I am experiencing a very strange mental split these days.  By day,  I am teaching voice lessons to college students- coaching them in the songs of Franz Schubert and the arias of Giuseppe Verdi.   By night,  I’m teaching 7-year-olds the Oompa Loompa songs from Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory.   And I’m not sure which is harder- or which is more fun.

I know that I’m no natural when it comes to working with young children – not the way my wife is, for instance.  But I find myself energized and inspired by the challenge of trying to figure out how each of these kids is put together:  which ones need to be treated gently and which ones can be played with a bit . . .  which ones are sweet through and through and which ones’ sweetness is limited to an outer coating . . .  and most importantly,  how I can get the best out of each youngster and get everyone working together as a happy team.   The toughest part is figuring out how to quell the child who seems hungry to have every eye in the room fixed on them – while drawing out the child who might seem more comfortable on the sidelines.  Fortunately,  we have a great group of kids and the “issues” are very few and far between – plus the adults in the cast are absolutely terrific not only with their theatrical and musical skills but also as nice, friendly, thoroughly professional role models for their young cast mates.

As for the show,  it’s a fascinating story and score that — unlike just about every other show — is not afraid to show us both the sweet and rotten when it comes to children.  The rotten kids in this show are SO rotten, you can’t help but be delighted when they each come to their candy-coated demise.  And by delicious contrast,  Charlie is this absolutely wonderful little boy that you want to take in your arms and hug.  And in the midst of it all is this wacky, intriguing figure of Willy Wonka – a little too weird and mysterious to be the standard good guy, but someone to whom we find ourselves irresistibly drawn.

As I’ve been working with the cast over the last few nights – and especially the kids – I am reminded of all of the people who came out of the woodwork to audition for this show. . . including the dozens and dozens of girls who turned out in hopes of gaining a part in the show.   (Of the just more than 100 people who auditioned,  59 were young girls.   That’s a lot of hearts destined to be broken.)    It only occurred to me after the fact that there is probably something very healthy about children taking the risk of auditioning, though they have to know full well that they might be rewarded with nothing but disappointment.

A recent cover story in Atlantic Monthly talked about what a disservice we do to children when we shield them from all possible disappointment or defeat. . . handing out ribbons to every single person who participates,  holding athletic “competitions” without keeping score,  eliminating all public acknowledgement of achievements such as honor role, etc. It is the contention of this particular writer, Lori Gottlieb,  that a childhood lived without any taste of defeat or disappointment almost certainly produces an immature adult ill equipped to handle all that life will throw at them – and that parents who do everything they can to safeguard their youngster’s self-esteem might in fact be undermining it.  I agree with her contention, although I say that as someone with no kids of his own- only golden retrievers who have no self-esteem issues of which I’m aware.  And I have said many times that if anything makes me relieved that we couldn’t have kids,  it’s that I was spared the trauma of watching a child of my own fail or be hurt.  But that’s part of what it means to be a parent- allowing your children to fail.  Here’s just a sample of what Ms. Gottlieb writes:

Consider a toddler who’s running in the park and trips on a rock. Some parents swoop in immediately, pick up the toddler, and comfort her in that moment of shock, before she even starts crying.  But this actually prevents her from feeling secure- not just on the playground but in life.  if you don’t let her experience that momentary confusion, give her the space to figure out what just happened (oh, I tripped) and then briefly let her grapple with the frustration of having fallen and perhaps even try to pick herself up, she has no idea what discomfort feels like, and will have no framework for how to recover when she feels discomfort later in life. These toddlers become the college kids who text their parents with an SOS if the slightest thing goes wrong, instead of attempting to figure out how to eal with it themselves.  If on the other hand, the child trips on the rock, and the parents let her try to reorient for a second before going over to comfort her, the child learns: That was scary for a second, but I’m okay now.  If something unpleasant happens, I can get through it.

I suppose that our Willy Wonka auditions ended up being one kind of trip-and-fall experience for some of those youngsters. Not that we are ever knowingly unkind to anyone who auditions.  We treat everyone with respect, from the most bountifully talented to those with scarcely any discernible talent at all.   But at the end of the day,  with a show like Willy Wonka and so many people auditioning,  we have to disappoint many more people than we can please.   There are only so many golden tickets hidden in those chocolate bars.  But life offers other kinds of deliciousness, like knowing that you went for it – that you took a chance – that you weren’t content to stay on the sidelines – and that you managed to survive any disappointment you might have been dealt.  (As Doug likes to say before each batch of auditions begin,  “Have fun, everyone. No one’s ever died at a theater guild audition!”)

Yet another lesson from Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory.

pictured above:  rehearsing the Oompa Loompa’s in my studio.  They are adorable!