Dalhousie University Libraries Hosted Journals

This is a list of resources related to the teaching of imagination amongst young adults. We encourage you to explore the linked organizations’ resource pages and contact them directly for additional and up-to-date information. These resources are current but may become inactive in the future. &nbsp

Trivedi, Mansi

English

Resource List: Imagination Teaching

A 16-week program plan to introduce music to teens in the context of theatre. It includes a breakdown of activities, and the reasoning behind those activities. The programs intention is to give teens an opportunity to become confident singing on stage and learn the proper techniques of annunciation and projection.&nbsp; &nbsp

Phinney, Lisa

Programming: Music on Stage

A programming guide for running theatre programming by harnessing the expertise of the local theatre companies near you

Brechin, Isabel

Programming with Partnerships: Mermaid Theatre Company as an Example

In this post, we have compiled a list of resources that young adults can use to look for information about staging, script writing, and acting. Each resource is paired with a brief description as well as notes about how to access it

Summerhays, Anne

Resources for Young Adults on Staging, Scriptwriting, and Acting

The purpose of this article is to introduce the idea of the digital space and digital technology into the conversation of YA theatre. It discusses theory and application of digital technology as a means to engage with teens with both productions and audiences

Goguen, Nolan

Theatre and the Digital Space

Lavender, Cory

LAWSON ROY SAYIN HOW PORT MOUTON AIN’T PORT MOUTON NO MORE

Snell, Dana

DANA SNELL
PAUSE
THE BOY IN THE PLAYGROUND HAD TO BE A PAUSE. He had the small,
chubby body and big head of a three-year-old, but he didn’t move like one.
There were none of those teetering, headlong rushes, no goofy gleeful laugh￾ter. Instead, he zipped up the stairs of the play structure, dodged around
some kids twice his height, hopped down to a lower platform and spun a
steering wheel until it was a rattling blur, all with an expression of utmost
gravity on his little face. A three-year-old Pause was pretty unusual. Kay
looked around for his parents and decided that the woman on the bench
next to hers was his mother.
She was beautiful, the woman on the bench. Much younger than Kay,
most likely in her late thirties. Kay took in her casually cool outfit with envy.
She wore a loose T-shirt with the sleeves rolled up the perfect length to set
off her long tanned arms. Her shirt was tucked into a long black skirt that
went all the way down to her ankles, ending at short black boots. Kay was
sure this outfit would look hopelessly frumpy on her, but on this woman it
looked effortlessly sexy.
The woman sipped from a thermos, her gaze fixed on the boy. As Kay
watched him rocket down the slide, she remembered Cynthia at that age,
and her chest and arms tingled with the phantom-limb sensation of a tiny
body curled up neatly against hers, the weight of a small head pressing
against her breastbone. The dear little upturned face, perfect as a buttercup.
She still had recordings on her phone of baby Cynthia’s funny, squeaky, lisp￾ing voice (all gone now). Kay sighed. It was only natural to be a little sad.
Kay felt her eyes stinging with what might turn into tears, so she quickly
looked down at the booklet she’d brought to the playground to read. Despite
her glum mood, she couldn’t help but smirk at the slogan on the faded cover:
They Grow Up So Fast? Not So Fast! She still found it clever. She flipped to
the section titled Pressing Play. She’d read it several times over the years, of
course, but it had been a while. And since this was the last time, she figured
192 The Dalhousie Review
she should be as prepared as possible.
She took a deep breath and tried to read slowly, but her eyes kept
skimming over the text, so she forced them back up to the top of the page:
“Though emotional and cognitive progression is minimal during Pause, a
period of adjustment is still to be expected once you press play. The child
may be slightly more mature than their peers who haven’t undergone the
process.” Kay sighed again and let the book close. Not right now. She was
too tired. She and Dave had been up late last night, talking and crying into
the wee hours. And now the sun was shining, the birds were singing, and she
had somehow convinced her little girl to go to the playground for old time’s
sake, even though they hadn’t been there in ages.
After all, Kay reflected, she had so much to be grateful for. Not everyone
could afford to stop time like her family had. A corner of her mouth twitched
up as she thought of the years when they had Cynthia Paused at thirteen
months. She was a chubby, blue-eyed doll that Kay could dress up and take
wherever she liked, though it was a little off-putting when she started speak￾ing in full sentences. Then there was a good long stretch Paused at five,
which was such a fun age. And now eight, which was by far Kay’s favou￾rite—maybe because it was the last one. The technology only worked until
puberty, at least for now, and she couldn’t afford to let any more time grow
between her and Cynthia—not to mention Dave, who was almost seventy.
The stinging in her eyes came back, and she distracted herself by focus￾ing on the little boy. Three years old, huh? She couldn’t recall anyone she
knew Pausing at three. Even during the sweetest moments of Cynthia at that
age, Kay had never been tempted. For every “I wuv you Mama” there would
be ten NO’s screamed into her face. Cynthia was more demon than doll in
those days, struggling in Kay’s arms, running away from her into traffic.
And all those mortifying public tantrums. Kay had taken to saying, “Is there
a fast-forward option?” to get a rueful laugh from gawkers and diffuse the
awkwardness. But this woman, this beautiful woman, had experienced all
that and said to herself, “let’s keep this going for a while.”
Kay decided to risk prying. She couldn’t help herself.
“So cute.” She put some syrup in her voice. “Yours?”
The woman smiled, her eyes on her son. “Yes, that’s my son, Jason.”
“How old?” She left the question open-ended.
“He’s been Paused at three for the last five years.”
Five years at three! Kay was careful to keep her smile affixed. “How
Pause 193
precious! That’s my little girl over there.” Kay pointed to a corner of the
playground, where a girl with long brown hair was leaning against the fence
talking to an older boy with orange hair. He said something to her, and she
laughed. “Cynthia. She’s been Paused at eight for . . . a while.” Kay cleared
her throat, willed her voice to stay steady. “We’ve decided to press play.”
The woman looked at her with a twist of her mouth that seemed to Kay
to be commiseration. She took this as encouragement to go on.
“You don’t see many three-year-olds.”
She left off the “Pauses,” figuring the woman would know what she
meant. But the woman just smiled and turned her head away, looking back
at her son.
“I’m Kay.”
“Lia,” the woman said, taking a sip from her thermos. “Your daughter is
gorgeous.”
“Thank you,” Kay smiled. “She starts high school next year. We had to
move her up again. She said if she had to repeat grade six one more time
she was going to burn the house down!” Actually, Cynthia had said that she
would kill herself, but of course Kay wasn’t about to repeat that.
The woman nodded absently.
This was going nowhere. Kay tried the direct approach. “So, three, huh?
That can be a . . . challenging age. You’re a better man than me!”
She laughed companionably to let Lia know she was on her side, but
this time Lia didn’t even acknowledge that she’d spoken.
Kay, panicking, blurted out, “Though of course he looks like he’s just
a little angel. They’re so cute at that age. I wish we could just Pause them
forever! And after all, you’re still young . . .” Kay realized with alarm that she
was babbling. But instead of doing the decent thing and trying to save her,
Lia just kept staring straight ahead at her son, sipping from her thermos,
as if no one was talking to her. Kay’s mouth snapped shut, and she looked
away. Jesus Christ.
Kay took out her phone and tried to busy herself with it, but she couldn’t
focus. She wanted to talk to someone but couldn’t for the life of her think
who to call. Dave, as always, was working. Should she try and resurrect the
conversation, maybe with a safer topic? Some mutual eye-rolling over the
astronomical costs of the process was usually pretty fertile ground.
Before Kay could make an attempt, Lia suddenly broke the silence, call￾ing out, “Jason! Too high!” Kay saw him then, poised at the monkey bars.
194 The Dalhousie Review
“Jason!” Lia called again, warning in her voice, but he ignored her. He made
a valiant effort, leaping off the platform with confidence, but the underdevel￾oped muscles of his three-year-old body were nowhere near strong enough.
The fingertips of his chubby upstretched hands only brushed the metal bars
before he fell to the ground.
For a moment, everything was quiet. Then the boy let out a long wail
of impotent frustration so loud that everyone in the playground looked
over. Lia ran to him and dropped to her knees, trying to console him, but he
screamed even higher and louder. “No! No! No!” He kicked his feet into the
dirt. Lia was grabbing at his flailing hands, saying in an even voice, “Jason.
Jason. Sweetie.” Jason’s hands found a hunk of golden hair and started pull￾ing. Lia was trying to pry his hands off, her calm voice getting brittle. “Jason.
Baby. That hurts. Let go.”
Kay looked away, searching for Cynthia. Oh well. How much could she
really have in common with someone who chose to keep her kid three years
old? The woman was probably disturbed.
She shouldered her purse and looked around for Cynthia, but she was
nowhere to be found. Kay walked away from the playground with the still￾screaming boy, scanning the surrounding park for her daughter. She saw
movement in the bushes and headed there. “Cynthia?” she called. No an￾swer, but she could see a bit of orange through the green. She picked up her
pace and heard giggling. She shoved the branches aside just in time to see
the two children pull apart, staring up at her with wide eyes. “Cynthia! What
on earth are you doing?” Kay grabbed her daughter’s arm and hauled her to
her feet, dragging her out of the bushes. Cynthia tore her arm out of Kay’s
grasp, squeaking, “Get your fucking hands off me!”
For a disorienting moment, Kay didn’t recognize her daughter. She
stared open-mouthed at the stranger in front of her with its adult eyes
spraying hatred and contempt out of a child’s contorted face. Before Kay
could speak, Cynthia was off, tearing away across the field.
Kay found her voice. “Cynthia!” she yelled. But the girl was halfway
across the field already, and there was no way Kay could catch up. Suddenly
she felt powerfully tired, like she was pushing a hundred rather than sixty.
She found another bench and flopped down onto it. Cynthia would come
back. After all, where else could she go?
The screaming had stopped. Kay looked over to see Lia and Jason still
on the ground beneath the monkey bars, folded into each other in a tight,
silent hug. Kay stopped fighting the tears and let them come.

Pause

Harris, David M.

DAVID M. HARRIS
DON COYOTE
I never felt much sympathy
for the Road Runner. Invulnerable,
inarticulate, malicious. He could
run away from trouble, but baits and taunts
his co-star. Wile E. wants nothing but a square
meal. A specific meal.
 I feel his pain.
We’re about the same age, and we’ve both
made some bad choices. My careers have wound
down, and his has reached a dead end. But what else
could he do? He trained to be a specialist, mastered
the art of hunting that one bird. I, at least, found variety
in failure—publishing, teaching, marriage—until
the boulders landed on me.
 I got out from under
and found new landscapes to inhabit.
Poor Coyote returned to his obsession, noble
in futility. Sisyphus earned his frustration.
Wile E.’s comes from his soul. He is driven
by his dream, driven to exceed his grasp,
longing always for the perfect plan,
perfectly executed, requiring no medical
intervention. I got used to disappointment,
but not he. There is no disappointment for him,
only new opportunities to prove his devotion,
knowing his only possible success
lies in his unending failure.
And how could he be disappointed, living forever
in the sure and certain knowledge of pain
and resurrection, of best-laid plans?

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Resource List: Imagination Teaching

Programming: Music on Stage

Programming with Partnerships: Mermaid Theatre Company as an Example

Resources for Young Adults on Staging, Scriptwriting, and Acting

Theatre and the Digital Space

LAWSON ROY SAYIN HOW PORT MOUTON AIN’T PORT MOUTON NO MORE

Pause

Don Coyote

TECHNOLOGY AND PHILOSOPHY: GEORGE GRANT’S CONTINUING RELEVANCE

HIPPOGRIFF

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