I Want to Be Her—The ECcentric Drama Teacher
I want to take my shoes off when I come into work. I want to wear one big long black poncho with no bra. Chunky jewelry jingling proudly against my chest, making my presence known within a 6 feet radius. I want my aurora to be large, something that can never be ignored. I want to be her..
The eccentric highschool drama teacher.
There is something freeing, something powerful to her. The middle-aged, a little too horny but very in touch with her body, drama teacher. She is out there, in her own little universe. She is the commander, the chief, the director god damnit. And she only matters to a very select group of people. Her students.
And it is an honor to breathe her presence, to know this woman, to experience her. Is she a little too touchy? Yes. Does she overshare too much personal information in class? Also yes. Also, does she have a teaching certificate? Well.
Do her students care? No! Because this woman is the reason they come to school. She cares, she makes them feel seen, and she creates a safe environment for teenagers to express, to overshare, to spiral, and call it “art”.
AND THAT’S WHY I NEED TO BE HER!!
One day. Maybe when I reach the age of 50. But hell, if I am bored and not doing anything by then, I could reach this point by the time I am 35.
In my life, I have had my fair share of absolutely insane, amazing female drama teachers. They were brilliant educators, but shit they got away with? I can only dream I could reach that out of touch, middle aged, crazy eccentricness. It is a true fantasy of mine.
I have visions.
Me holding a 15 year old gay boy to my chest, sniffing his hair, and telling him that his father is a very very bad man, and he doesn’t deserve his light to be dimmed by such a monster. Now please, honey, show me how your splits are coming along.
An 18-year-old girl is in my office, crying about how she is going through a pregnancy scare with her boyfriend. Rehearsals? Postponed, so I can drive her to Planned Parenthood.
My non-binary kids eating lunch with me while we sit on yoga balls in the studio, trading weird earrings that we made out of small plastic babies.
Oh. And the classroom.
The entire sophomore class’s attention, showing them deep, guttural voice warm up demonstrations. An acting exercise, learning about sound, and how emotion can be conveyed from just one breath. How 10 years of pain can be expressed through one dry painful sigh.
Moans, gasp, all leaving my mouth. And these students are locked in on me in one gigantic theatrical circle. And my students aren’t laughing. They are learning.
‘All of us, PLEASE, take in a deep breath TOGETHER, innn. And OUT.
Release it. Release that noise trapped inside your body since the day you were born. Your anger, your grief, your sadness. That lump in your throat, that beautiful ball of emotion, release it into this room, everyone! Let’s make this room a god damn ball pit! You have built so much pain in your hearts, held so much of it in with no release, no where to put it. Give it all to mama, she will take it and bathe in it. I have seen you all grow, transform, and take risks, and make choices. This is what makes you different from any of the other students at this school. We will become one, me and my students. Forever, together, tethered, unseparated.’
And then I would have lunch, which will always be a gigantic salad that will smell absolutely terrible.. The contents of my salad? Unknown. Is it mustard? Is she eating just pure onions? Who knows!
This is the life waiting for me. Toes out, poncho flowing, salad dressing lips, trauma released, students slightly horrified but also deeply moved. Middle-aged, theatrical, too touchy, and unstoppable, The version of me I aspire to be, this version is my destiny.