Yesterday was my very first Valentine’s Day as a teacher. I really had no idea how much work it would end up being. There is the obligatory cache of candy to be dispensed, the recognition of important people in a first grader’s life (the principle, the librarian, our foster grandmother -–God bless Grandma Betty!) And on and on. There is also the party and decorations for the classroom and, well, you get the idea. On top of all that, our school has a grand tradition of a first grade play put on for the parents every Valentine’s Day. Not just any play, mind you. I’m talking about THE play. The same play that has been performed in the first grade since Noah stepped off the ark. It is dramatically named, The Stolen Heart, and all I knew was, it has been performed annually for a very long time. I knew it was sort of the baby of the previous teacher. She faithfully went to the bother (oops! Freudian slip), I MEANT effort of putting on this production every year. And she taught first grade in this school for 38 years!
What I didn’t know, was that The Stolen Heart was an icon before my predecessor arrived. This play is like, ancient! I didn’t know that until two weeks ago. I really, honestly came in to this job with the intention of doing away with The Stolen Heart, and beginning my own tradition. New teacher, new play, I figured. Would that be so horrible? Because the truth is, I had seen it many times (I have many children), but never really got what it was about. First graders mumbling mispronounced lines is not a great way to get the feel of a story line. I was feeling rather stupid about that, until I attended a performance a couple of years back and a local woman who had seen it her entire life made the same apologetic confession. What? It’s about a young man in love stealing the heart of the princess?? Really?? Well, that’s kinda’ cute.
Having announced my intentions of The Stolen Heart Ban in the teacher’s workroom (a place really mislabeled, in my opinion. It should be called the Teacher’s Buffet and Venting Room. The only one usually working in there generally is the copier). Anyhoo, no one seemed bothered by the fact that the newbie was treading on sacred ground. Even my predecessor had handed me the precious script and said, “Do what you want.” So I really didn’t think I had offended the gods of small town tradition. But one brave Title I teacher ever so gently came to my room in private one day and asked (oh, so sweetly) if I might reconsider doing the play? Was I aware that The Stolen Heart was firmly ensconced in our wonderful school even before the previous teacher had taken over? Turns out our little Off-Broadway productions has been around so long that no one is really sure when it began. They just know every generation in our fair town has been in it and every new set of first grade parents consider it a right of passage to see their own child say the same lines they themselves once uttered.
OK, I am a sucker for nostalgia, and yes, I could see the value, and even necessity of carrying on this tradition. We were cutting it a bit close, but hey, I’ve delivered lambs in the dead of night and walked the floors with colicky babies. Shucks, I can put on a play in a week-and-a-half. I had to tweak the script a bit. More parts than kids required some shuffling and inventive casting. To his credit, only one boy was secure enough with his manhood to volunteer to play the part of the queen (and was fabulous, I might add).
Invitations were issued, rehearsals held daily, props dug out of storage, refreshments baked for the big day, and we were ready to take our place in history as a proud torch-carrier of The Stolen Heart. And we were wonderful! Not that it was trouble-free, by any stretch. Lines were forgotten and stage fright threatened to take over, but in the end, parents and grandparents laughed in all the right places, my little sweeties beamed as they said their lines, and everyone agreed that it was delightful. I even found ways to put my personal stamp on it, such as setting the curtain call to music and letting them show off their best dance moves.
So here’s what I learned. It’s okay to be unique. And it’s okay to want to add a fresh element to my class. But in the process of making my mark and taking my place as an established, respected teacher, I have to be sensitive to what is important to the community, ESPECIALLY in a small town. If you don’t have great-grandparents born and raised in the community, then you are and always will be something of an outsider. You small-towners know what I mean. Don't get me wrong, I have not been treated like an outsider or ostracized in any way. No, these wonderful people have been warm, gracious, and accepting from the time our family first moved to this area. But I don’t have the sense of history that they have. I can’t share in the deeply imbedded rites, traditions, and folklore of this unique place. So when something is brought to my attention, I need to at least listen. And then make a careful, thoughtful, sensitive decision.
Traditions are a pretty wonderful thing. They connect each generation, and make us feel a part of something bigger than ourselves. It’s why we gorge ourselves at holidays, and blow things up on July 4th, and hide eggs on chilly Easter mornings. We do it because it’s what we know and what we cherish in our childhood memories. And when our children have children, we hope they will carry on where we have left off.
At the end of our performance, I shared with the parents and their parents the tale of How The Stolen Heart Was Saved, just as I have shared it here. When I was finished, young adult faces smiled appreciatively, wizened grandparents nodded in approval, and all cheered loudly. At that moment, this school and this town stole MY heart.
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