Shakespeare. Right.
Iambic pentameter, check. Scansion homework, check. Checking my ego at the door, check, check, and double-check.

I've never liked Shakespeare.
Not the man of course, just the foreignness of it all. It was a freaking different language. A bit surprising, I was partially weaned on King Jame. But this was something Pythonishingly different: recognizable, but undecipherable.

I loved to read.

"Mostly science fiction and comic books" my Mom would say, "Didn't quite take as well to the Good Book!'
Okay, she doesn't really talk like that. But I'm sure the thought has crossed her mind, more than a few, methinks.
In my old age, I've thanked her, for allowing me to read pretty much anything I wanted, and she did. Which I find very admirable considering the Evangelical Churching we were raised with. Though we were Biblical in thought, and raised to Believe, my parents were wonderfully perfectly human, and raised us to be good people.
I have made my own choices of course, but I am much more charitable with myself as of late, guilt and emotional flagellation are a wonderful byproduct of salvation, with an unbelievable shelf life. I am in the process of re-stocking.

Rockets, cowboys, and sports heroes...pretty much it.
My mom tried to instill an awareness. I do have a very fond memory of Leonard Bernstein, and mixed memories piano lessons.
We had a vinyl of Peter and The Wolf, and his children's classical music thing on PBS was great,  sans cigarettes.

But Shakespeare? Not.
In school, I was always one of the often obnoxiously proficient kids who enjoyed reading aloud.                
Whether it was from the attention or being able to do something easily that others couldn't, I was always one of the chosen, and I loved it.

If there's one thing I understood, it wasn't grammar.
At one point after the schooling had ground to a miserable halt, I did have the awareness;
in sixth grade when the rudiments of grammar are attempting to build a viable and sturdy foundation, I retained more of what my sixth grade teacher wore than what came out of her pastel lip glossed mouth.
Body hugging, dark olive green, just above the, just above the knee dress, vertically ribbed with horizontal blue stripes running across her Playtex molded breasts, blue L'eggs and low, fashionable yet sensible heels. Her brown tortoise shell glasses were circa '69 and dominated her face save for the sparkling rows of perfectly orthodontured  pearly whites accentuated by a dark mass of curly hair blow dried into a perfect shoulder length bob.)
No, I'm not going to say her name. ( even though I'm amazed I have retained it and want to put it into print just to have a personal gloat. )

It was more feel than rules.
I've always written, but have never really had a grasp on proper grammar, it's more the flow of the sentence, the use of punctuation to regulate the breathing, hearing the way that sentences ran together to form thoughts, it was more like letting the current take me.
And so it is today.
Please use a red pen when making corrections as it brings back such memories.

I read Shakespeare aloud in high school, was even in a production of "Two Gentlemen" senior year. But aside from the performance aspects, the words did nothing for me.
Opening Shakespeare was like opening a Calculus book, and about as satisfying, if you can rate satisfaction on a scale that includes a comatose state.

Until now.

Just finished a 2 week Shakespeare Workshop taught by Ron Usherwood at the Playhouse Theater here in Taos.
The workshop was enjoyable and enlightening for two main reasons.
Ron Usherwood is a self admitted Shakespeare geek, his enthusiasm and knowledge set was as edifying as it was entertaining, "wishing you were here" during high school dude.
The second was just as important if not more so.

When Quinn, my younger actor son returned home to Taos, I was trying to keep him going with theater so I was suggesting these different productions and workshops. He expressed an interest in Shakespeare generated by his drama teacher Mr. Sinclair, who when introducing scansion to his class, back-doored them with an Eminem song first. They loved it, slipping in Hamlet next was easy, he had bypassed the one thing that always stood in my way, relevance.

Well, summer's waning and Quinn is on to his pursuits, but I still offered to include him in the Willie Workshop but he politely declined.
And I am glad he did.

No matter how hard I am trying to let their choices be their own without the tsunami of Dad attitude, in certain circumstances, this becomes more difficult.
From the training ground of Death of a Salesman, which was really fun to share with him, I realized that any of his actions that I viewed as irresponsible, (like being late, or missing rehearsals) can bring immediate fatherly responses.
I am trying my best in private to rid myself of these unproductive responses (AAARRRGGGHHH!) but it is difficult.
Difficult like, say, when you're at a table of 8 or 9 cast members who all heard and wrote down the correct time and place of the rehearsal, have to stop their reading, mind you just after the teenager's part was read for him, as he sheepishly enters brimming with excuses.
I didn't say a word, deflecting his missives to the director.
In my mind I didn't even pull a face.
In public it's easier to put on the exhausted smile of a beleaguered dad, shrug your shoulders and ignore him until we get in the car, where as everyone knows, all the great battles begin.

We did not battle. Yes, I may have been unable to scrub all the annoyance from my voice but I didn't yell and scream. Just told him of his choice and his responsibility to his cast mates. Suggested he use his phone to remind him of commitments and we went and got something to eat.
I keep patting myself on the back for my improvements in parental patience and restraint, but I guess it really doesn't mean anything unless they see it too, but, they're still wearing the Ray Bans so it'll be a while before that happens.

In the class, there wasn't anyone under 25, with the majority being an average age of dear old dad.
I am confident in saying it would not be an assumption on my part to think that he would have reacted to these circumstances, at least initially, in a very negative manner. It would have been a shared lesson, which isn't a bad thing. But.

What all this made me realize is, these workshops are mine.
They feed me. They give me a place to be me, and to not be dad.
I relish the time to myself, for myself.
Enough said

Next: I am William.....Shatner