What Dreams Are Made Of

Photo by Kseniya Lapteva on Unsplash

There’s only one week left in the school year. And the students are sluggish because the summer heat has finally arrived, and the building’s cooling unit hasn’t woken up yet.

I pace the room as the kids pretend to work on interpreting a quote I’ve written on the board.

They’re pretending because the quote is hard, and they don’t know where to begin. They’re pretending because we’re reading Shakespeare, and pretending is the only way they know how to get through it.

It’s my job to take the fear out of it, to show them that Shakespeare doesn’t have to be so hard or scary, to show them it’s possible to read and interpret his work.

But because they just started reading adult texts this year and because there are only a few days left of school, it’s a big ask.

A few kids jot down actual thoughts in their notes, and I appreciate the attempt.

The truth is, I don’t care if they get it right. I only want them to try it, to read the lines over and over until the poetry and the musicality and playfulness of the words begin to sink into their heads.

After a few minutes, I ask them to take out their books. I’m saving the quote for later, for after we’ve read a few pages and the students have opened up a little.

We’re reading A Midsummer Night’s Dream, which lacks the rawness and violence and psychology of his tragedies. It’s Shakespeare light, and, as far as I’m concerned, it is as good a play as any to introduce Shakespeare to middle schoolers.

They move slowly, taking their time to find their books, taking their time to find the place toward the end where we left off, as if moving slowly might save them from the slow torture of having to return to the play and crawl through the dense dialogue.

We quickly review the events of Act IV: the removal of the spells and the half confusion, half elation felt by the victims of the enhancements. I point out the line were Oberon, king of the fairies, reveals that the magical mixups will be remembered as a dream.

The kids shuffle in their seats. Then, I point to one of my favorite lines from the play.

These things seem small and undistinguishable, like far-off mountains turned into clouds.

“What does this mean to you?” I ask.

Silence at first.

Then, slowly, a hand. The Pantera-loving kid with long black hair who’s always quiet. “It reminds me of us,” he says with confidence.

I pause, unsure of where this is going. “How so?”

“We’re graduating,” he says. “So in a few months, this will all feel like a dream.”

I blink, and I’m back in middle school. It’s the eighth grade dance. The school year has ended, and—since we’re all going to different high schools next year—it’s the final time I’m going to see all of my friends together in one place.

We’re gathered in the school cafeteria that has been magically transformed into another world with a disco ball and glow-in-the dark stars. Madonna is blaring on the radio. Like a Prayer. But no one is dancing.

The boys are gathered on one side of the cafeteria, the girls on another. And I wish that wasn’t the case. I wish people were dancing. I wish we could be together one last time, but I realize that I don’t get to decide how it works, just as I don’t get to decide where my friends go to high school.

I’m talking with my friends, who are all reminiscing about the last few years. A few of them are working up the courage to ask the girls to dance at the next slow song, but that seems more of a fun game than something that will actually happen.

When Boyz II Men finally comes on, my friends and I are too distracted with chasing each other around the cafeteria to notice the girls.

In what feels like no time at all, a chaperone comes on the mic and says the dance is going to end in fifteen minutes, and the atmosphere in the room changes.

My friends aren’t laughing as much, and somehow it feels like the cafeteria has been filled with a dense fog, and we’re all struggling for air.

Then, Bryan Adams comes on—Everything I Do—and it happens. One of my friends asks a girls to dance. Then, another. And, suddenly, we’re all dancing.

I glance around the room at my classmates who all look scared—a room full of wooden dolls, clinging to each other awkwardly, and slowly spinning in circles.

All the laughter is gone. All that’s left is boys and girls, who are already outgrowing the clothes they picked out for tonight’s dance. Boys and girls who smell like CK One and sweat. Boys and girls who will one day become men and women.

All that’s left is tonight.

And when the song finally comes to a close, the lights go on, and everything seems transformed, like some magical spell has been removed.

The boys are stunned into silence. The girls are crying. And I realize in that moment how important the last fews years have been, how special. I realize that, despite what I tried to tell myself, graduating eighth grade matters. It’s a big deal. I realize that everything is going to change. Forever. And I’m not ready to have this epiphany in the middle of a crowded dance floor with everyone I know.

And, suddenly, I’m overwhelmed with the immensity of this final moment with my friends, this final moment of my childhood. I feel warm all over, and for a second I think I’m going to be sick. But then I realize what I’m actually feeling is the tremendous push and pull of joy and sorrow.

And as my friends rotate around the room hugging each other for the last time and whispering heartfelt messages into each other’s ears, it takes every ounce of strength in my body to fight the bittersweet tears that I know are coming.

Back in the classroom, my students are staring at me, waiting for me to respond.

“You’re right,” I say.

A few of the students laugh, but most of them are staring at me like I’ve just lost my mind.

And, in a way, they’re right. Like the characters in the play, I’ve been transformed by some unknown magic, and I, for one, am grateful.

“And how do you feel about it?” I ask as a follow up.

I see a few shrugs. Then, I point to the quote from the start of the class. The one that is scribbled on the board.

Parting is such sweet sorrow, that I shall say goodnight till it be morrow.

“He felt it, too,” I say, and let those words linger in the room.

We read the last few pages of the play, and, when we make it to Oberon’s blessing at the end, I’m overwhelmed with how profound it all is. Even though I’ve read it a dozen times already, I suddenly feel a newfound connection to the play, a newfound connection to Shakespeare.

Because aside from giving these kids an appreciation for reading, what I want mostly is for them to go on to have amazing lives. I want them to be starry-eyed like the characters in the play. I want them to ride that magical line between reality and fantasy. I want them to realize all their dreams.

And as the bell rings and the kids filter out of the room, I give them my best smile, hoping they’ll see how proud I am, hoping they’ll carry it with them when they go.

I know it might be too much to ask—that it’s foolish to want something I can’t control. But I secretly hope they take my lead and follow their foolish hearts.

Because, as far as I can tell, that’s what dreams are made of.

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