600 Monday evenings
It’s a Monday night and I’m sitting in a circle with a bunch of teenagers, in a hall, in Islington.
This is familiar. Over the last 15 years I reckon I’ve sat in this kind of circle, in this kind of room, on more than 600 Mondays. It’s always been a Monday and, mostly, I’ve always been here.
This Monday isn’t very different to all the others.
There are a group of young people there early. They’re chatting. Taking slips (photos taken when you don’t know they’re being taken) of each other and posting them to their C3 members WITHOUT ADULTS Snapchat group.
I chat to them. Pull my weirdest face for them to take photos of and put on their C3 groupchat and make everyone laugh. Share their sandwiches, because since the pandemic we do sandwiches every week. Talk about their families, school, life. I do not feel like they feel like I’m an adult in that space, just a person to talk to.
What a beautiful thing that is.
Some of the ones who have arrived early then disappear for a bit so we start the session with about 7 people. I’m just here to set them up and send them into groups; groups that are run by brilliant younger artists. I haven’t run a group for years. There are only five young people in the whole of Company Three who I’ve made a play with, out of more than 75.
That’s why this is a different Monday. Because it’s my last one.
Because for the last few years I have gently been extricating myself from the work directly with young people, making space for other artists to do so, and supporting them in it.
And now I feel really sure that those artists have moved past that need for support. They’re flying. Earlier in the week I watched our associate Amber freewheel an entire play structure out of her head onto pieces of paper scattered all over the floor. I’d been working for her for a term and we’d struggled to find answers – suddenly it all came out, without me doing anything. In fact, I think, because I hadn’t done anything.
Stepping away, making space.
The hall in Islington fills slowly. We play a game called Wah. It’s an iconic C3 game – an example of how if young people feel competent at something, it has a huge knock-on effect on their capacity to determine their own journey.
I’ve never won Wah and this time, my last time, they don’t let me win, which feels unfair.
I talk to the group, who are now pretty much all here. I say I’ve done 600 or so Mondays like this and we realise that’s more Mondays than a lot of them have seen in their entire lives.
They’re so young. But also so bright. So full of ideas. So capable of seeing the world for what it is today. And so full of kindness, compassion, courage and joy.
I tell them it’s been the privilege of my life to hang out with them. That I’ve learnt so much from them, and all the people who came before them.
I spot Pia, in the room, and Angie. They work for us now. Back in the day they sat in this room, aged 13 and 16.
The young people give me a cheer and then jump up and continue their lives. Moving off to rooms run by brilliant artists.
A 14-year old girl comes up to me and says “Ned how you going to be my bestie if you’re leaving?” She decided we were besties when I chatted to her before a workshop in the summer, when she was newer. Shyer. I say I don’t know.
And I think for the millionth time that this is the thing I’ll never get back in the same way – the chance for me, as an adult, to chat to young people and just be a person. And for them just to be people.
We need more of that in the world, I think. Safe spaces for adults and young people to share their lives, ideas and experiences.
The girl says “maybe we can be long-distance besties” and I say, sure. That works for me. Maybe I can be long-distance besties with all of you.