Diary: Disney's Bright Stars

In a former life, I worked with children in South Scottsdale, an area that evolved from

Bedroom-community suburb of Phoenix to

Forgotten satellite of the system of exclusive resorts that line the desert in Scottsdale to

An archipelago of slum and blight.

I loved it. 

I got the job as a lucky break – I had coached swimming for two years and taught swim lessons, but had never been in a classroom environment with kids – and many of the people I came to like (and who came to like me) were suspicious of my potential.

They were right.  Many environmental-spill-like paint and glue messes, stern-talkings-to, trainings, and failures later, I got the hang of it.  Then, we put on Shakespeare with six-year-olds, painted murals, and took a hundred kids to water parks.  The list of failures that preceded and accompanied those high-water marks could fill a book, but I seem to remember only the brightest parts now.

One particularly wonderful experience – itself mired in uncertainty, cursing, fear, and staffing issues, I'm sure – came to mind recently as I listened to our local public radio.  On “Here and Now” last week, Ron Suskind discussed his book Life, Animated, a Story of Sidekicks, Heroes, and Autism.  In it he recounts, among other things, how Disney and its characters became an integral part of his family’s vibrant life.  A story, in my reading, about the possibilities of children and reading and movies and love, it is touching and fascinating on its own; but it recalled a child and people I knew from my days in Scottsdale.

Although I won’t tell you too much about this child, I can say that, though he was very young and sneaky and charming when I knew him, he is most likely not alive now.  His condition was terminal.  I can also say that although he and his parents very much appreciated our programs – which included dance, the arts, lots of play, and lots of socializing – he “fired” me and many of my staff on more than one occasion.  “You’re fired!” he would often shout, when asked to sit with a group or walk to lunch; and then he would make a grand exit, much like an exasperated Joan Crawford or a righteous Jimmy Stewart.

We all loved that guy.   He was so much trouble!

And he, like Ron Suskind’s son, Owen, often used Disney to communicate with us.

He had a taxonomy of heroes and villains, but he often called the program staff “Brunhilda” in a dismissive way, especially when his behavior was our focus.  He referred to himself as Peter Pan when he was climbing on bleachers and trees and cafeteria equipment.  Many other kids quite naturally played in this world of superheroes, lion kings, and princesses.

We, that is, the staff who worked in these programs, did too.  We had seen these movies – during this time The Lion King had become a Broadway and cinematic sensation – and we were young and imaginative and not too well-versed in critical pedagogy or behavior management or behavioral psychology.  It was such a florid time for me as someone who works with kids.  The group – of exceptional and giving young people – I worked with was so flexible, and their energy so limitless, that folding Snow White into an art project or dodgeball game seemed natural.  One of our more inspired staff created an entire dance program using a Disney CD that I recall had a rappin’ Mickey.  Another, who became an after-school care provider for this child, simply immersed herself in the world of Beauties and Beasts and Mice.

Looking back -- it has been almost twenty years – with my focus on the array of laughs and strategies and activities and decisions that center on this one child, I realize that the child himself is what makes the memory seem so rich, positive, vibrant.  In the years closer to today, I tend to focus on the debates, procedures, and theories that surround these kids we work with. 

It is a much darker and more confusing world! 

This child and the team I worked with, and Disney, and Suskind and his family, are very bright suns in the universe of working with kids.   They illuminate us.  The dark corners, or perhaps the force of gravity that governs so many other acts – permissions forms, funding, procurement, the politics of community partnerships, the research – in this place seems to me often to fill the present, but it shouldn’t be the only thing there.

We should remember the kids we work with and for, as often as we can.  All those Peter Pans who invite us into their worlds, where life is new and strange and worth cultivating.