"Garnet and Gray, we hail today..."

Just two years ago, I was writing about the closing of North Catholic, the scrappy little school in northeast Philly that I student taught at.

Never, ever did I think I would be writing a similar post about my own alma mater.

The Archdiocese of Philly just announced its plans to close 44 grade schools and 4 high schools--Archbishop Prendergast High School for Girls being one of them.

Now, I didn't LOVE high school. I had a pretty okay experience. I wasn't a standout in any way; I found my happy little niche with the choir and theater kids, excelled in English and Spanish, limped along in Math and Science, feigned enthusiasm at the pep rallies, had some great teachers (my junior English teacher, who actually made Beowulf palatable) and some pretty awful ones (one of whom spent the better part of sophomore History dishing dirt on her fellow teachers and telling us about the gun she kept in her glove compartment), and made some great friends that I am still close with today.

But there were things that made Prendie special, and that is what makes me sad--that other girls won't get to experience that. "Music on the Stairs" signaled the official start of Christmas break. The choir would gather on the grand staircase of the main entrance to school, and serenade the students with Christmas carols as they left for vacation. The month before graduation, you could "kiss a senior goodbye" by sending them a Hershey Kiss candy-gram (and being a girls' school, it was just a cute little tradition instead of something fraught with romantic drama and angst). And we were blessed with a gorgeous chapel--basically the size of a small church--which had served the children of St. Vincent's Orphanage, the original residents of the building. My friend Erin and I started attending the lunchtime Communion services senior year, and it provided a blessed few moments of peace and serenity in the midst of the usual high school nonsense. (I would also pop into the chapel alone on occasion when I just needed some quiet. For a teenager, this haven of sacred silence was literally a Godsend.)

And finally, the bell tower was the Holy Grail for bad-asses--strictly off-limits, and punishable by suspension if caught trespassing. The day before graduation, my friends Jenn, Trish and myself managed to climb up and paint our initials on the wall. I ran home and breathlessly confessed to my mom, a fellow Prendie alum, about our sordid crime. She feigned anger, and then quietly gave me a high five when my dad wasn't looking.

High school definitely wasn't the best time of my life. But it was pretty good, all things considered. I wore my garnet and gray uniform with a sheepish pride, and my heart swelled with mixed emotions on graduation day when we sang our alma mater for the final time: "Garnet and Gray we hail today, girls of Prendergast High..."

And now, girls who have had this tradition in their families for generations will have to find a new home. There are options, sure. But I know I was happy to share this bond with my sister, mom, and godmother, and also know how much I took it for granted. Prendie stood like a stalwart beacon on the hill at Lansdowne Avenue and Garrett Road; I just always assumed it would be around. As did thousands of families who are now wondering where their children will go next fall. As did 1700 teachers in the Archdiocese, who are painfully uncertain what will become of their jobs come spring.

It's a strange time for the Church. There is no choice but to downsize and consolidate; I get it. But I do hope it remembers that "pro-life" means "ALL life," and that they do everything within their power to help these families and teachers who have sacrificed so much for Catholic education.

The Christmas Crunch

Why do we do this to ourselves?

Every year I resolve to glide through Christmas like Mary Bailey herself--elegance and grace under pressure, wearing pearls and pumps to boot. Instead, I find myself galumphing around Target on December 23rd dressed like a refugee and beating myself up for waiting 'til the last minute for thisthat'ntheotherthang.

But this year was a little different. And I think part of that was due to trying out some new traditions, instead of stubbornly sticking with the old. (It also helped immensely that we were staying put this year. Last year's cross-country trek with a 3-year-old and a feverish infant was just the merriest little sprig of Christmas joy that anyone could hope for!)

1) Secret Santa
Years ago, my mom suggested to my (then) family of four that we should do a pollyanna. "WHAAAT!?!" we all screamed and raged, like she had suggested sacrificing the cat for Christmas dinner. "HOW DARE YOU, CHRISTMAS CRAPPER!!!????" But after a few years, it seemed to make sense (a mortgage and two kids will do that to you.) And soon after, NR's family followed suit. So instead of trying to figure out the perfect present for Cousin Cathy whom you see (maybe) once a year, we receive *one* person to shop for, an agreed-upon budget, and a list of helpful ideas for gifts. Headaches and guessing games averted. Thank you, Baby Jesus.

2) Planning Ahead
On December 26th of last year, the Teege started composing this year's Christmas list. By December 3rd of this year, we called it a day and decided it was time for Santa to get down to business. We asked my folks to babysit on a Saturday evening and attacked Toys 'R Us with a very specific, very researched list in hand. (And guess what--most of the Black Friday deals were still on. So there really is no reason to get up at 2 a.m. and fight all the other wacky jacks in line at the big box stores.) By the end of the night, Santa was all done, and we could calm down a bit for the rest of December. Plus, we made it into a date night by starting off with a dinner at Maggiano's. New tradition? Definitely.

3) Mass in the City
A few years back, my sister invited us to Christmas Eve Mass at St. Joseph's University for something different. It was beautiful (and of course, being presided over by a Jesuit, entertaining AND meaningful.) We thought it would be nice to go again, but they only had an 8 p.m. service...kind of impossible with rugrats. So we decided to try the Children's Mass at Old St. Joe's Church in downtown Philly. The church was gorgeous, the music adorable (the Children's Choir sang), and we got to sit right next to the nativity scene, which my children are obsessed with. Kelly kept wrestling herself out of NR's arms to stomp right up to the manger and proclaim "BABYJESUSBABYJESUSBABYJESUS!" while Teege asked where Baby Jesus' menorah was (perfectly valid question). On the way home, we listened to Christmas carols and got to see Boathouse Row all lit up on the Schuykill. Perfect way to end the day before scurrying off to bed.

4) Macy's Light Show
When I was a young pup, my city-born-and-raised dad was all about jetting around downtown on public transportation, taking me to his old haunts (a favorite trip was going to the magic shop at the Bourse, with a quick stop for nonpareils at the candy store.) I feel like I've failed so far at showing NR and the kids the same sights, so I suggested taking the train down to Macy's one day to see the annual Christmas Light Show and Dickens Village. Well, the train wasn't working (so we paid $30 to park) and the line for Dickens turned out to be 45 minutes, but it was still a fun, new thing for our little family to try, and it's on the agenda for next year as well.

Don't get me wrong...I love old traditions as much as the next gal. But I also think it's important, when you start your own family, to branch out and try new ones as well.

Merry Christmas, Happy Holidays, and a blessed 2012 to all.

The Curtain Falls...

...on my latest theatrical adventure, "Sorry, Wrong Number" at Celebration Theater in Lansdowne.

This was the first production I've done *not* pregnant since The Exonerated back at The Attic in '06. I played Mrs. Stephenson, a haughty invalid who overhears a murder plot, and spends the rest of the play trying to get everyone and anyone to listen to her. It was a tremendous amount of fun playing a b*tch, and quite an acting challenge since I am bedbound for the entire play. I'm usually all about the business when acting--stalking around the stage, rearranging props, doing whatever I can to communicate nonverbally. So it was interesting to just use my voice, upper body, and anything within arm's reach to create a character.

I also LOVED the space we performed in--the Twentieth Century Club in Lansdowne. I grew up in this lovely little borough, so I just adored driving "back home" the past three months. The 20CC itself, a beautiful historic building built at the turn of the (last) century, was actually the site for our reception back in '02. And long before that, my dad and I did a magic show on the same stage. I got scolded for shirking my magical assistant duties and sitting on pumpkins during the show. (I was probably about 4...but still.)

I find it so important--ESPECIALLY as a mom and a teacher--to do something that feeds the creative spirit now and again. Meeting new peeps and playing make believe for a spell has certainly done the trick...and now I'm ready and renewed for the onslaught of holiday craziness just around the corner.

St. Connie

Last Saturday was the Feast of the Little Flower--St. Theresa. I don't often remember feast days of the saints, but this one was particularly special.

Freshman year of high school, I joined our parish CYO (Catholic Youth Organization). I hadn't attended the parish grade school, so I was a bit apprehensive about hanging out with a bunch of weird do-gooders I didn't know every Sunday night. But my mom had grown up in the parish, and wanted me to feel the same sense of community she had. In fact, many of her classmates' kids were members.

So I showed up--reluctantly--and was suprised by the mix of kids there. Preps in penny loafers sat alongside metalheads in Metallica shirts. It was overseen by a truly awesome priest, Fr. Groarke, who just "got" kids. (And no, there was nothing suspicious or weird about him, nor have there ever been any "complaints." He was just a truly awesome guy.) We did the usual youth group stuff--retreats, "lock-ins," service projects, the works--and the highlight was an annual weekend convention at the Valley Forge Sheraton. Picture a bunch of crazy Catholic kids running rampant from ballroom to ballroom...mildly chaperoned by guitar-wielding college students, the token "cool" priests, and mostly frazzled moms. Good times!

I made some great friends in the group--two in particular. Amy was a goofy artsy type a year ahead of me. We started walking to school together...much to the surprised delight of our moms, whom we found out had also walked together twenty years before, even meeting up at the same corner. Through her I met Chris, a sweet but terrifically sarcastic guy who shared my passion for music and theater. We wound up doing Summer Stage together, which pretty much bonds you for life. He was also EVERYONE'S prom date (his nice nature + tall stature being two key factors.)

The CYO kids generally bounced between Amy's house (where we would bake cookies and play on her dad's motorized chair that could zoom up the stairs) and Chris' (where we watched the very first season of "The Real World." I know, I was a huge hellraiser in high school.) Chris' saintly mom, Connie, always welcomed us with hugs, thoughtful questions, and the nicest compliments. She immediately made you feel like you were the only person in the room. "Oh, St. Connie," my mom would sigh whenever I raved about her. "She was always everyone's mom in the neighborhood when we were growing up. Looks like she's still at it."

After high school, everyone went their separate ways. But I would still see St. Connie at church and around the neighborhood. Every time, she would put her delicate hand on my shoulder and inquire about my life with a "Oh, hon..." And a few weeks after my wedding, she gave me the nicest compliment out of anyone. "That was such a neat wedding, hon," she said softly. "Exactly what a wedding SHOULD be. I've told so many people about it."

Every time I saw Connie, I immediately felt peaceful. She just exuded a quiet, lovely grace. It's not something you can learn or strive for. You just have it. She had it.

Two weeks ago, she lost her battle with cancer.

On Saturday, St. Philomena's was PACKED with people. Fr. Groarke returned to say the funeral Mass, and it was he that reminded us of the feast day. "Connie WAS our Little Flower," he reflected. "You are all here because of that little lady--that little flower that touched you in some way." As she was brought out of the church (to "How Can I Keep From Singing?"--a perfect choice), he led us all in a round of applause.

It was the most beautiful send-off for somebody who always led the applause for others.

Rest in Peace, Saint Connie.

You know New York, You need New York...

...you know you need unique New York...

So goes one of my favorite tongue twister warm-ups when I teach acting.

Seven years ago, I had the excellent fortune of teaching at an amazing school on Manhattan's Upper East Side. I was assigned a banged-up group of juniors with a terrible reputation for being difficult, unruly, and just generally annoying. Not only did I have the joy of teaching all of these juniors Brit Lit, I also had to teach them Speech. Plus I had a junior advisory group. I couldn't escape.

I forged through the year, determined to keep my head above water, and forced myself to like them. But a funny thing happened on the way to June...I fell in love with them. They just barged on in to my heart and made themselves at home. I came to know each of them, quirks and all, and just enjoy them immensely. Together, we marched through "Macbeth," built houses in Kentucky, West Virginia and Belize, served together in Camden, laughed together in the Commons, and cried together on retreats. I also managed to guilt many of them into taking a risk and performing onstage for the first time. And by the time graduation came two years later, they chose to dedicate their yearbook to me--still one of the greatest honors I have EVER received as a teacher.

So when an invitation to their 5-year reunion appeared in the mail, NR and I decided to return to the Big Apple--our first time back there together in several years. We booked our Bolt Bus tickets, left the kids with the grandparents, and scored a stay with a Jesuit friend of ours who lives around the corner from Carnegie Hall.

He urged us to walk up to the reunion. "Thirty blocks!?" I balked and whined, hoping for a taxi. But my frugal beloved pointed out what a nice night it was, so off we went.

And it was nice. Our favorite part was strolling through the Mall in Central Park--a place we had never gone. In fact, we realized how many "New York" things we had never done in the NINE years we worked up there. State of Liberty, Shake Shack, skating in Wollman Rink...oh, we did our share of touristy stuff during our JV years, but it petered out once we started working for real. Because, honestly, who wanted to wander through the Met when you had a stack of papers to grade in your tote bag? Who wanted to ride the swans when we had grocery shopping to do?

So it was a real treat to just savor and enjoy a city that has meant so much to us.

As we wandered through the Mall together--no tote bags or kids in tow, no chores hanging over our heads--we passed by several wedding parties having their picture taken. As we approach our ninth anniversary, it was a beautiful reminder of all we've been through together...and where it all began.

Ten Years Ago.

What a decade it's been.

This anniversary is always a tough one. For years, I was in New York on September 11, so the entire city took on a tone of haunted reverence and quiet thanksgiving. We all took a collective deep breath together, it seemed.

Now I'm in PA. And while people are certainly reflective and reverent, it's a little different. (For example, my school puts up a huge memorial in the cafeteria with giant photos of the towers in flames, Fr. Judge being carried from the ashes, etc. For me, it's too much. It's too painful.)

So I'll just share my story here, for those of you who read this.

On Friday, 9/7/01, I took the "E" train down to the WTC as I often did after school. I bought myself a smoothie and glanced up at those two testaments to capitalism--catching myself, as I often did in my early twenties, having a "New York" moment. Feeling like an ant, but like an ant that counted in the great scheme of things. I was here. I was doing it. Frank Sinatra would be proud.

The next night, my roommates and I went out to toast a new job. As we walked towards the Jersey City waterfront, we gazed in awe. "Look at the Twin Towers," Amanda sighed. "I mean, we live here! Can you believe it?"

That was the last time we would ever see them.

Tuesday morning dawned bright and sunny--a perfectly gorgeous day. As I stood in the Grove Street PATH station, the WTC train pulled up. It was packed to the gills. I usually got a seat on the 33rd Street train, so I opted to wait. This was at 7:45 a.m.

When I arrived at school (56th & 1st), my colleagues were marching in a circle holding picket signs. "Oh crap," I thought. "Here we go." Our union, the Lay Faculty Association, had finally decided to go on strike. I joined in with my friends and started thinking about how to rearrange my lessons for the week. My freshmen were starting that day, so I felt a little bad for them. What a way to start high school!

Pretty soon, news reporters started arriving to cover the strike. The girls were hanging out the windows, cheering us on and throwing down Starbursts. One of the Spanish teachers started singing, "Pagame, pagame mucho..."

One of the reporters got a call while she was interviewing us. I heard something about "World Trade Center" and "plane." As quickly as the newspeople arrived, they vanished.

"World Trade Center," another teacher said. "My husband has a meeting down there this morning."

I saw our union liaison, Vinny, pacing and talking on his cell. He looked up, his face ashen. He summoned us over. "A plane went into the World Trade Center. The Pentagon has also been hit. They think there's another one heading for the White House."

I started panting. Like a dog. My mind couldn't process it. Were we under attack? My lungs couldn't fill up with enough air--I just kept panting and gasping.

Our principal came out and asked us to put down our picket signs. "We need your help inside," she explained. Without a word, we threw down the signs and entered the building.

I went up to my classroom. A handful of girls were watching "The Net," starring Sandra Bullock, while a stranger sat at my desk. They had no idea.

The upperclassmen, however, must have gotten wind. Within minutes, chaos erupted in the halls. The bell rang to switch classes, and only a few girls came into my room. "Ladies, let's pray, okay? There...was an accident downtown...a plane hit...the towers...and we think it was on purpose."

They stared at me. I stared back, and then started the Sign of the Cross. What the hell else could I do?

Out in the hallways, sobbing and screaming. I looked outside. Jeff, one of my colleagues was racing towards the stairs. "What's happening?" I yelled. He stared at me. "The towers. They're gone."

I stared back. "What?"

"Gone. Fallen."

The panting started again. Gone? I had just seen them two days ago.

My students, overhearing, asked if they could call home. "Of course," I said, and let them go to the office (where, of course, everyone was running.)

Downtown. Nick was downtown. On the Lower East Side, but still...

I ran down the hall to where I knew one of the Holy Child girls would be. Holy Child was the sister school of Nativity, where Nick taught, and several of the graduates came to Cathedral for high school (where I taught.) My plan was to gather those girls and bring them downtown, since I knew where they lived. (Remember, these were the days before emergency evacuation plans. We had never counted on this.)

The first classroom I entered was full of freshmen. Some idiot substitute had turned on the television, which was just a screen of smoke. I looked away and told her I was taking some of the girls home.

"Um, who ARE you?" she asked snidely.

"I'm their teacher."

"Oh, one of the teachers ON STRIKE?"

I pushed past her and beckoned to the girls. They followed me, and together we found their classmates. "Miss, what are we doing?"

"Going home."

"Cool!"

Before we left, I stopped into the finance office to call Nativity. A math teacher had just hung up with her brother, who worked in the towers. She was sobbing uncontrollably. "He said...people were jumping out of windows...I told him to go home, just go home..."

We went outside. For some reason I thought we could catch the M15 bus. But once we started walking, it became clear we would be doing just that for a long time.

Straight down 1st Avenue, in the middle of the brilliant blue sky (God, it was a gorgeous day), we saw a large cloud of black smoke.

"Miss, what's that?"

"Um...I think it's a steam cloud or something. Hey, do you girls want to get a soda?"

We went into a little pizza shop and I bought the girls some Cokes. We chatted about their summer, how excited they were for high school, which Nativity boys they thought were cute. To this day, I am so thankful for these girls and the selfish distraction they provided me with. I had no time to freak out or panic. I had to be Miss Kelly.

Somewhere in the twenties, my old high school friend Dan came out of a pub. It was a truly bizarre, random meetup. We hugged and delighted in the happy coincidence. The girls giggled and said they were going to tell Nick. I haven't seen him since.

The further downtown we got, the more our awareness of what had happened grew. SWAT teams grew in number. People walked by us covered in ash and clutching masks. Police barricades started blocking the streets. I continued to distract the girls (and myself) by asking about their families and where they lived.

Around Thompson Square Park, where most of the girls lived, we parted ways. I finally made my way to Nativity, and Nick. The boys had all gone home.

We went back to his apartment on 4th Street. His roommates were gathered in the common room, watching the coverage on TV. Until then, I really had no idea what had happened. I swore I was watching an action movie. This couldn't be real.

Exhausted, I took a nap while Nick and his roommates went to donate blood. I woke up, vaguely remembering this horrific nightmare I'd had. Then I smelled the smoke. And that's when the tears started.

Nick had returned. The hospitals didn't need any blood. We thought that was great news at the time. It wasn't.

That night, we went up on the roof. No sounds but sirens. Horribly eerie for the city that never slept.

Two days later, we returned to work. By that point, the photos of missing people had started appearing in subway stations, on walls of hospitals, throughout the entire city. Within a few weeks, they would turn into memorials.

My faculty gathered in the theater before school to figure out what to do. We were shaken to the core, terrified, and heartbroken. How could we face our students? So many of them had lost family, friends, and neighbors. What could we do?

Teach, as it turns out.

My first period was senior Drama. The girls entered somberly, sat down, and stared at me expectantly.

I took a deep breath. "Okay, ladies. I'm going to give you a choice. If you need to talk, debrief, or just collect your thoughts, we can. Or, I have a whole lesson prepared on Classical Greek Drama. Your choice."

After a pause, one of the girls said, "I don't know about everyone else, but if I talk or think about it one more second, I'll go crazy. Let's just get on with it."

Another girl said, "Yeah, let's just learn something."

And so we did.

God, did we ever learn something.

Magic Up Our Sleeve

If I ever become a superhero (according to my 4-year-old, it's possible!), my origin story would begin here...with a close-up of a bearded, bespectacled man clutching a microphone, counting to three, and shushing an audience full of wide-eyed kiddies.

When I was about four years old, my parents started bringing me to the children's shows at Upper Darby Summer Stage. Every show began with the theme song, "Magic Up Our Sleeve," followed by the founder Harry Dietzler (insert bearded bespectacled man) urging us to count to three to turn off the lights and start the show.

When I was ten, I was finally able to join the Apprentice Program. I took daily classes in acting, improv, dance, music, and speech. I expected to only embrace dance, but was surprised by how much I enjoyed the other classes as well. I especially liked improv--the idea of flying without a net and diving into the unexpected. It taught me how to take risks and bounce back from failure or disappointment.

From there, I did five years of Children's Theater (playing everything from a dwarf to a mermaid) and five years of Mainstage (where my biggest role was Wife #5 in "Joseph"). There were lots of laughs (endless games of "Freeze Frame" in a sizzling courtyard), lots of tears (usually when I didn't get a part I desperately wanted), and of course lots of drama (both onstage and off.) But there were also lots of pleasant surprises--new friends, finding out I was kind of good at Shakespeare, and when Tina Fey (yup, she worked there during college) named me Summer Stager of the Week for IMPROVISING to cover a mistake during "Hans Christian Anderson."

Harry was kind enough to let me join the staff right out of high school, in a variety of roles: intern, assistant choreographer, stage manager, storytelling teacher. I found that as much as I loved performing, I loved sparking that desire in young people even more. When I was 21, he blessed me with the Big Kahuna--my very own Children's Theater show to direct. (It was "Sleeping Beauty," and it was freaking adorable.)

I then took a nine year hiatus during my time in JC. But every summer, I managed to meander back to good ol' Summer Stage to catch a show or just say hi. And when we returned to PA in '07, Harry welcomed me right back. I now teach acting and improv to the Apprentices, and can't believe that I get paid for such a fun, rewarding job.

On our last day of class, I always have a little reflection with the kiddies--asking what surprised them about the past few weeks, and what they will remember. Our kids come from a huge array of backgrounds (seriously, if you want to see a cross-section of every ethnicity and socioeconomic status, stop by Summer Stage. It's an unbelievable testament to arts education as the great bridge builder.) Yet across the board, the answers are always the same:

"All the friends I made."
"How much fun we had."
And my fave...
"That it's okay to be weird."

It's hard to explain this special program to people who haven't experienced it. "Oh...so it's like a theater camp?"

Um...sort of.

Someone once said, "your talents are God's gifts to you. What you do with those talents are your gifts to God."

Summer Stage teaches children to find their gifts, but even better, how to use them for the greater good.