’s obviously no option to hide one’s face. The option to do so online is too tempting to them. And the fact that every gesture, expression and facial tick is mirrored back to themselves makes their already exaggerated teen self consciousness even more of a goliath.

How did the sock puppet idea arise? Well, we have an Ensemble Creed and sometimes I like to take a deep dive into one of the phrases. Here are some of them...

--Gotta have your partner’s back

--Yes and yes and

--Dare to be uncool

--Fail lots grow lots

--Mistakes are discoveries

--Gotta have fresh eyes, see

This week was about “having fresh eyes.” So in addition to their choreo, the sock puppet had to discover 2-3 everyday items as if it had never seen them before. Having “fresh eyes” is accessing the 1-3 year old self that delighted in how the light reflected off the Coke bottle or giggled in surprise at the crunch of a candy wrapper. If an actor is in a show for months, they need to be able to see the story and characters with fresh eyes every night. If the students become playwrights, then working the “fresh eyes” muscle is important when highlighting details and unseen potential in the ordinary.

My inspiration (since, surprise, I haven’t been ANYWHERE in 12 months) is my 12 month old who just turned 13 months but I’m in denial so she’s still 12 months. She’s absorbed in discovery right now. Lately she has been fascinated as I sing along to music. My voice can’t hit the high notes but my face can. And she stares at me, wondering how I transfer the sound to my eyebrows and back to my mouth again.

Children are either in the prelingual phase or the lingual phase. Which is a horrible oversight of the “I hear ghost dogs” phase. Maya can’t talk yet, and instead of trying to learn words, she is putting all her energy into hearing dogs bark from blocks or states or other lifetimes away. She will be happily engaged in something like pulling LaCroix cans out of the garbage when her body goes still. Her eyebrows go up gently, and her arm raises slowly with outstretched finger and before I can ask her if she ripped this off from the ghost of Christmas past, she looks me dead in the eyes and says, “Eh?” From the nuance, intensity, solemnity and intelligence pouring forth, I can only assume she’s saying, “Dog. German Shepard/Terrier mix. Five blocks south, 18 blocks west. Name: Goldie. Five barks sounded at 2:03pm April 8th, 2021.” Then she tilts her head and listens to something for the life of me I can’t hear. “Eh. Dghts.” Which again, I can only assume is, “Goldie. Had a sister who is also barking. Died peacefully April 7th, 2018.”

What do I do with that information? Maya stares at me. Puzzled that I -

a) don’t seem to hear this too

b) am not writing this down in a log because she knows she has a goldfish memory and in 4 more seconds she’ll be trying to lick cheese off the chair.

c) haven’t started walking 5 blocks south and 18 blocks west to offer my condolences to Goldie about her sister

And thus, the impetus for sock puppets in my virtual theatre class. To get these dear 9th graders who have been cooped in their rooms to see their old stuffed animals and inhalers and Harry Styles posters, anew (all of which were used by the way). And then let them bathe in each other’s quirkiness.

Maya is the epitome of “fresh eyes” - or ears I should say. Her wonder at the sound of a dog is out of this world present and beautiful. She makes me a better human and teacher and listener and seer. So does my 3 year old. For the 11th time I’ll quote this quote in my blog again because I love it: “We’re every age we’ve ever been,” Anne Lamott. If this is true, we have access to all these glorious firsts when the encounter with our senses was shocking, awe inspiring, and made you stop everything you’re doing and hold a finger in the air and just be. Be with the smell, the taste, the touch, the sight, the sound. And someday soon, those voices from fuzzy bedroom chrome books with shoddy internet and terrible lighting, will rise up together in person with empathy and love.

My student hasn’t been back to class since the date she broke down a couple weeks ago, after which I contacted the counselor and her family. She’s been getting help I think. I hope it’s good help. I wonder about her often.

Class of 2024, you are special. You have been through an unprecedented pandemic war with boredom, depression, loneliness, trauma… And you will win. I know it.