No small parts

Christopher Guest's send-up of community theater in the mockumentary Waiting for Guffman includes his usual cast of eccentric archetypes. There's the local diva, the director with connections to off-off-off Broadway, the Method actor stuck playing a walk-on role. While Guest's satire is rarely cruel, it is so funny because we suspect a sizable nugget of truth behind the over-the-top characterizations. I don't think any of us will watch a dog show the same way after seeing Best in Show (Guest's most widely acclaimed movie). Knowing what I'd learned from Waiting for Guffman, I wasn't sure what to expect from Abu Dhabi's community theater group when I joined the cast of "The Music Man" last month.

I shouldn't have worried. There are a few Brits who crack corny jokes and drink too much beer during rehearsal, a gaggle of teenagers who would like very much to be divas and a Scottish woman who looks exactly like Helen Mirren. But that's as eccentric as it gets. There are no egos, disputes over stage position or illusions of stardom. There is, however, a universal willingness to give an enormous amount of time to seeing the production through. I've come to understand the true meaning of the phrase 'there are no small parts' in a show where everyone is involved in painting the sets, setting up the stage and arranging the costumes. Not to mention arriving two hours before each performance to put on full stage makeup (eek!), get into costume and warm up. Even me, Townsperson #8, has to look the part.

And look it I do, as you can see. Before you even get started, Ocanada and I had to endure multiple comments about our true age relative to our stage age, from actual teenagers insisting we must be seniors at a nearby international school to adult castmates refusing outright to believe we were teachers, even after a month and a half of seeing us in our street clothes at rehearsal. Fortunately, there were two of our actual students in the cast who could vouch for us. (Ocanada and I in our Act I outfits)

Since I joined up late, I felt a bit disconnected from my fellow thespians during rehearsals. They seemed like a nice bunch, but I didn't have much time to talk to anyone. However, this weekend of performances has definitely hooked me into the scene. (No pun intended.) There's nothing like being jammed in a room backstage with a bunch of people in greasepaint and turn-of-the-century outfits to really help with bonding. We are doing the show in a small, dinner-theater-sized room attached to the local British Club (a complex of sports facilities, pools and restaurants that look like an old 1950s resort in the Catskills). Because there are no "wings" to speak of, we gather in a room behind the theater with two air-conditioning units working triple overtime and one large fan. When it's time for our scene, we brave the searing heat of Abu Dhabi in late May and walk across a small alley onto the stage. While we are all dressed like Iowans circa 1912, we come from all over the world. There are cast members from Kerala, India, Belgium, South Africa, Lebannon and Japan, as well as the usual Anglophone suspects (England, Scotland, Canada, Australia, New Zealand and the States). In fact, some of the most authentic bits of acting have been the American accents folks have adopted. (Here I am with my onstage family: brother, dad, and mom.)

Speaking of acting, the reviews are in, and they've been glowing so far. Which is another advantage of community theater, in that most of the audience already know at least one member of the cast and presumably like them enough to buy a ticket. It helps that in this particular show, the leads are both excellent, and the main supporting cast knows how to turn it on. In fact, most of our amateur theater moments happen between scenes, with loudly crashing sets, dropped props and people getting tangled in the curtains. Once we're all in place (whew), we manage to pull it off most of the time.

Before this weekend, I hadn't been in front of an audience since I played Anybodies in the 1988 Crane School production of Westside Story. After this weekend, I don't feel the siren song of the theater pounding in the depths of my heart, but I do think I have what it takes to join a community theater cast, if the opportunity ever presents itself again. I like to dress up. I like to sing and dance. I don't mind looking silly. I have honed a whole range of theatrical gasps: excited, horrified and shocked. I already have an American accent. I can carry a tune in a bucket, lug props and apply my own stage makeup (my most recently acquired skill). Maybe next year, I'll even get a line.

Philosophical Chinese soup for the preteen soul

The only history lesson I knew I was going to teach this year (and gleefully anticipated) was one my former colleague Schaef has perfected over the years. We are teaching the same 6th grade curriculum, which is a hands-on overview of the ancient world that should come with acting lessons and a costume bag. For the teacher, that is. Schaef, everyone's #1 go-to guy, has, in fact, invested in a wide array of costumes over the years. (His Socrates regularly brings down the house), but this lesson requires nothing but a whistle, a ruler and the spirit of your favorite drill sergeant.

It goes like this: in order to teach the finer points of the ancient Chinese philosophy of Legalism, the teacher is instructed to blow a whistle, line the kids up, march them into the classroom, and make them sit in rows and read the textbook silently while s/he prowls the aisles smacking a ruler in his/her hand with vigor, if not outright menace. After not enough time, the kids close their books and are peppered with questions. They must stand up to answer and look straight ahead (to look the teacher in the eye would be insubordination). They are rewarded if they answer correctly (praised and allowed to sit down) and punished if they get the answer wrong (I made them stay standing). After about 10 minutes of this charade (which the kids know is a put-on, but at that age it still packs a punch), we all take a deep breath and debrief.

Now, regular readers might be getting the idea that this curriculum is designed to traumatize kids into learning history (see the post "Friends, Romans, Pringles" (January 2009) about how pitting kids against each other based on access to junk foods provided an excellent look at class conflict in ancient Rome). But lest you think it's all Machiavellian drama, we did have a very different lesson the day before the Legalist whistle and ruler.

Another ancient philosophy the kids learn about is Daoism. In that lesson, kids are allowed to express their knowledge of the material any way they choose. They can draw, write stories, or act out any of the elements of this balanced and peaceful philosophy. Though some kids stuck with the workbook, others drew yin and yang symbols and scenes of forests and flowing streams. One boy wrote a poem, another girl did an interpretive dance. (It was too cute, but definitely one of those bite-your-cheek-to-keep-from-laughing moments.) All I did was draw on the board and ignored everyone. We debriefed that lesson informally. The kids were taken aback that no one had to raise his/her hand. Not even once. I know the lesson sunk in when I started getting reports from other teachers that this particular class was requesting Daoist lessons, please. A colleague who is also a parent of one of my students told me her daughter couldn't stop talking about her "meditative bubble" (a phrase that came up during our debrief to describe the Daoist sense of peace and oneness with nature).

We also did Confucianism, of course, though that lesson is a little less memorable. Kids liked the philosophy itself, though, and pointed out that much of the structure (including the teacher/student and parent/child relationships) are a major part of their lives. I've never thought about how Confucian a child's experience is, but they live in a hierarchy of relationships that we adults have forgotten about.

It was cool talking with the kids about how all three philosophies came about in reponse to the chaos of the Warring States period of Chinese history (as I'm sure you recall). They were amazed that philosophers would have such different ways of looking at the same issue. "Why didn't they just combine the best parts of all three?" the kid who wrote the Daoist poem asked. Why not indeed. This comment led to a discussion about how some people prefer more structure and some people less. People who need more structure would love Legalism, while those who didn't need/want as much would be happy as Daoists. This led to yet another tangent about how comfortable Legalism was for some in the class, while others hated it. It wasn't long before someone pointed out that it was a matter of personal preference--yet if one person had a lot of power, then everyone would have to live with his/her preference. In addition to providing a perfect segue into the next chapter of Chinese history (Emperor Qin was definitely a structure aficionado), it also made kids aware of the heart of philosophy (for lack of a better term); philosophy as an examination of the human condition stemming from indivdual human experience, and as a reflection of the way the world works or could work. Not bad for a lesson that didn't even need a costume.

Anything but dead, Jim

I figure I have about 10 minutes. That's how much longer it will be cool to be a Trekkie, following the unprecedented success of the latest movie, titled simply Star Trek (what more do you need?). The previously geeky few have been joined by the temporarily-geeky masses on a multimillion-dollar, blockbusting bandwagon. Even the chronically snarky movie site Rotten Tomatoes awarded the newest Trek a whopping 96% rating. 'Who knew?' the site's blog proclaimed as the glowing reviews poured in.

Well, some of us knew.

But this is not where I stand up and act all righteous about liking the trend of the moment long before the creator of Lost decided to gussy it up. This is about why I am a dyed-in-the-wool, second-generation Trekkie who literally watched re-runs of the original series at her mother's knee and was such a purist at the ripe old age of 13 that I almost didn't give the Next Generation a chance.

Sure, time travel conundrums, world-saving heroics, creative costuming, and the humor contained in one, well-timed raised eyebrow make great entertainment. But that's not why I love Star Trek. I love Star Trek because it is...wait for it...a literary geek's dream show. Yes, folks, that's right. Star Trek is not just for the pocket-protector set. This show has something for every geek out there, even those of us who couldn't calculate our way out of the inner solar system.

Where else in the Hollywood galaxy do whole plots revolve around references to Sherlock Holmes, Beowulf, Greek mythology and the epic Gilgamesh? When was the last time your favorite character quoted Shakespeare or spoke Latin? How about your favorite villain? (Both do on a regular basis in the Trekverse.) Some of you may know the language of the Klingons, perhaps Star Trek's best known alien race, has its own dictionary. But did you know someone sat down--at the request of the show's producers--and came up with Klingon grammar, which makes it possible for there to be a Klingon translation of Hamlet and the Bible? In my favorite episode ever, the phrase "mytho-historic" is uttered four times in reference to a race of aliens who speak exclusively in cultural allusion and metaphor. I am not making this up. Abraham Lincoln turns up in one show, Mark Twain and Jack London in another. As the characters are realigning the warp core and setting phasers on stun, they are also pondering what it means to be human or free or faithful to one's cultural beliefs. The series is widely known for its 1960s hippie ideals, but its progressive lens has been aimed at the heart of more than one era. Although the social commentary can get heavy handed, it is just as often prophetic, as episodes on the psychological effects of torture or the dangers of religious fanaticism show. Star Trek has been going in some form for 43 years now. Given the success of its latest iteration, it has a least a few more decades left.

And it'll need them because, thanks to several plot twists in the new movie, the Trek timeline we all know and love--the one that encompasses the 10 previous movies to say nothing of four television series--has been completely wiped out. Dontcha hate it when that happens? Nonetheless, I count myself among the fans who are OK with it. Because the characters remain--as emotive, logical, curmudgeonly, earnest, classy, goofy and universal as always and consistently at the heart of the whole narrative. Despite galatic disasters, a fresh batch of foes and the constant pitfalls of the human experience, they presumably will go on to inspire generations to come, in a parallel/alternative timeline and in this one. I look forward to watching them prosper.

Native dress

As regular readers know, I'm preparing for my Arabian debut as Townsperson #8 in a local production of "The Music Man." As opening night approaches, my fellow cast members and I have been bombarded with emails from the makeup/costume maven with detailed instructions on how to turn our modern selves into small-town Iowans circa 1912.

It's amazing how well Americans from the Midwest at the turn of the century complied with current standards of modesty in the Gulf. As a River City teenager, I will be wearing white tights, Mary Janes and a dress almost to the ankles with long sleeves and a high neck. My hair won't be covered, but it will be pulled back and topped with a big white bow. My face and hands will be the only skin exposed, and I've been instructed (along with the other 'teenagers' in the cast) to cover my mouth in either shock or glee as much as possible.

True, "The Music Man" takes place before the Roaring 20s, but living here in the Middle East has given me perspective on how shocking it must have been for hemlines to creep knee-ward, after so many years of petticoats, bustles, sweeping trains and billowing sleeves.

Speaking of billowing, Madame L was educating me recently on the abeyya fashion of the modern Gulf woman. This is a topic I never tire of, probably because I grew up in a California beach town and, to my grandmother's everlasting horror, never willingly wore anything other than shorts and t-shirts for most of my childhood. Seeing women sashaying along the oceanfront in long, black robes glittering with sparkles and sequins never ceases to fascinate me. It is commonly known, and confirmed by Madame L, that Emerati women wear the abeyya by choice, for the most part, which explains the wild variation in the ways they choose to veil.

My curiosity this time was prompted by advertisements here that feature women in abeyyas and head scarves with their bangs peeking out. Now it's one thing to be at the mall and have your veil slip a bit. No one in the UAE is going to think twice. It's another thing entirely to have bangs in a Burger King ad, which has been produced to the exact specifications of some marketing drone. And then there's the matter of the women, mostly young, who wear their abeyyas open, or only half buttoned. Their cute outfit is clearly on display, and their abeyya is billowing behind them, more like a sparkly cape with sleeves than a garment intended to preserve modesty. When I see those girls, I think, 'OK, now, why bother?' My capris and pashmina cover more skin.

So, I asked Madame L what the deal was. Either you don't want strangers to see your hair or you do. Either you go out in public in a shapeless (though expensively be-dazzled) black overcoat to hide your potentially alluring feminine figure, or you don't. After all, my "Music Man" alter ego wouldn't dream of sporting a tank top at the ice cream social or flashing some ankle while dancing the "Shipoopi."

Apparently, many Emerati women, and especially the young ones, wear the abeyya as a badge of cultural pride and are not thinking a bit about religious or historical codes of modesty, any more than you or the average Iowan would today. The only gals inspired by religion are those who wear the full burqa, complete with gloves. A small percentage of Emerati women do walk around in what looks to me like widows' weeds from the 1890s: Miss Havisham-wear, complete with a full black veil that covers the face, but is made of the gauze-like equivalent of a one-way mirror. The woman can see out (undoubtedly everything looks a bit hazy) but no one can see in. (This is NOT to say that unveiled women don't value their faith or take it seriously; only that there is an explicit religious connection with women who are fully covered. The Quran doesn't require women to veil, and many devout Muslim women choose not to cover at all.)

Seeing the variety in dress among women here makes me wonder when and if the "Roaring 20s" will hit the UAE, or if abeyyas are here to stay, the billowy black line keeping Abu Dhabi from turning completely into a clone of Houston or Miami. If I were them, I'd keep the abeyya, sparkles and all. It beats a big white hair bow any day.

Time keeps on ticking

I'm experiencing a new phenomenon this year as we slide ever deeper into May. It's something that has never happened to me before, and it is this: I'm aware that the last day of school is coming. It's a good four weeks away, yet there it is, on my radar. This might not strike you non-teachers as noteworthy, but for me it is highly symbolic of how much my time horizon has expanded since I moved to Abu Dhabi.

At my former school, my immediate time horizon was about an hour into the future. I had a vague understanding of how the day or week would unfold, but what I thought about was usually the next 60-90 minutes. By the time the last day of school rolled around, I was frankly a bit surprised. Not only could I not anticipate it, I couldn't conceive of it. It was simply not on the right side of the horizon. Now, I can easily glimpse an event four weeks away, and even see past it into summer. Lots of people are talking about it, counting down days. Ocanada even writes the number on her board each day. And because it's everywhere, I find myself thinking about it more and more. It's what we all do as the school year draws to a close, right? We did it as kids, and it's not a big shocker that we do it as teachers.

But it has changed my rhythm in a way that makes me a little sad. I feel drifty and rootless, as if my anchor to this school year has come loose and I'm already floating away.

Now, here's when I'm tempted to write the disclaimatory sentence about how even though I'm a little off-kilter, I'm really glad that I have more mental space to contemplate the final days of my first school year here. But if I'm going to be truthful, I have to say that I don't love this anchorless, when-will-this-year-end feeling at all. It's a weird way to end a time that has been mostly positive--it cheapens it somehow.

And it pulls my mind back to the question I've been contemplating all year: how can my life be more like a fulcrum and less like a seesaw.

So, here's something I've figured out. I don't want what I do to be "gotten over with" even if there are many wonderful weeks of vacation stretching beyond the horizon (because this is surely not to cheapen the need for rest either!) It's nice to look beyond lunchtime, but there is a middle ground, and countdowns aren't it.

Separated by a common language

Whilst my Arabic has fallen by the wayside recently, due to end-of-the-year craziness and Madame L going on maternity leave, I have been keeping up with my other language project: learning enough Australian English to communicate effectively with my humanities teaching buddy, Aussie. (Note the extremely effective use of "whilst" in the topic sentence of this paragraph.)

In the same way we all discovered regional differences in American English with those "pop" vs "soda" discussions during our freshman years of college, international Anglophones never tire of pointing out national variations in that worldwide linguistic stew known as English (see the graphic above for a comprehensive overview). As usual, Americans come in dead last in knowledge of other people's English, whilst they know plenty about ours, thanks to TV and movies. So, Aussie didn't need me to tell her that Americans say parking lot instead of carpark, but I sure as shootin' was surprised when she referred to an eraser as a rubber. Let's not even get started on how startling it is for Australians to hear us speak of fanny packs.

Over the course of this year, I have developed a profound admiration of Australian English as a language, if not an accent (though there's nothing wrong with the accent either). That country's mastery of the unique and descriptive turn of phrase goes far beyond the chipper exclamations you've heard from any crocodile-ish export (both Hunter and Dundee). It's contagious, too, like the very best slang always is. Aussie has been a patient teacher, favoring the full immersion method. In other words, she just talks like she always does, and I pick up what I can. Usually, it's a mix of California and Victoria (Aussie is from Melbourne), such as the following phrase I uttered in public just today:

Me: Hey mate! What up? I just saw that lesson on introductions you put together. Ripper! Let's roll it out tomorrow.

Disclaimer: please understand that I do NOT' now speak with an Australian accent (in the least). I sound the same way I always do. This is an entry about sharing vocabulary, not butchering other people's speech patterns.

And speaking of butchering, as with all languages, there are some words that non-native speakers just can't pull off no matter how hard they try. "Bloody hell," for example, is impossible to pronounce properly with an American accent. Sometimes I use it, for effect, but I have no illusions about how bizarre it sounds. Aussie can pull off an excellent "dude," though she sounds a bit awkward when she says "roll it out" (A phrase she finds hilarious and can't stop using...who knew?)

The other two 6th grade teachers, as regular readers know, are Ocanada, who says "a-boot" and "oot" with the best of 'em, and the RET (the T is for Texan), whose use of colorful Southisms is often stunning. And, as many Southerners do, she refers to every carbonated beverage as a Coke. I'm sad that Aussie is moving up to high school next year, to be replaced by another American. There goes the need for Who's-on-first-style discussions about school supplies. (In Australian, binders are called folders, and folders are called file pockets and agendas are called diaries...and you can see why it took two hours to hammer out the supply list.)

I'm sure some of you have international Anglophone stories to add to the mix, classics like the various meanings of the word "pissed" (angry in American and Canadian; drunk in British, Irish and Australian); and "knocked up" (pregnant in American; the action of knocking on someone's door to visit them in British) and others more obscure. Do share and add to the endless conversation...perhaps the only thing that truly unites us.