Bryce had a part in a dramatic production at school this month; Robert Fulghum’s, All I Needed To Know I Learned In Kindergarten. Bryce did a great job, in his parts… his solo performance of “Tomb With A View” was memorable; some guy visiting the gravesite he had purchased for himself, enjoying the view above while stretched out on his back. Grave-shopping is something I’ve considered from time to time. Not sure where I’d want to be buried or whether it matters. Just something to think about.
Tonight on the radio, Chuck Swindol was reciting the lines from one of the other skits in the play that was also memorable… I think the title was “Cinderella”. Anyway, I did a little googling, and came up with the story online. Not sure if it’s kosher to post it online or not, but I figure if it was already there and I give credit to Fulghum, we ought to be square. I’ll be happy to pay royalties for every cent I make from having it on my site!
A kindergarten teacher I know was asked to have her class dramatize a fairy tale for a teachers’ conference. After much discussion, the children achieved consensus on that old favorite, “Cinderella,” the classic rags-to-riches story that never dies. “Cream will rise” is the moral of this tale: someday you may get what you think you deserve. It’s why adults play the lottery with such passion.
“Cinderella” was a good choice from the teacher’s point of view because there were many parts and lots of room for discretionary padding of parts so that every child in the class could be in the play. A list of characters was compiled as the class talked through the plot of the drama: there was an absolutely ravishing Cinderella, the evil stepmother, the two wicked and dumb stepsisters, the beautiful and wise fairy godmother, the pumpkin, mice, coachman, horses, the king, all the people at the king’s ball: generals, admirals, knights, princesses and, that ultimate object of fabled desire, the Prince: good news incarnate. The children were allowed to choose roles, As the parts were allotted, each child was labeled with felt pen and paper and sent to stand over on the other side of the room while casting was completed. Finally, every child had a part. Except one. One small boy had remained quiet and disengaged from the selection process. A somewhat enigmatic kid — “different” — and because he was plump for his age, often teased by the other children. “Well, Norman,” said the teacher, “who are you going to be?”
“I am going to be the pig,” replied Norman.
“Pig? There’s no pig in this story.”
“Well, there is now.”
Wisdom was fortunately included in the teacher’s tool bag. She looked carefully at Norman. What harm? It was a bit of casting to type. Norman did have a certain pigginess about him all right. So be it. Norman was declared the pig in the story of Cinderella. Nobody else wanted to be the pig, anyhow, so it was quite fine with the class. And since there was nothing in the script explaining what the pig was supposed to do, the action was left up to Norman.
As it turned out, Norman gave himself a walk-on part. The pig walked along with Cinderella wherever Cinderella went, ambling along on all fours in a piggy way, in a costume of his own devising — pink long underwear complete with trapdoor rear flap, pipe cleaner tail, and a paper cup for a nose. He made no sound. He simply sat on his haunches and observed what was going on, like some silently supportive Greek chorus. The expressions on his face reflected the details of the dramatic action. Looking worried, sad, anxious, hopeful, puzzled, mad, bored, sick, and pleased as the moment required.
There was no doubt about what was going on and no doubt that it was important. One look at the pig and you knew. The pig was so earnest. So sincere. So very “there.” The pig brought gravity and mythic import to this well-worn fairy tale.
At the climax, when the Prince finally placed the glass slipper on Cinderella’s foot and the ecstatic couple hugged and rode off to live happily ever after, the pig went wild with joy, danced around on his hind legs, and broke his silence by barking. In rehearsal, the teacher had tried explaining to Norman that even if there was a pig in the Cinderella story, pigs don’t bark. But as she expected, Norman explained that this pig barked. And the barking, she had to admit, was well done.
The presentation at the teachers’ conference was a smash hit. At the curtain call, guess who received a standing ovation? Norman, of course, the barking pig. He was, after all, the real Cinderella story. Word of a good thing gets around, and the kindergarten class had many invitations to come and perform “Cinderella.” Sometimes the teacher would have to explain what it was about the performance that was so unique.
“It has a pig in it, you see.”
“Oh, really?
“Yes, the star of the show is… a barking pig.”
“But there’s no barking pig in ‘Cinderella’.”
“Well, there is now.”
I suppose there are lots of different interpretations one can take away from that story. Take what lessons you will from it.