Teaching Will: What Shakespeare and 10 Kids Gave Me That Hollywood Couldn't

By Mel Ryane

“Highly enjoyable . . . A charming memoir that will amuse and inspire parents, teachers, and Shakespeare fans.” —Kirkus Reviews

What happens when an idealist volunteers to introduce Shakespeare to a group of unruly kids? Bedlam. Tears. And hard lessons learned.

Convinced that children can relate to Shakespeare's themes—power, revenge, love—Mel Ryane launches The Shakespeare Club at a Los Angeles public school. Teaching Will is a riotous cautionary tale of high hopes and goodwill crashing into the realities of classroom chaos. Every week, Mel encounters unexpected comedy and drama as she and the children struggle toward staging a production of A Midsummer Night’s Dream. Woven through this fish-out-of-water tale is Mel’s own story of her childhood aspirations, her experiences in acting, and the heartbreaking end of her onstage career.

In the schoolyard, Mel finds herself embroiled in jealousy and betrayal worthy of Shakespeare’s plots. Fits of laughter alternate with wiping noses as she and the kids discover a surprising truth: They need each other if they want to face an audience and triumph. Teaching Will is an uplifting story of empowerment for dreamers and realists alike.

“Lively . . . Ryane manages both to be funny and not take herself too seriously.” —Publishers Weekly

“I found myself moved to tears by one sentence and laughing out loud at the next.” —The Huffington Post

• Language: English
• Publisher: Open Road Integrated Media
• Release date: Aug 12, 2014
• ISBN: 9781939629432

Book preview

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This is a

tale of lessons. Lessons hard-fought, sometimes painful, and often embarrassing.

Within the confines of an elementary schoolroom, one expects to find a group of students learning. One expects to see an adult urging and encouraging the exchange of information into and out of these young minds.

Alas, the first lesson: beware of expectations.

This is a tale of lessons.

[Dramatis Personae

Me

, an idealist

William

, a smart rock

Marin

, a provocateur

Dana

, a Gulliver

Stella

, a whiner

Carla

, a round, shy one

Anna

, a loner in a pink boa

Miles

, a boy

Jennifer

, a beauty

Candace

, a Bottom twin

Jordanna

, a twin of many parts

Grace

, a Puck of a girl

Regina

, a historian

Daniel

, another boy

Azra

, a traveler

Attending teachers; townspeople; parents

Scene

: Los Angeles, a public elementary school]

The Contents

The School of Soft Knocks

My Kingdom for a Flute

Everyone Has a Price

Party to the Party

Winter Breakdown

Wits’ Witless End

Cast Away

Prop Me Up

A Rock and a Very Hard Place

Miles to Go

Intermission

A Lonely Business

What Shakespeare Meant by Hamlet

The Actor’s Burden

War Declared

442 Years Old

Hitting the Wall

What Fool This Mortal Be

Cryin’ Bad

I Always Knew I Wanted to Be an Actor, My Whole Life!

And So . . .

Encore

Acknowledgments

About the Author

About Familius

Chapter I

The School of Soft Knocks

Hath homely age th’ alluring beauty took

From my poor cheek? . . .

Are my discourses dull? Barren my wit?

The Comedy of Errors, Act II, Scene I

Did you know him?"

Oh, no. William Shakespeare lived over four hundred and forty years ago.

Yeah, but did you know him?

Twelve sets of eyes scope me out as I sit in front of them. Two boys and ten girls from the third, fourth, and fifth grades. Russell Crowe, Colosseum . . . I get it. These tiny Romans are salivating over my certain death. My mouth trembles as I smile, slapping on a sunny disposition.

No . . . sad to say, I’ve never actually met the man.

It’s a lame joke, and they don’t give an inch, not a flicker of politeness to ease my awkwardness. I sputter out a few coughs and clear my throat. Tough crowd.

What do you think people didn’t have four hundred and forty years ago? I ask.

Shoes?

No, they had shoes.

Milk?

No, they had milk. You know what they didn’t have four hundred and forty years ago? Game Boys, PSPs, DVDs, and iPods.

The entire room groans.

Hey! Hey, Miss! An arm waves to get my attention. It’s attached to a skinny girl bouncing up and down.

Yes?

Are you famous?

No . . . no, I’m definitely not famous. What’s your name?

Marin. What TV shows and movies are you in? It’s impossible to miss the challenge in Marin’s voice.

At a parent-teacher meeting a few weeks ago, I handed out brochures advertising the Shakespeare Club, my after-school program. The pamphlet included a brief biography mentioning my career as an actor and my work as a dialogue and acting coach. There was no mention of time spent as a public school teacher because I am not, nor have I ever been, one.

It’s true, Marin, I was an actor for a long time in the theatre and in a few movies and television shows, but I stopped doing that a while ago. Actually, before you were even born. An annoying bead of sweat trickles down the inside of my arm. I clutch my elbow close, hoping the wetness doesn’t show.

Marin’s hair is pulled tight into braids. She tilts her head, chews the inside of her cheek, and keeps me in her eyeline.

What TV shows were you in?

You wouldn’t know them—

Yeah, I would. What ones?

God, give it up! I want to scream, but you shouldn’t scream at children. That’s never a good idea, and certainly not at the very first meeting. I release a long sigh.

What are you in? is the most dreaded question for actors. It stands as a painful reminder that one may not be in anything at the moment. I haven’t had to answer this question in a long time because I’d walked away from my acting career ten years earlier. Marin is picking at my scab.

Here’s what I’ll do, Marin, I say, looking into her brown eyes. One day I’ll bring you pictures of me acting in some of William Shakespeare’s plays.

Marin shakes her head and shrugs.

The roll call list in my hand has become a little damp. I wish it were a picture of me in an episode of Friends, but it isn’t. It’s a list of children I don’t know.

I set the paper on the carpeted floor and slide my sweaty palms down the lap of my jeans. Pull yourself together. They’re just kids gathered on the storytime risers in the library of Arden Street Elementary School in Los Angeles. I check out the room and take comfort in the door. The door is my friend. I could leave any old time I want to, right out that sucker.

There are also, of course, filled shelves. Books, a stuffed figure, more books, and another stuffed figure. Curious George and one of Max’s monsters from Where the Wild Things Are. Stellaluna the bat and a stunned gray rat from the pages of Harry Potter. And there’s Captain Underpants, a superhero clad in tighty-whities. I wish I were running a program about his adventures and not the likes of Hamlet with his complicated life.

What am I doing here? What was I thinking? How did this happen?

Wandering the aisles of Staples, I’d picked out notebooks. Blue ones and red ones, green ones and orange ones. I’d filled a cart with HB yellow pencils and packages of colored pens. I then carefully sharpened each pencil to a pointy tip with my brand-new, battery-operated sharpener that made a happy whizzing noise. I made sure each eraser was firmly attached, looking like a tiny, pink pillbox hat. This was going to be good. This is what I was meant to do.

I went to the Santa Monica library and checked out an atlas with maps of England, as well as books about Elizabeth I and her dad Henry VIII and books filled with pictures of Shakespeare’s home in Stratford-upon-Avon and the Globe Theatre in London. At the computer, I printed out reams of facts about what the Elizabethans wore and ate and did for fun.

I was ready. I told the principal I would accept only twenty-five students, first come, first served. Twenty-five and not one more.

At home, I prepared. I meditated, breathing deep. I hummed to warm up my voice. I did exactly what I had done for years to get ready for a performance onstage. This is what I knew.

Here in the library, my books, papers, notebooks, and pens are stacked on the floor beside me. I bend down and touch them to make sure they’re ready for their entrances. I sit up, fold my hands, and smile at these twelve children. Twelve kids rounded up by the enthusiastic principal. I was frigging lucky we didn’t get close to twenty-five.

My name is Mel Ryane, but you can call me Mel. I’m kinda lousy at remembering names, but I promise that over the next few meetings, I will learn all of yours.

Tap, tap, tap. I turn to the knocks coming from the locked library door.

I’m sorry, just let me get this. I race to the door and open it, but no one is there. I zip back to my chair, not wanting to lose my momentum or the kids’ attention.

So, here’s the thing. This is the first ever meeting of the first ever Shakespeare Club at Arden Street Elementary.

Miss, uh . . . um . . .

Mel, just call me Mel.

Do you mean . . . are we making history?

I check my list, trying to match the name to the girl. You are . . . ?

Regina.

Regina is a thin eight-year-old with long, dark hair, dark eyes, and delicate features.

Yes, exactly, you are making history, Regina, I bubble, like William Shakespeare made history with his writing.

Are we making history? That’s rich. That’s adorable.

Can I go to the bathroom?

I look again at the list and take a stab. Dana?

No, she frowns, disgusted. I’m Carla. Carla is also eight and as round as she is tall.

Sorry, Carla. How was I supposed to know that? Um . . . yeah, sure, go ahead.

Me too? asks a girl beside Carla.

This is happening too fast. Are you . . . I don’t know . . . what’s your name?

Graciella, she answers in a small voice, but you can call me Grace.

Is that what you like to be called?

I like Grace.

I make a note. Prefers to be called Grace. Grace is the same age as Carla. And I can see right away they’re best friends. Their proximity on the risers is so close that they appear physically attached.

Okay, sure, go. I don’t want to make a mistake with these children. I certainly don’t want to cause burst bladders.

The two girls race off. I return my attention to the others.

Please, close your eyes. I shut my own eyes to show them what I mean. Take a deep breath . . . hold it . . . hold it . . . hold it . . . and now exhale, let it out . . . empty your tummy out, out, out. . . . I search for air like I’m crawling to Aqaba for water. This is good; I’m centering myself and teaching them at the same time. I keep my eyes closed and continue.

Pretend your tummy is a balloon and fill it up with air, I say. Now let the air out, squeeze it out, out, out. . . .

My arms are raised, and I blink my eyes open to check on their progress. Ten kids stare back at me, blank. Not one of them has their eyes closed, and none of them appear to be deep breathing. Or breathing at all, for that matter.

What? Is there a problem? You don’t understand . . . or what?

They laugh outright at me. They kill themselves laughing. Falling over each other, laughing at me. They hit each other and begin to topple down the risers, all the while laughing and laughing. Screeching laughing.

Tap, tap, tap.

The knocking is louder this time. I run to the door and open it, and, again, no one is there. I step outside to see if anyone is even nearby. No one. What the hell?

I stride back and face the kids, ignoring their hysteria. My shoulders are pressed tight. I’m straight as an arrow. Get a grip.

I figure every good club needs mottos, and I’m going to teach you ours. I hold up three fingers and recite:

1.

We help each other.

2.

We share with each other.

3.

We honor the works of William Shakespeare.

All together with me. I hold up one, two, and finally three fingers, and they whisper the mottos along with me.

Pretty good, but let’s do that again and act like we mean it, I twinkle. One, two, thr—

WE HELP EACH OTHER! WE SHARE WITH EACH OTHER! WE HONOR THE WORKS OF WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE!

I stagger back from their thunder. Okay, that was better.

In that moment, I think these mottos may be no more than an adult’s fantasy. Helping and sharing with each other? Most of these kids are eight, nine, and ten. At this age, the gaps between them are as wide as the Grand Canyon.

Tap, tap, tap. Good God, again with the door.

Gosh, I’m so sorry, guys, hang on. I dash to the door, fling it open . . . no one. Back and forth, I scurry like an insane juggler in a circus.

Um . . . Miss . . . umm . . . A large, dark-haired girl jammed into a corner in the back row throws her arm high.

Mel, you can just call me Mel. What’s your name?

"I’m Dana."

Oh, okay. Dana. What’s up?

It’s the little kids. The little kids are banging on the wall when you’re not looking. You think it’s the door, but it’s them. She slouches back against the wall.

I drill a look into the door. The door is no longer my friend. Instead, it’s the culprit. I’m slammed with the kids’ howls, which pierce me like shards of ice. I blush crimson, and the sweat starts to flow.

When I’d proposed this program to the principal, she asked how much it would cost.

No charge, I’d answered. I figured that if they paid me, I’d be hired, and if I was hired, I’d be stuck, and I didn’t want to be stuck. As a volunteer, they couldn’t fire me, and I could quit if the whole thing went south.

I’m as hot now as if I were sunbathing in the Caribbean. My head is aching. I can’t get my thoughts in order. Where’s that escape hatch I had so carefully planned? Damn, dammit to hell anyway. Where’s their gratitude? My cheerful disposition has vanished, and I want to run. I want to run out that bloody door and across the cement playground. I want to run up the 405 Freeway and up the 5 Freeway and go back to Canada, a country I haven’t lived in for over twenty years, but maybe it would welcome me home. Oh God, I want to run.

Dana, my informant, is a twelve-year-old in fifth grade. She’s a big-boned girl, a Gulliver surrounded by cute, small kids. What is she doing here? What am I doing here? We don’t belong.

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Tap, tap, tap. My grandma’s stubby fingers anchored a nail, and she hammered it into a dusty plank. Tap, tap, tap. Our Grandma was a stocky, determined powerhouse. My brothers and I watched her work on a warm summer morning.

Mom and Dad, away for a week, had Grandma travel west from the prairies to look after us.

On this day, she created a project. Grandma discovered a pile of old wooden boards in a back corner of the yard, hauled them out one by one, and set them on the weed-laden dirt. She dragged two additional long beams to lay perpendicular to the first lot. She found Dad’s hammer and a coffee tin of rusty nails.

I was eight. My brothers were six and four. Mystified, we cocked our heads. Grandma frowned, pounded the nails, checked her palms for splinters, and wiped sweat from her brow. Periodically, she stood back to survey the progress. She used the apron tied around her plump waist to clean her clammy hands and made an adjustment by kicking a plank back in line.

When she was done, Grandma upturned two empty white buckets and instructed my brothers to sit. She handed them each a small bowl of popcorn and a cup of contraband tea. Grandma let us have tea, which was normally reserved for adults, once she’d doctored it with hot milk and two teaspoons of sugar. She scraped a kitchen chair across the dirt yard and plopped down next to my brothers. They wolfed down their treats, she gave me a nod, and I knew what I must do.

Up I stepped, shyly nudging the toe of my thin-soled sneaker onto the wood. From above, sunbeams ricocheted off the lenses of my glasses. I clamped my hands on bony hips and forced my elbows to point east and west. Grandma and my brothers watched and waited.

I was onstage. Grandma had built me a stage, and here I was in front of a real audience.

I pretended to tap dance with clumsy improvised steps. I twirled like a ballerina I’d seen on TV. My skinny legs dripped out of worn cotton shorts instead of a fluffy tutu. I sang The Teddy Bear’s Picnic, Catch a Falling Star, and Sugar Shack. My confidence grew, and I took languorous sweeping bows at the end of each number. Grandma ribbed the boys to clap. When they started twitching, she fed them more popcorn.

This was one of the best days of my childhood. Not because she had given me a theater but because Grandma knew who I was before I even had a clue.

When my parents returned home, the wood was torn apart. My stern-faced mom yanked each nail out and dropped them clanging back into the coffee can.

But Mom—

People will think we’re nuts. This is ridiculous. She dragged the lumber back to the corner of the yard.

Unwittingly, I’d been caught in the crosshairs of a lifelong fight between my mother and her mother. Every summer, Mom would pack us onto a train to visit her family essentially to duke it out with Grandma. At the end of a week’s visit, we raced to the train station to get home, my head reeling with the creepy images of tear-stained adult cheeks after their bloodcurdling battles.

After Grandma left that summer, I stood on tiptoe on my single bed and peeped over the windowsill in the dark of night. The two abandoned buckets shone white in the moonlight.

The audience, I whispered.

My grandma saw, and she knew: I was nothin’ without an audience. Tap, tap, tap.

Tap, tap, tap. I wait a second and eye the group. I will catch you, imp. Bang, bang, bang. It’s so loud that we all turn to the demanding door. Bang, bang, bang.

I lope to the entrance and open it to Grace and Carla. I’m never going to get this right. They saunter past me, and I sneak a look at my watch. How much longer, oh Lord, how much longer?

I balance the atlas on my knees, tilt it outward, and direct the kids’ attention to England. Peering over the book’s top, I point out where William Shakespeare lived in Stratford-upon-Avon and where he traveled to London to begin his career. Because I’m busy running my finger over roads and rivers and not watching them, I miss the real action going on in the room.

Kick, push, shove, hit. Cushions fly at me from the top of the risers, and Marin stares me down. She’s tightly wired and crammed between the group’s two boys, Miles and Daniel. She elbows each boy, one after the other. Dig right, jab left. She keeps her gaze glued to mine as she does this.

Who threw these? I hold up two pillows, bypassing Marin’s challenge.

A cacophony of blame comes at me.

She—

"No, he—"

"No, they—"

Okay! I shout. Fine. Forget it and stop it. Don’t throw stuff. That’s disrespectful. We’re borrowing this library for today, and we want to leave it nice . . . right? I sound so pathetic, like those lame teachers everyone remembers and snickers about.

Marin kicks Daniel. The heel of her shoe digs into his thigh. The boy yelps as if stabbed.

What are you doing?

I stand. Marin’s reply is a shrug.

I return to my chair and retrieve the atlas. When we look at where Stratford-upon-Avon is, it seems close to London, but it took William Shakespeare a long—

Tap, tap, tap. For God’s sake. I snap my head, and Daniel grins. I wasn’t quick enough to catch him rapping on the wall. I hate him. The rage is instant. It rips up my back and blazes through my eyes.

What am I saying? He’s a third grader. That reaction just bought me a dandy condo in hell.

Miles squints and sizes me up. Whenever I look at him, he’s checking me out. I give him a small smile and hope for a like response. It doesn’t come.

Can I get some water? Daniel asks, already on the move.

Uh . . . yeah, sure— The door slams before I can finish.

Can I go to the bathroom?

"Me too, I really

Reviews for Teaching Will

[froxgirl · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

Starting out as the saga of yet another teacher who imagines herself the Great White Savior of kids from poor neighborhoods and gets slapped down, this instead becomes a short course in how to motivate little kids. Mel Ryane is a former actor who takes on a volunteer position as the first leader of the new Shakespeare Club in an LA elementary school, and is startled to find that she has just as much to learn as the kids. The kids quit, form fluid alliances, lie, and have flashes of brilliance - all of which adults do as well, but maybe with a bit more impulse control. She chooses A Midsummer Night's Dream, probably the best comedy for kids, and ends up with a few kids playing three or more parts. But Mel persists, and to her credit, the ethnic backgrounds and races of the ten kids are never revealed to the reader. And the kids have a wild success, learn some moves for defending themselves and being kinder to each other, and the club continues on - with Hamlet, and with auditions for the next year. Mel's tough home life and professional failures alternate with the chronicle of the club's weekly meetings. A decent, fast read.