I'm an equal-opportunity lover of musicals. There aren't many that I don't adore in their own way. Since I was a kid, I go through cycles of listening to one over and over until it scratches whatever itch I have; and then I move on to the next.
Spring Awakening has been my go-to lately. Among its many themes is that of repression - the repression of women, in particular, and repression of their feelings. The cast of young characters experiences the emotional turbulence of growing up, but without guidance from their parents, who are locked squarely in societal norms that prevent them from addressing their children's questions.
Spring Awakening has been my go-to lately. Among its many themes is that of repression - the repression of women, in particular, and repression of their feelings. The cast of young characters experiences the emotional turbulence of growing up, but without guidance from their parents, who are locked squarely in societal norms that prevent them from addressing their children's questions.
(Spoiler alert, Wendla's mom: This doesn't end well.)
My dad died when I was 21, and the grief I felt terrified me. It was so big, so wild, so untamable. Without really being aware of it, I'd spent my life until that point avoiding the expression of unpleasant emotions. There are probably a thousand reasons why, including that ingrained desire to just be "good." Good girls don't scream when they get angry. They don't draw attention to themselves with unnecessary tears. They don't laugh too loudly when they're happy, and they certainly don't express their love too effusively. Basically, good girls don't trouble anyone with their honest, messy existence. Better to stuff down all those feelings and make yourself easy to like.
Until, that is, a tsunami of grief crashes into your life and wipes out any notion you had of containing it neatly. The mother of a good friend offered an observation that would change me forever: "How lucky you are to be grieving so deeply." Hold on. Lucky? Lucky to be grieving my beloved father? Yes, absolutely. Because I could only grieve to the depth that I loved. And a love that immense is a gift, indeed. Suddenly, my grief wasn't scary. I could acknowledge it. Honor it. Embrace it, even.
Since that mind shift, I try to welcome those emotions that might be uncomfortable for me. And I make the conscious effort to create space for my students' feelings, too. Let's be clear - I do not delight in watching my students struggle. We humans are wired to be stressed by children crying. That's why it's so unbearable to hear and why we instinctively try to stop it. But I hope that by being an active listener and calm presence during those challenging moments, I send my students the message that all feelings are welcome in our classroom.
And, moreover, I hope I send the message that they, themselves, are welcome and loved. No matter what.
Until, that is, a tsunami of grief crashes into your life and wipes out any notion you had of containing it neatly. The mother of a good friend offered an observation that would change me forever: "How lucky you are to be grieving so deeply." Hold on. Lucky? Lucky to be grieving my beloved father? Yes, absolutely. Because I could only grieve to the depth that I loved. And a love that immense is a gift, indeed. Suddenly, my grief wasn't scary. I could acknowledge it. Honor it. Embrace it, even.
Since that mind shift, I try to welcome those emotions that might be uncomfortable for me. And I make the conscious effort to create space for my students' feelings, too. Let's be clear - I do not delight in watching my students struggle. We humans are wired to be stressed by children crying. That's why it's so unbearable to hear and why we instinctively try to stop it. But I hope that by being an active listener and calm presence during those challenging moments, I send my students the message that all feelings are welcome in our classroom.
And, moreover, I hope I send the message that they, themselves, are welcome and loved. No matter what.
