York Preparatory School - NYC

The expressions “lacking in further ambition,” “smug,” and “happy with what you do” range in the degree of negative emotions they connote. Yet they all describe a similar condition, and one in which I think I have found myself for forty-three years. I enjoy what I do and, therefore (to use an alluringly alliterative phrase), am a happy headmaster.

Through a totally unforeseen chain of events, which began when I represented Charles Kray who stood accused of being part of a murderous gang (tomes of references to him and his twin brothers appear on the Internet), and ended with Jayme and me founding York Prep School at East 85th Street in 1969, I became this happy head of school. I had the feeling at the conclusion of the process that this is what I truly enjoyed doing and that it was as far as I wanted to go in the race of life. York Prep was the vehicle that enabled me to work with a wonderful community of students, parents, and teachers. People have sometimes asked why an English barrister would start a school in New York, and my answer has always been the same: “It seemed a good idea at the time.”

Since then, on fewer occasions, we have been asked why we do not start a lower school; after all, a “Little York” would neatly feed York Prep. The answer (usually unstated) has been: “It does not feel like a good idea.” Inherent in that reply would have to be the acknowledgement that we have been, and still are, very happy at doing exactly what we are doing. To expand downwards would potentially threaten the enjoyable position that fortune has favored us with. We are, therefore, without further ambitions. You can see why this could be closely aligned to the pejorative adjective, “smug.”

I am sure this would not be everyone’s cup of tea. I am reminded of being at a very elegant party in the South of France, some years ago, at the beautiful home of the chairman of an important European bank. The weather was perfect, and a table for about sixteen guests had been set up on the promontory into the Mediterranean on which the house sat. Jayme and I were there as houseguests of close friends. It was a gorgeous setting with fairly gorgeous guests (your correspondent, obviously, not one of them). The elegantly bejeweled, tastefully face-lifted, blonde lady seated beside me turned and inquired as to my profession. I replied that I was a schoolmaster. As an expression of visible surprise crossed her face, she turned the other way and did not speak to me again. I understood and felt extremely good about the exchange. Although it is difficult to explain, sometimes it is good to be snubbed.

Was that arrogance on my part? That sense that I knew who I was and was comfortable with what I still do, and said it as a point of pride (as though to challenge her status hierarchy in which schoolmasters are very low)? Probably! We may need to add a touch of arrogance to that opening list after “happy with what you do,” because if you are really happy with your station in life, you are, in fact, proud of it. And I get the check mark there, too.

This past summer we slightly expanded the school building to add bleachers, a fitness room, and a very interestingly-shaped faculty relaxation center. No one pressured us to do the construction, and the supervision of it (working with contractors) took a great deal of our energy. Yet, at the end, I think I can say: “It seemed a good idea at the time and it still does.”

When I hear positive remarks about York Prep and how it has changed the lives of our students for the better (and yes, I do actually hear this quite often, vain as it is to say), I think back to that moment in the South of France. Perhaps that is why I repeat the story and have never forgotten the occasion. In the interest of full disclosure, I should admit that I do own a conductor’s baton and sometimes fantasize about conducting the Philharmonic (but don’t we all?). Anyway, to return to my “happy headmaster” theme, I have found that highly ambitious people are never satisfied with where they are, never comfortable with what they do, and feel as though they should be doing better with the talents they have.

Not me!

At the beginning of the First World War, Walter A. Raleigh (I added his middle initial to emphasize that he was not the one who placed the cloak in the mud for the first Queen Elizabeth and who acquired tobacco fame) wrote:

I wish I loved the human Race,
I wish I loved its silly face…

Religion urges us to love our neighbor (although the Ten Commandments do not, specifically) and yet, as I read The New York Times, gruesome acts are committed every day in the name of religion. Now before Christians and Jews get too hoity-toity about Muslims (and I am writing this on September 11), they should remember that they (Christians and Jews, that is) have been killing non-Christians and non-Jews for centuries before Mohammed was born.

Maybe this “love” business is taken too far. How about “like?” Could we not at least “like” our neighbor?

When people (note the politically correct lack of specifying sex) jump ahead of us in line at the supermarket check-out, speak on their cell phones while the rest of us are watching movies at the local Cineplex, or negligently run into us with their cars, I understand that “love” might not be the emotion of the moment. But we could try to “like” each other. In fact, maybe the Ten Commandments should have commanded us to do so. Maybe it would have made us nicer.

It would have saved a lot of victims if the Inquisition (I am sorry to pick on the Inquisition crowd but, like the Nazis, they are so easy to pick on) just said to the heretics, “Look, we don’t intrinsically accept your view of our God, but we do like you.” I mean, you don’t start drinking the local wine and having a laugh while setting fire (in huge bonfires) to people you like. You don’t drag them through the streets to an auto-da-fé (which is not a small Italian motor car) if you are commanded to “like” them. You don’t, as the Old Testament tells us the Israelites occasionally did, destroy entire towns with all of their men, women, and children, if you “like” them. (See, I do not just pick on the Catholics.)

How I wished those 19 Jihadists had liked us.

Maybe Mel Brooks had it right when in “History of the World, Part One” Moses dropped five of the 15 Commandments. Whoops! Now we have only Ten! “Like your neighbor” could have been number 11, “Don’t jump in line in a supermarket,” number 12; “Never use a cell phone in a Cineplex,” number 13; and “Drive very carefully,” number 14. Maybe the last one (number 15) was, “Everyone should be nice to teachers!”

One can live and dream!

Hooray! The students will soon be back, bringing their energy and joy into the building. I can’t wait!

For the benefit of our new parents, let me explain that the posting of my monthly “thoughts” started in December 2004, when I realized that, as a teacher, I was asking my students to write creatively for me, and yet I did not have to write essays for them. So I began this blog, which has developed a life of its own (as such things are wont to do). This is the eighty-second entry, and I have been told that there are people, apart from my wife and my own children, who read them.

My essays tend to be eclectic: some have more humor in them than others. And they might (and I use that word advisedly) give students or parents insights into the way I think. The students in my senior Ethics class are supposed to critique them, and sometimes they do quite brutally. Samuel Johnson said, “In a man’s letters his soul lies naked.” I wonder if he would have said the same about blogs.

This 2011 summer was a “non-summer” for me. The school was undergoing construction (expanding the gym), and anyone who has had construction done knows that you cannot just leave. Our contractors and architects were fine—I can only say good things about them; it just is that you, as the client, have to be there.

It’s not that much different from being a parent. You have to be there and watch, critique, encourage, and do all the things I am doing in this construction project. Active parenting is essential, because if you are not involved, decisions will be made for you. They may be the right decisions, but you need to know why they are being made and put in your two cents. Clearly, in a construction project, I cannot change the laws of physics (load bearing pillars cannot just come down) nor the building code of New York City (a roof space must have a safety railing even if there is no way anyone could reach it). Similarly, as a parent, you cannot change the fact that colleges demand that certain courses be given and that standardized tests are a part of high school life. But your focus is essential.

When I was young, we certainly did not have anything like Edline. We had one report book for all the years you were at secondary school, and each double page represented a year. Every semester, each teacher wrote your mark in the subject; next to that they wrote the top mark given in the whole grade in that subject (heaven knows why); and then they wrote a short comment. The registrar gave your total semester grade average at the bottom of each page, where the headmaster would also write a word or two. You were handed the book to take home. One of your parents had to sign the book, and then you physically returned it to the registrar at the school.

We were taught Religious Knowledge. I grew up in London, and there was no separation of Church and State under Her Majesty, but I, for some obstinate reason, could not take Religious Knowledge seriously. In the first term at my new school (I was eleven), I got the lowest mark in it in the entire grade of 120 boys. To my surprise, the Religious Knowledge grade was averaged into the total grade average. So in the second semester, I took it seriously and got, I am quite proud to say, the top mark in the grade. But what I really enjoyed was the wry comment of the teacher who put next to this top mark his own comment: “Improvement noted.”

I hope that you will also be able to comment “improvement noted” at the end of this year when reviewing your child’s record. That is not to say they may not be excellent students already, but there is always room for growth. I am learning this summer how to stay patient when construction issues arise (and I am not the most patient of people). I hope that at the end of the summer I can say about myself “improvement noted.” Yesterday and today, things were not going so well. I won’t bore you with details, but it rained very hard and flooding internally occurred. You get the picture. The contractors labored, the architect advised, I worked on my patience.

Every year I hope we can look at York Prep as a school and say “improvement noted.” We are all part of the same team: we are working together for your child. I look forward to interacting with you and improving as a head of a school.

I felt rather proud to be a New Yorker when Governor Cuomo signed the Marriage Equality Act into state law. For me, it was—and is—a non-issue; I never understood the opposition. I defy anyone to be able to distinguish which of our students comes from a heterosexual home setting and which from a homosexual one. I was pleased to see that we were respecting the differences in our state’s citizenry.

But apart from that bright moment, I have been troubled by what, lately, seems to be an increasing lack of such respect. It is most obvious in the national political debates as well as screaming arguments and bullying interruptions on television in which we would not allow sixth graders to engage. Unfortunately, I see that anger and lack of acknowledgment of other people’s positions, showcased by the opposing left- or right-wingers, leaching out into our society in general. People seem to get angry more quickly and show less mutual understanding than ever before.

Perhaps we are forgetting how to communicate with each other. Technology is certainly depersonalizing our communication. I know, because there are enough jokes about this, that I am not the only person who feels that the niceties of life are being ignored when they phone a company (or another school for that matter) and have to navigate through three menus of “If you know your party’s extension, dial it at any time”; “If you want to complain, dial three”; “If you want to congratulate us, dial four”; “If you want to talk to someone, wait until the next menu when we might find out what you want to talk to someone about.” Perhaps my own irritation with all of this is why, when you make a telephone call to York Prep, you will be answered by one of the two charming receptionists at our front desk.

I never know the party’s extension, and I always (without exception) want to talk to a real live human being, who I hope, if I actually get through, has the skill-set to be able to answer the questions that need answering. I am sure that Bangalore is lovely, but when I finally get through all those menus, I wish the nice man on the other end of the phone would not pretend he is Phil from Texas and tell me who he really is in Bangalore, India. The game is played where I don’t tell him that I know he is not from Texas (not rocket science), and he pretends that I think he is from Texas. He tells me about the weather in Dallas (he is half a world away), and if I say “How about those Texas Rangers?” he says “Yes!” because he does not know what I am talking about. One could take that to some funny places if one wanted to: “How about those Houston Urinals?” But that would be uncivil, and I think I am complaining about the lack of civility.

In the local bank, where I go as rarely as possible, I object to young well-dressed executives chewing gum while trying to carry on a conversation with me. When you are wearing a tie and communicating as a professional, you should not chew gum. You probably think I am trying to be another Andy Rooney, whom I like a lot, but is it not time that the rest of us express (with him) our nostalgia for some of the courtesies that seem to have been lost? No sensible person would ever say “the good old days”; they were, in many ways, very bad (see my first paragraph for an example of their intolerance), and yet there was such a thing as civility—or politeness, if you want another word—and I miss that.

I am a fan of using technology in teaching, but not at the expense of personal communication. “Distance learning” or taking classes online seems to be doing just that. It probably is far more convenient for many, but I remember with fondness my years at Oxford primarily for the personal connections I made with an outstanding faculty. College by computer screen would not have been the same experience. In fact, my guide to knowing whether a student is at the right school is to ask him or her if he or she has a favorite teacher. If the student does not, then something is wrong. I may be inviting trouble, but consider asking your child the same question.

If you apply to York Prep, you will meet me. You may think I am a crotchety old man (especially after you have read this piece), but at least you will have shaken my hand and come to some assessment of whether you can trust your child to this Head of School. If you need me, you can reach me. To apply to a school which has a voice menu rather than a person answering a phone and whose Head you never meet personally in the initial admissions process (and I am not talking about the “dog and pony shows” of open houses) just seems to illustrate the lack of personal connection and respect that this piece is about.

I was taught that the conclusion paragraph of an essay has to tie back to the opening one, so somehow I must get back to New York State’s acceptance of the Marriage Equality Act. It certainly represents a triumph of both personal respect for individuals as well as the fact that partisan differences can be overcome by some politicians who communicate with each other. So I end with that celebration, and hope you forgive the curmudgeonly nature of this piece…

To my new BFF:

I found you on Fritter, and I wanted to let you know that I will add you to my You Cube very soon. In the meantime, could you send me a picture of someone else because I do not actually want to see you.

I say this, because I really am not interested in communicating with anyone who found me on a website and decided that I am the only person they can relate to without meeting me, without knowing what I stand for, or without knowing if I am really an awful person. I happen to know it is called Twitter, which is as good a name as Fritter; and You Tube, which seems to make as little sense as You Cube. I know that members of Congress seem to be absorbed in abusing the process and that some students believe that meaningful relationships can be formed with perfect strangers.

I am of the old school. I believe that I can tell more about a person from actually meeting them face to face. Maybe we should call this “literally meeting face to face” as opposed to Twittering or Facebooking. If you give two children a math problem in a class where they are physically together, studies (which I truly believe) show that they will solve it in a third of the time it would take them to solve the problem if they were only connecting through a computer, even if they were “Skyping” each other. I believe that is because our face gives away a lot about what we are thinking in the most subtle ways, ways that even a computer cannot pick up.

Yes, I am aware that I am out of touch. However, I want to be in touch (mentally), and so I actually meet people (physically). I try to meet every student and parent who applies to York Prep. I don’t know what I am looking for, but I feel that whatever it is, I am more likely to connect if I have a face-to-face interaction rather than using any other methodology science can offer. As I said, I am of the old school.

I am impressed by the wordage of websites: Google, Zappos, Microsoft—clever words chosen because some marketing team thought we would remember them. I am sure they are right. I do remember them, and now they are part of our everyday language. I applaud the inventors who are clearly very smart people. And I like to use my computer because I can erase my mistakes more easily when I type. I never liked the old Wite-Out stuff you had to smear across the page. (You younger readers will not know what I am talking about.) I like being able to photocopy and do not miss the purple stained fingers that resulted from mimeograph copies. I even like overhead projectors, although I do not use PowerPoint when I teach because I think everyone stares at the screen; frankly, I would rather they stare at me. I want them to get those subtle signals I talked about in the last paragraph.

So, my new best friend, I will not join your site, I will not reveal any details of my life; I will not reply to your request to be my new best friend. So sry, LOL

A few months ago, a Manhattan private school held a fund-raising auction in which one of the auction items was a puppy who went for $20,000. Yes, a puppy! Yes, $20,000!

Now, I know that some of the parents might have been trying to impress fellow parents and the school with their largesse and that the goal of supporting the school was no doubt considered worthy. And yet the public spectacle of the puppy being sold at a school auction for $20,000 worries me.

It worries me for the puppy’s sake. I mean, I assume he had a very pleasant and unburdened few months before being acquired by an elegant and sculptured couple, on an equally elegant avenue, to whose life style he now had to accommodate. You cannot, after all, make a mess when you are a $20,000 puppy, nor can you gnaw the baroque furniture or chew the original handmade Turkish rugs. Your role is to be the perfect companion to their child (this was a school auction) and arm-leash jewelry when the couple deigns to walk you in the park.

I have discussed this puppy’s duties at some length with our puppy, Timmy. Honesty compels me to admit that we bought our “red” miniature poodle from a man in Connecticut who owns the father of Timmy and whose sister’s child goes to our school. While this connection was not close, still we were able to strike a very reasonable bargain with the owner to get Timmy to join the Stewart household. I have mentioned before that Timmy is not a paragon of virtue, but he puts up with us fairly well. We occasionally write notes of appreciation to his former owner/breeder on how well he is doing and how much we enjoy his company.

Timmy was slightly appalled by the sale of the puppy. Though Timmy has not yet had any topiary of the fashion that some people subject their poodles to, he suggested that this dog, regardless of its breed, have “$20,000″ presented in topiary relief on his back by his groomer so that, when you looked at the dog, the $20,000 sign would stand out. This would identify the owners as lavish spenders (something they clearly desire) and at the same time warn off the lesser dogs from even trying to play with him.  Timmy makes it a rule never to play with a dog that cost over $1,500 because he is concerned about the eventual cost in doggie shrink time for feelings of inadequacy he might get. In the final analysis, he has confided to me, the exercise would be too mentally draining for him.

I am concerned about the impact this news will have on the breeder of the $20,000 puppy. Naturally, he will raise the price on the rest of the puppy selection he has available for sale. Pure-breds will now cost $20,000. Raising the price any higher now that he has reached such success might be seen as exploitation. Mutts can be sold at the bargain price of $10,000.

I suspect that there are many after-purchase expenses of a $20,000 puppy: a puppy-shrink (of course), a puppy groomer, a puppy life coach, a puppy nutritionist, an everyday veterinarian, and an emergency one for any issues that arise suddenly. He will also require a trainer who comes to the house, a massage therapist, a good tailor for those cold days (What discriminating $20,000 puppy would be seen in last year’s fashion in coats?), a good handmade boot-maker also for those cold days, and plenty of constipation tablets because this dog should poop only once a day on schedule!

Naturally, the puppy will go to the best dog training schools in order to begin the process towards attending the Westminster Dog Show. To ensure getting into the right educational institution, pull may have to be used with the school’s trustees along with possible suggestions of gifts to the building fund. Tutors will have to be employed to supplement the school’s education as well as etiquette trainers and a voice coach so that he develops a melodious bark. Maybe even a flatulence coach, since one cannot have a $20,000 puppy pass gas in mixed company.

Then there are dating services, and I do not mean those tacky ones on the Internet. Personal introductions, meetings with prospective brides’ parents, lunches where everybody gets to know each other, a discussion of how many children they would all like to have… Religion of owners may play a part here, but, in the interests of these young dogs’ futures, there may be one or other parent prepared to convert to the dominant religion of the group.

It is important that the puppy have a trust fund set up for him for future schooling. I do not see much problem here bearing in mind how the puppy was purchased; however, I think a pre-nuptial agreement makes a lot of sense in this level of society. I assume he will join only an exclusive puppy club. You don’t want the riffraff hobnobbing with this puppy!

The school that so successfully ran the auction will want to feature the couple who bought the puppy for $20,000. They are very “special” and should be honored as such. “Special”, because if they had wanted just to give the school money, they would have done so quietly, anonymously, graciously. Fortunately, having purchased the $20,000 puppy, they would appear in the society photos of the event along with pictures of the people who bought (at the same auction) similar bargains.

My only positive (and, I admit, self-serving) thought was that maybe Timmy might somehow marry the $20,000 puppy. Timmy is reasonably presentable and, although of a lower socio-economic class, has great potential–but, unfortunately, not to re-produce! Without getting technical for the younger readers, Timmy has been rendered unable to be a father. I do not think there is any way on earth to reverse this. Still, he could become a “walker” for the $20,000 puppy, a platonic companion, a playmate, and a toy. For a suitable fee, I suspect Timmy could assume all sorts of roles. Maybe he can advertise himself on Craig’s list?

If you bought this $20,000 puppy, I want to say I admire you. I want to say that, but my little brain doesn’t allow me to. That brain wants to ask, “What were you thinking, and would you like to buy some swamp land in Florida?”

My monthly “Headmaster’s Thoughts” began as an answer to a senior in my Ethics class who complained that students never had the chance to see or grade their teachers’ work. It seemed an almost reasonable statement, although I am not sure now why I accepted the fundamental premise. Anyway, I wrote a small piece about the pleasures of standing at the window in the lobby watching our students enjoy their Phys Ed classes. Over 75 pieces later, I think it is time for a recap. Mrs. Weschler very kindly has written an index to my 75 efforts (the reference to this one will probably be “The Index”), and here it is. If nothing else, it may help prevent me from repeating myself.

Knowing what a headmaster writes reveals perhaps only a small part of his views on education. Knowing how he carries out his role is much more important. The headmaster of my school was a Welshman, David Williams, who had been to Cambridge. I never really thought about him except as a figure of authority until I read his only published novel when I was about fifteen. It was a mystery novel, but that is all I can remember of it. His son became quite a distinguished novelist, which must have given his father considerable satisfaction.

In my last full year at the school, David Williams decided to teach. He picked about a dozen boys for his class—I was one of them—and we spent a year translating Voltaire’s Candide. Now, Candide is a really thin book, and yet it took a year of earnest discussion about every sentence to get through it. I learned more about David Williams in that year than about Voltaire. I learned that he cared deeply and passionately about literature, that he was a decent and kind man, and that he had a sense of humor. I am grateful that I had the opportunity to see that side of him. In hindsight, the fact that he taught a senior class, while skillfully being the headmaster of a school of 650 boys, has influenced me to teach the seniors here at York.

In those days, once you got a scholarship to Oxford, you could leave the school. We did not have graduations; you took the exams at the college itself and, if you were lucky enough to do well, then that was it. So I left my school in late January when I got the telegram (yes, they sent telegrams) from the college. I went to see Mr. Williams to say goodbye. He courteously asked me where I was going to spend the time until I went up to Oxford in September. I told him I was going to Paris. He said he had used the same period in his life to work his way around Western Europe.

Neither of us had any idea I was ever going to be a headmaster. He shook my hand and wished me well. He was a good man, who has since passed away. This short piece is in his memory.

Last term, we took the senior class to the Metropolitan Opera to watch a dress rehearsal of the first act of Così fan tutte by Mozart.

Così fan tutte has an easy yet ludicrous story line and great music. The story is about two men who test their lovers’ fidelity by dressing up as other men and then trying to seduce their betrothed. Their disguises (beards and the like) are so pathetic that even my four grandchildren, none of whom is older than five, could immediately figure out who was behind the padding and extra hair if they knew the protagonist well at all. If I had been in a similar disguise, they would have laughed, pulled my beard, and said in an indulgent manner, as they usually do when they see me, “Silly Papa!”

Mozart, however, has the ladies totally fooled. They fall for the charms of these new bearded and padded foreigners and betray the lovers to whom they have sworn their faithful hearts. The men then reveal who they really are and forgive the girls. True nonsense, campy fun, and therefore ideal for the 12th grade. They, and the teachers and parents who came along, enjoyed the dress rehearsal so much that we thought we should repeat the experience with a different opera for the 11th grade.

So we called the nice people at the Met and they said they could accommodate us for the dress rehearsal of the first act ofDie Walküre, the second of the operas in Wagner’s Ring Cycle (or, as a friend of mine calls it, “The Rinse Cycle”).

Pleased by this response, we began to make plans to take the grade. Dr. Robert Reese, our opera expert, thought that Die Walküre was perhaps a tad heavy because virtually nothing actually happens in the first act, and the music is an acquired taste (unlike the light and frothy stuff Wolfgang Amadeus threw out).

I remembered then that I have sat through two complete Rinses, I mean Ring Cycles: one conducted by Sir Georg Solti when I was an undergraduate, and the other with Jayme a few years ago at the Met when it was conducted by James Levine. Both, I recall, were very long and occasionally (I know, I am a Philistine) boring. Each cycle is about 19 hours of opera played out over four days. The good news is that you sit next to the same people and get to know them; the bad news is that there are intervals of five hours of music when you cannot go to the restroom. I will repeat that line because some of you may decide to go to the next full performance: there are times when you cannot go to the restroom for five hours. You have to pace yourself and not drink liquids for two days.

Jayme and I sat next to a Japanese couple who went around the world listening to the Ring Cycle. I do not know if that is a good job if you can get it, but they seemed very enthusiastic, and the lady wore a Brünnhilde Viking hat with horns. On the other side of us were an ambassador from an African country and his wife, and his snoring at times drowned out parts of the arias of Brünnhilde on the stage.

In fact, one has to have some sympathy for Brunnhilde because there is a large orchestra for Wagner’s operas—at least one hundred powerful men and women—sweating away to drown out the single lady who attempts to sing over their full roar. There are four different themes played at the same time by people with loud instruments. There are the banging of drums and the blare of the brass section, not to mention the strings and woodwinds who are endeavoring to make you hear their own particular theme. And the poor lady literally has to shriek above this din, standing there, her whole body convulsing with effort, until she succeeds for a short time and then collapses in a faint after the effort. It all seems so unfair!

Maybe this will be too much, I thought on reflection, for the eleventh grade. If this is to be their first operatic experience, maybe it will turn them off opera altogether. Wagner, not the nicest of men to say the least, used to say that grand opera—he called it the music drama—included all the other arts, and therefore there was no need for any other arts. I think he had different tastes from mine. I like The Ukelele Orchestra of Great Britain and dragged Jayme to a concert they recently held at Carnegie Hall. She enjoyed it, but I doubt that Wagner would have. They actually did a creditable version of the “Ride of the Valkyries” theme on their ukuleles. I think that shows my plebian artistic side.

Wagner thought that acting and music were combined in his grand operas, but I beg to differ. The acting has always been a little overdone. The lady is going to declare her love. She leaves her lover upstage and comes downstage to sing about how much she loves him. Then it is his turn. He puts the lady back up stage and comes down to face the audience and tells them his side of the story. Overcome with joy, the two meet in the middle of the stage and both turn to the audience (thus avoiding each other’s possible bad breath) and together declare that they are happier than anyone else in the theater. If this is acting, then our school productions are worthy of Tony awards because our students actually look at each other when they talk.

Besides, most Brünnhildes are not the smallest of ladies, while the men tend to be somewhat heavy too. This causes problems in the fight scenes. The men have to stop and sing while fighting to the death with bloodthirsty killers. Stopping in the middle of battle and singing loudly, while a large-sized lady is hanging around your neck, is not my idea of great acting. I mean, he could wait, fight, and then sing. But no, Wagner wants him to sing first—always, of course, with the woman upstage of him until she sings, at which point he, somehow magically, swaps places with her. The killer very kindly waits while this nonsense is going on.

I will agree that the sets are good. There is usually a full moon at some time, the weather is generally predictable, and the ships rock and the clouds move. Castles and hills come and go, and, through it all, people stand around like statues. There is, I think, a Wagnerian rule that, as soon as someone starts to sing, whatever other people on the stage are doing—killing, running, crying, or the like—they must stop and assume the statue pose. Of course, when the chorus gets to sing, they sing in perfect unison, which is great for opera but again strains one’s credulity as far as the natural acting bit is concerned.

Like Wagnerian operas, I could go on. The costumes would be next on my list, but I fear I am already boring you. If the first act of Die Walküre had great music, then all of these comments could be ignored. It does not. We will, therefore, wait for another more melodic opera (La Bohème or Madame Butterfly spring to mind) and spare the 11th grade.

Finally, I suspect that some of you may still be thinking of that bit about not going to the restroom for five hours. You are right; one can get obsessed by it.

York Prep’s Varsity Girls’ Basketball team won the 2010-11 G.I.S.A.L Championship game!

The girls played an exciting game yesterday (2.15.11) against LREI to claim the win at 51-42!  Thanks for all the support and cheers from family and friends of York Prep and the Girl’s Varsity Basketball team.