Shaking things up with Shakespeare

Sue Clark

Alnida Broughton, one of the most positive and passionate teachers

at my school, decides she wants to create a Shakespeare class for the

students. Creekside High School is a continuation school, meaning we

receive kids who are struggling at the four traditional high schools

in the Irvine School District. More than likely, they’ve endured

Shakespeare previously and ardently hope to avoid it while with us.

“Great idea,” is my response, and together we write a curriculum.

Some of the plays Broughton will cover are “Hamlet,” “Macbeth” and,

my personal favorite, “Romeo and Juliet.”

I’ve seen Broughton in action teaching her classes. If I had the

chance to choose one teacher in the entire district for my daughter

to have had, it would be she. I’ve seen Broughton jump up on a chair

to make a point, and I know she dances and leaps for joy if a student

does well. I’ve heard her Monday mantra sung to a sluggish,

partied-out group: “Monday is my favorite day of the week! Let’s get

going!” The students gag, but they get going.

The noise I hear when I walk by her classes is that rare

educational sound of kids talking, arguing, defending and disagreeing

-- the sound of learning.

Broughton is smart, funny, yet professional, almost a throwback to

the one-room schoolmarm. Yes, she is kind, but don’t think she won’t

holler at someone if they are disrespectful. If they walk away,

she’ll follow them down the hall. You really don’t want to mess with

her. When our school had an old tradition of no mandatory homework,

she began teaching at our site and promptly demanded it. Many other

teachers followed suit. Shakespeare would be no different.

We handpicked the first class. It is a powerful thing to tell a

student they’ve been picked for their potential to handle a

challenging curriculum. Broughton, our assistant principal and I used

a combination of logic and intuition to create the classes.

One platinum-haired sleepy surfer said, “Who me?” A pale, thin

girl profoundly depressed and making a series of disastrous decisions

appeared equally shocked, yet rose to the occasion. A wannabe “thug”

took the class four quarters in a row, studying each play until we

forced him out to make room for some others. The self-fulfilling

prophecy was at work.

Broughton does all the hard stuff, and I get the fun of being the

“warmup act.” When the students start Hamlet, I drop in and pose this

question: “What would you do if your Dad died under suspicious

circumstances and your uncle moved in with your mom?” They don’t like

this one bit. In fact, they freak.

“Dude, that is just sick,” groans a disgusted boy. There are

mumbles of agreement.

“Would that be depressing for you?”

“Totally. I’d kick that guy’s [expletive] , too.”

Then I talk about how I’d treat Hamlet and Ophelia in my private

practice today. I talk about antidepressant treatment and whether

Hamlet would benefit from it. We discuss girls’ self-esteem issues.

It’s a good chance to segue to what to do if a student knows someone

who might be suicidal. Kids bring up questions about the legality of

a man’s brother marrying his wife. Others ask about whether an

antidepressant is addictive or ask to see me later in my office. It’s

loud and lively.

When the class starts “Macbeth,” my question is this: “Girls, do

you want to be the power behind the throne, or own your own throne?”

They usually aren’t sure what this saying means. We talk about Nancy

Reagan and Hillary Clinton, and the girls’ own boyfriends. I ask the

boys what kind of wife or girlfriend they want. (If they say they

want a subservient one, they usually get shouted down.) I bring up

guilt and the lust for power. A debate rages over Banquo’s ghost

scene. Sometimes we discuss obsessive-compulsive disorder and Lady

Macbeth’s hand-washing problem.

The class is currently one of the most popular on campus. A

Literary Club was formed from a nucleus of interested members, and

they’ve raised enough money to attend Vanguard University’s upcoming

production of “Macbeth.” “Dressing for the theater means khakis, not

jeans,” the girls tell the guys.

“Khakis?” grumbles a boy. “What about nice jeans, no holes?” A

Shakespearean chorus of no’s ensues. My task is to go look for a

tailored skirt, since my taste, like theirs, runs to jeans. I have

one that used to fit, but it was a bit snug in the waist.

“Oh, that this too solid flesh would melt.”

* SUE CLARK is a Newport Beach resident and a high school guidance

counselor at Creekside High School in Irvine.