Following the success of Toilet Paper Tug-of-War, I invented a more abstract version of the same basic theater game/exercise. This one more theatrical, but also focused on developing and sustaining a fragile relationship.
There are two roles: Shaker and Shover. The Shaker is trying to get the Shover to shake hands. The Shover, to keep the Shaker away. The improv ends when: 1) the Shaker finally gives up and walks away, or 2) the Shover capitulates and shakes hands. Either player could take either role. And players could exchange roles at any time.
We had two variations: in one, they weren’t allowed to touch (except to shake hands), in another, they weren’t allowed to talk.
The goal, like the goal of Toilet Paper Tug-of-War, was to play the game for as long as possible without the relationship itself breaking – but not so long that the audience lost interest. The game would come to an end if the Shaker would walk away, or both of them choose the same role at the same time.
The audience loved this game. They’d encourage the Shaker to keep trying, the Shover to reject all advances. And I loved the game because the kids got so deeply involved in it, and because the actors were exploring the very fine art of maintaining a relationship – fundamental to theater and childhood. And I liked it because it seemed to be a remarkably accurate reflection of my relationship to the educational establishment.
Despite the success, this game eventually led to my giving up on theater-like games altogether. So, in a way, it was more than symbolic.
My moment of truth came when I had to leave the kids for a minute. I think the principal needed to see me for some principalled reason. I left the kids happily and purposefully engaged, but when I came back they were running generally amok.
It was then I began to toy with the conclusion that it might not be the game that was keeping the kids at play, nor was it their burning desire to learn the art of improv, but rather their respect for 1) me, and 2) not having to be sitting at a desk filling in worksheets.
It began to dawn on me that it was more important to me find out what was meaningful to them than to get them to do what was meaningful to the curriculum – since I was the one who was developing the curriculum in the first place.
For the next several months I gamely tried every theater exercise I thought might be closer to their hearts’ desires, and submitted each to my new mildly acidic test: once they were engaged, I’d walk away, hover within earshot, and each time return to general amokitude. And then, out of something like desperation, I tried just plain old games – not the kind of games you’d find in a book of theater games, the kind you’d find in the playground. Duck-Duck-Goose was the first. And behold, I left them alone, for an entire minute, and when I returned they were still playing. And then I’d leave them alone for two minutes, and behold again, the game was, in fact and truth, the thing.
And so began the next chapter – which, 50 years later, I am still writing.
{ 2 comments… read them below or add one }
Kids love games with rules. Not many rules, but rules that keep the play going. With Duck Duck Goose, the end of one round gives the beginning of the next. (The loser picks the next goose). It creates an obligation to play. The audience is involved because at any moment they may be expected to engage in the game. It creates tension, and release of tension. It’s really a beautifully created game.
Love and laughter,
Lily
wow, awesome summation of the whole thing, isn’t that! a great litmus test indeed. It makes me think of the old “what would you do if you only had one day to live (or if you knew a kid, or all the kids, who did). There is a buddhist story about a falling monk, who sees the strawberry, I’m guessing you know this one. How did everything get so complicated?