In my theatre class, the pool noodle shook in my grip as I pointed it forward at my scene partner.
Take a step. Just with your right foot. Move the noodle, but not your hand. Bring it up, in an arc. Move backwards, but not too slow. Wait for her signal. Don’t overreact.
All these thoughts and more cycled through my head as I tried to apply the instructions for stage combat. Remembering the instructions was the easy part—applying them was an entirely different story.
When my theatre teacher had announced that we were going to start our stage combat unit, I almost immediately began to feel anxious about it. I had glanced around at my classmates, noticing that they all were excited and were planning their “attacks”—albeit fake. I tried to put the thought of stage combat out of my mind until the time actually came, knowing that worrying wouldn’t really do any good.
And today, that time came. I went into class feeling anxious—actually, scared is probably the more accurate word. I know that sounds stupid, seeing as how we were fake-fighting with pool noodles, but I also was aware of the fact that having cerebral palsy can complicate even some seemingly harmless activities.
After we finished watching the safety videos—which my eyes locked onto like my life depended on it, as I tried to absorb everything about stage combat that I could—my teacher made a beeline for me. She very considerately asked how I was feeling.
Ordinarily, I would have lied and said that I was feeling fine, but I figured there was no point. She had probably seen the look on my face. If there was any way she could help me, I had to be honest.
“Nervous,” I admitted, letting out my breath.
She nodded, seeming unsurprised by that, and said that as long as I was safe and that I learned something, nothing else really mattered.
I faced my scene partner, clutching the pool noodle so hard that my knuckles turned white. She smiled reassuringly, like stage combat was the easiest thing in the world.
I was tempted to tell her that she had no idea what she was in for.
“Do you want to be the victim or the aggressor?” she asked me calmly.
Feeling extremely incompetent, I stammered, “Um—um—the victim, I guess.” My teacher had told me that the victim has all of the control, and that sounded reassuring to me. I had no idea what I was doing, and I knew that no matter how much I wanted to cooperate, my scene partner’s patience was going to be tested.
When I agreed to be the victim, I didn’t realize that the victim had to perform a series of complicated movements. All the supposed “control” meant nothing because I couldn’t move the pool noodle the way I was supposed to. To my scene partner’s credit, she tried to coach me. I was supposed to move the noodle in an arc over my head, but my hand would twist the wrong way in the process. I had no control over my grip, and while I understood what I was supposed to do, I couldn’t make my hand do it. (In simple terms, my brain has trouble communicating with my legs and hands sometimes because of my CP. Most of the time, I find ways to work around those issues, but it’s not always something I can avoid.)
After we both realized that the role of the victim just was not going to work for me, I switched to the role of the aggressor. Having cerebral palsy means that sometimes you have to adapt. A lot of activities just aren’t designed for people with CP, so I have to learn to make things work for me.
All the aggressor has to do in stage combat is thrust the pool noodle forward. However, for the first several times, I accidentally pointed the noodle down instead of straight, and I couldn’t tell. Then it was time to add footwork, and I realized that I didn’t know how to move my feet and the pool noodle at the same time.
I know it sounds simple. My nerves and muscles don’t really work together very well, though, and that makes it hard for me to do two physical actions at the same time. Muscle memory helps, but I don’t have much coordination—even if the actions themselves are simple, put them together, and I get lost.
I kept reacting preemptively before my partner would even point the noodle in my direction. I knew that I wouldn’t get hurt even if she hit me with it. But sensory-wise, I have a startle reflex, which is kind of like a heightened instinct. My partner laughed gently and assured me that I would be fine as long as we maintained eye contact. I believed her, but the stage combat became very frustrating.
The teacher told the class that we could go faster. By themselves, I understood the movements for stage combat, but how to move was muddled in my head. Eventually, my partner and I just took things at our own pace.
Doing stage combat was scary. But what I learned is applicable to more than the stage. I can go beyond my limits and do something even if it scares me. Doing things my own way with cerebral palsy is difficult at times, but I learn to do things that challenge me, and how to adapt and persevere.
I may not have learned how to do stage combat very well, but what I did learn is much more valuable—I may have to go more slowly. I may have to adjust the way I learn. But my greatest strength is that I try, no matter what.