So I have been thinking about my older grandson’s “Winter Sing.” I missed the younger’s “Winter Gathering” but the name alone was enough to keep me away. Felt like just another euphemism for tip toeing around the holidays in the schools.
The “Winter Sing” was definitely politically correct, perfectly bland, weirdly instructive but pretty much as they had billed it. We were there to celebrate winter.
Well, sort of.
Themes for each K-4 performance, to avoid stepping on any religious toes, were things like winter safety, the woeful demise of Native American homeland and immigration and entry at Ellis Island during the early 1900’s. Very cheery stuff to sing about, right? The songs were preceded by a short video produced by the classroom depicting their subject matter.
The first video included local firemen cautioning the children about falling through thin ice on ponds and lakes. A pediatrician’s nurse giving great detail concerning prevention of and proper care for frostbite. The school superintendent spoke about the necessity of school closings in inclement weather to keep the little ones safe inside, away from sub-zero temperatures and dangerous windchills.
I know. I wouldn’t believe it either if I hadn’t watched with my own wondering eyes.
Next up was an uplifting series of old black and white photos of sad, hungry Native Americans ravaged by aggressive, selfish western settlers. Dead buffalo. Empty mud huts. And just when you thought is was safe to come out of those bleak and dreary woods, the third graders enlightened us about the horrors of the long boat ride for European emigrants to come to the United States. They spoke of disease and food shortages on the vessels. First class accommodations vs. lower class steerage. And ended with the saddest pictures of doctors turning twelve-year-olds away at Ellis Island if they were too sick to enter the country. Sent back to their native land alone after mom and dad had passed the test and stayed.
At this point, my five-year-old was sucking his fingers and looking like he had seen a ghost and the three-year-old was cuddled into my underarm holding on for dear life.
Seriously, I’m not exaggerating here. You can’t make up shit better than this.
Somewhere between the slideshows there were some songs thrown in. I recall a version of the Pow Wow the Indian Boy theme song replete with tom toms sans headdresses. There might have been “Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer.” God knows how his light bulb nose and Santa paws slipped into this thing. I know for sure we sang “Dreidel Dreidel.” To which an anonymous donor behind me whispered, ” It’s a folk song, not a Hanukkah song.” A fact I cross-referenced with my dear friend, an Orthodox Hispanic Guatemalan Jew. Yes, she really is. She without hesitation said “Dreidel Dreidel” is indeed a Hanukkah song. Guess that spun by the critics with old Rudolph.
The last performance was the fourth grade chorus in tie-dyed T-shirts singing “Don’t Worry Be Happy.” Probably the only program choice in the entire sing that was appropriate. Because that was the one thing they did get across very well. Worry.
So all in all, it was a mishmash of all things cold and woeful in winter and nothing vaguely cheery or bright or holiday.
As I left holding my grandsons’ hands and musing over what we had really just witnessed, a mother beside me turned and said, “I heard it was heavy.” I nodded and pondered which direction had the closest ice cream sundaes with whipped cream Santa hats.
As chance would have it, I passed the director and said something subtle like, “You certainly covered some serious subjects in there.” To which he responded, “It’s important to be relevant in our teaching moments.”
Well on that one I have to disagree, Mr. Director. What does a “Winter Sing” have to do with teaching or relevance much less Native Americans and Ellis Island? Can’t we just jump in that old one horse open sleigh and sing some happy songs? Dash through the snow and not worry about sinking into an icy pond or the tips of our fingers turning blue? All of us in it together, bundled up and rosy-cheeked. With our Santa hats, yamakas and burkas blowing in the wind singing all of our beloved songs.
Celebrating our diversity rather than avoiding it.
Instead we celebrated nothing at all.
I’m pretty sure my grandsons can’t hum a thing they heard that day but I feel confident they remember the hot cocoa and candy cane cupcakes we had after.
Nothing like a good sugar rush to erase all evils.
I think for next year’s sing, I’ll stay home and watch paint dry. Or maybe the Kardashian’s. Vacuous as they are, at least they say anything they feel and think. About anyone or anything they think about.
I mean, of course, in between trips to the bank and reinflating their fish lips.
