NOTE: This was posted several days ago, then reposted yesterday. Due to a technical glitch, the Blogads blocked some of the text. So we’re reposting it today. NOTE: This is the first in an occasional series of nonpolitical posts on the things that really matter — things that transcend the news, political parties, or analyses.
Let me step out of my blog persona now and assume my everyday incarnation for a post that’ll never be linked, but that’s not what it’s for. And it’s 100 percent true.
I do a lot of programs at schools of all levels. The programs have varying themes. And on several occasions this is what would happen:
When I’d arrive with my cast of wooden and puppet characters, at some schools a very nice teacher would come in early with a bunch of students.
“These are my students here,” she would often say, pointing to a small group of students. “You should know they are Special Ed. If you do audience participation, you might not want to pick them.”
But when the moment came, and I asked for volunteers, I’d usually notice something. You’d often see some kids in the Special Ed group with their eyes almost popping out of their heads as they raised their hands. They wanted to be chosen so badly, and almost never got picked. So I’d sometimes pick one of them and that kid almost always brought the house down with hidden talents. (I’ve been called an attention deficit magnet, since these are kids who seem keen to get involved and who I often unknowingly pick).
Today it was different.
This morning I arrived at a school in Southern California and was getting ready for my 8 a.m. show when — once again — a very nice teacher came up to me.
“These are my students here,” she said, pointing to a small group of students. “You should know they are Special Ed. If you do audience participation, can you please pick one of them?
“They never get picked,” this grey-haired lady with the sheepish smile said slowly and a bit sadly. “And they want to be picked so badly. I hope I’m not being out of line by asking you this.”
“Not at all,” I told her. “Where are the kids?”
She pointed to two groups of them. The most interested in what she was telling me where three boys on the right.
So I got to the lip sync where I get five volunteers onstage. I asked for volunteers.
And the three boys on the right sat there and looked at each other. One boy wearing a striped shirt, looked like he was about to jump to the ceiling as he raised his hand and waved it. I picked him first. I then looked at the others and no one had their hand up. So I picked four others from the general audience.
The kids came up to the stage.
“Do you want to move your mouth a lot or a little?” I asked him, and he was honest: “A little.”
So he got the best part: the one who during the lip sync of Tuitti Fruitti opens his mouth and “his” new voice sings “YEAHHHHHHHHHH!”
The kids all had to put on ratty looking rock singer’s wigs and lip sync “Tuitti Fruitti” while I did the voices. The music started. The others were tentative.
But not this kid. His legs started moving in time to the music as soon as it came on. When he did the “YEAHHHHHHHH!” holding out his arm vaudeville style, it brought the house down. The others did OK, but he totally stole the number and I increased the number of times he would do his bit since he was so terrific. It was over and as he left the stage I gave him a quick pat on the shoulder and said: “You were GREAT!” And he WAS: Special Ed had NOTHING TO DO with his performance or the reason why the huge audience loved him.
After the show the teacher came up to me as I was loading my car.
“I want to thank you. Can I give you a hug?”
I said sure. (I never refuse hugs from attractive women…or women for that matter.)
“I want to thank you,” she said. “You made him shine.”
Her eyes seemed to tear up and you could tell she loved her students so very much…
“Well,” I told her, “he was GREAT. Tell him that he’s very talented and he needs to get in some school plays. Make sure you tell him.”
“I will,” she said. “But thanks for making him shine.”
Then I got in my car, and as I put in my key it hit me.
No, I didn’t make him shine.
She did.
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Joe Gandelman is a former fulltime journalist who freelanced in India, Spain, Bangladesh and Cypress writing for publications such as the Christian Science Monitor and Newsweek. He also did radio reports from Madrid for NPR’s All Things Considered. He has worked on two U.S. newspapers and quit the news biz in 1990 to go into entertainment. He also has written for The Week and several online publications, did a column for Cagle Cartoons Syndicate and has appeared on CNN.