kid

I go to give the kids final feedback on their short plays. It’s been a month since I last saw them. They are pulled out of class for their five minute one-to-ones. One is a mop-topped blond haired twelve year old. His play was set in 1170. It was about a youth who wanted to go and fight in the Crusades, but his father disapproves. He fights a few battles and wins his father’s approval.

I ask the kid what he thinks of his play. He tells me he thinks it’s rubbish. I ask him why he thinks that. He says he doesn’t know. He just thinks it’s rubbish. I disagree. We discuss the play. I tell him what I like about it, and some things he might think about changing.

At the end I ask if he has any questions. There’s a question there but he can’t ask it. It requires cajoling. Finally he looks up, uncertainly. He says, hesitantly: Do you really think it’s not rubbish?