Starfire

"Mistakes on the part of nature
The living proof of what they're calling love
On certain sideway streets
Where things that don't match meet."

-- The New Pornographers, "Sweet Talk, Sweet Talk"

--

I want to get this down while it's fresh:

Next door to this building is a center for those with disabilities. They call themselves Starfire. Their parking lot is separated from ours by a healthy thick hedge, so that generally we forget who our neighbors are. Occasionally we'll see teachers and volunteers leading small groups on outings (little more than slow processions up and down the street--and I mean slow in terms of speed: they are so fascinated by the flowering of grass or the color of the sky they forget to keep up with the group), but that's about it. Our spheres of influence don't really mix: us with the talented kids, them with the mentally-challenged adults.

In terms of visual surroundings, the eye is much more quickly taken in by the attractive dance studio across from us, or the unsightly autism center on the other side. Our building itself is rather drab at the moment, mostly obscured from the road by trees and lacking a sign announcing our presence. Behind us, there is an annex to the parking lot with a storage shed, and beside that, an open field of tall grass which was partially converted into a fenced-in playground.

Relatively speaking, it's an isolated location. We like it that way, to be honest; a certain comfort comes with anonymity, a sort of assurance that keeping your head low is evidence of good judgment and humility. Other arts organizations find themselves on busy streets with lots of foot traffic, and there they thrive. We thrive in near obscurity.

All this goes to say: Before today, I had never been next door.

--

The workshop is "Self-Esteem through Self-Expression," and I've done it dozens of times. It's our most popular one; it's always a hit. It's basic: we use five tools of an actor--voice, body, imagination, focus, and cooperation--to boost self-esteem through fun, interactive games. I have another SESE workshop this evening, actually, with a local Girl Scout troupe.

I've never done it with mentally-challenged adults. I leave our building and walk across our parking lot, past the hedge, and am surprised to find an impressive little building next door. I do not know why exactly I'm surprised. I walk in the front door and step into a wide-open reception area, where I meet two teachers and one of the students (do I call them students, patients, or just "them"?) who enthusiastically greets me with a handshake. They lead me down the hallway to another wide-open area, this one populated by stuffed chairs on wheels and movable plastic tables scattered into faintly discernible sections. I realize this is the miscellaneous room, the space for activities and group meetings. Or visitors. Surrounding this space are conference rooms of various sizes, some in use and some empty and dark. There is some kind of seminar going on in the largest one.

We move the chairs into a rough circle. We get started. I am immediately struck by lack of conformity in this group of ten, aged 30-50: some slouch, staring at the ground; some sit on the edge of their chair, hands folded, smiling expectantly; still others study my person, every expression and gesture noted with almost dreadful attention.

We do a voice warm-up, sirens, and while everyone stands, not everyone participates. We do a physical warm-up, crazy 8's, and not everyone keeps up. We sit down and I take out a brown square piece of fabric. This is for the imagination game, which is much like charades. We will pass this sheet around and transform it into different things, and the others must guess what we have made. I begin by swaddling the cloth into a baby shape, swinging it gently in my arms.

"Baby!" they cry, delighted. I pass it off to a wide-eyed older woman who seems to smile eternally. She folds and unfolds it a few times before inspiration strikes--she folds three sides inwards to make a door shape with the edges. She holds it up proudly. A teacher guesses that it is the building we are in. The woman squeals and giggles: "Yes!" And we pass it on. And on, and on.

This game never fails. No matter what the group, I find that everyone is easily captivated by every fold, every crease, every rotation of the sheet. As an observer I am always fascinated by not only what they create but how they go about it. What strikes me most today during this game is the care with which they handle the fabric. Such deliberate folds, conscientious matching of corner to corner, constant thinking and rethinking. Children fold quickly and callously, depending more on giving hints to the group through physical action than by sculpting the fabric. Not so today. They take two to three minutes each just to create their object.

A man in an Elmo T-shirt takes his turn. He folds diagonally twice and lays it on the floor. We stare and ponder. "It is home plate?" I offer. He says no and chuckles. A teacher asks if it is a slice of pizza. No. The other teacher asks if it is an ice-cream cone.

"No," he says. "It's a triangle." He chuckles, relishing his joke.

One man surprises me most. He is the first to leave his chair and step into the center of the circle. He lays the fabric down like a picnic blanket, spreading hands across the surface to smooth out ripples. Once it is flawless, he folds two sides towards each other, halving the diameter. It is a rectangle. He takes one of the short sides and folds it in a few inches, giving the impression of a pillow on a bed. Then he holds up his hands ("Don't guess yet, watch this"). He kneels beside the sheet. He crosses himself three times and folds his hands to pray.

"Bed!" But he shakes his head. He repeats his motions, crossing himself and praying. "Praying by your bed." He shakes his head. He repeats his actions a third time.

We're all at a loss. "Coffin," he says.

--

After we finish, I am led back to the office by one of the teachers and one of the participants, who reintroduces himself as Steve.

Steve is the one who made a sheet into a coffin. He shakes my hand.

I am sure I will not forget his name.