My son, a student in the class, is describing all this in an excited jumble while I’m trying to watch Zeffirelli’s film version of ““The Taming of the Shrew.’’ On the second Scotch, my internal editor is elsewhere and I suddenly hear me say, ““Why don’t I come to your class and talk about William Shakespeare?''
The next day, when he hies from school bearing an invitation in the fine hand of Mrs. Leddy, the full import of my lunatic offer hits home. Shakespeare to 21 small children, to second graders? I think, Ah, hoo boy. I’m a dilettante when it comes to Shakespeare, and that’s being charitable. I’m not a fan of watching the plays in a theater (tiny, cramped seats, catching every fourth word), and the plots can be numbing. You can’t help but love the words, though, and that’s what I wanted to get across to the kids: you can love words, and these are some of the loveliest in the English language.
Fearing a restive audience, I planned with care, first contacting Washington’s Folger Shakespeare Library, which specializes in the Bard, then viewing Ian McKellan’s video ““Acting Shakespeare.’’ I also consulted books, especially ““The Friendly Shakespeare,’’ by Norrie Epstein.
I figured I would explain how, when he was a boy about the age of my audience, Shakespeare may have gotten interested in theater; I’d read a couple of the better-known speeches, then have a budding Romeo and Juliet do the balcony scene. I reserved an Elizabethan costume for my own confidence – looking the part, I hoped, would create the scene – one can’t be too careful with kids.
I asked Peggy O’Brien, head of education at the Folger, how young children would handle the strange words. She assured me that kids at 7 and 8 are learning new words all the time, often getting the meaning from context and inflection. Finally, the big day arrived. My raiment got oohs and ahhs as I made my entrance. ““Good morrow, gentle friends,’’ I intoned in my best English accent.
I stared with false amazement at their jeans, sweaters and sneakers, as though I’d never seen such odd clothes. I declaimed: ““How wondrous strange! No doublets? No farthingales?’’ I paused for effect, then, like a class jester, raised my tunic to display baggy tights.
After the hilarity subsided and I really had their attention, we talked about Shakespeare’s life. That we’re unsure of his early schooling or if he went to university; or what kind of person he was and that we’re not even sure what he looked like.
I talked to the children of how music can make someone feel brave or strong or sad. When you do that with words, it’s called poetry; and we know Shakespeare wrote beautiful words that move us 500 years later. He wrote about beguiling princesses, powerful kings, horrible battles, scared soldiers, fragile teenagers whose families are warring around them and simple guys who made everybody laugh.
I read the witches’ passages from ““Macbeth.’’ The admixture of costume, accent and words had the children wide-eyed, rapt. They asked, ““Did Shakespeare act in his plays?’’ ““Why do some of those words sound so funny?’’ We talked about putting on a play for 2,000 people without lights, microphones or special effects. We discussed how the Globe Theatre had been in a bad part of town with a bearbaiting pit next door; how it must have been hard to make so many people hear you.
I mentioned that the audience suffered hardships as well. There were no restrooms in the Globe, flush toilets being a few hundred years off, so some scholars believe that theatergoers pretty much relieved themselves where they pleased. Predictably, a relentless line of questioning followed. It occurred to me that 21 young people would always associate the Bard with public urination.
I got the class ready to do battle with the scary French Army. I read Henry V’s speech that ends with the rousing ““Cry, “God for Harry, England, and Saint George!’ ’’ At this, some of the little soldiers seemed ready to charge the dauphin’s front rank.
Everybody wanted to be in the balcony scene, though the room was full of giggles at the magical tension brought on by a description of teenagers in love. I chose an eager, bespectacled boy as Ro-meo and a beautiful and equally eager young Juliet. While the actors and I repaired for a hallway rehearsal, Mrs. Leddy handed out a list of phrases from Shakespeare (““eaten me out of house and home’’ and ““knock, knock, who’s there’’ were favorites). When, at last, he took the stage, Romeo suddenly got shy, and you couldn’t blame him: the principal had sauntered in and the entire class was electric with excitement, wondering if the two ““teenagers’’ would kiss (they didn’t).
By now, I figured these kids were with me: we had laughed together, we’d talked seriously about the literature, we’d bonded. A hand went up. ““If I went to the Globe to see a play by Shakespeare’’ (I’m thinking, Hey, this is great. A 7-year-old curious about the Globe!) ““and I’m at the Globe and my tooth falls out and I put it under my pillow, does the tooth fairy still come?''
Back at home that afternoon, my son presented me with 21 thank-you letters full of compliments and pleas to return (““I plan to read him win I tern 8 and you wer funnie,’’ read one).
With this extremely modest introduction, one can hope these kids won’t be as put off by Shakespeare when, in high school, some well-meaning pedagogue inflicts ““Julius Caesar’’ on them. But, that said, I think I had a better time than the children did. And I’ve got to tell you, those charming thank-yous are worth a morning in baggy tights any time.
