Year 5 and 6 Performing Arts Showcase

We have quite a few younger students.

And with younger students, there is one very logical, but not always obvious, nuance: there is less communication with them on WhatsApp. Some do not have a phone yet; in many prep schools, they are not allowed to have one at all – horror of horrors! Some do have one, but let’s be honest, a 10 or 11-year-old child is not going to message their guardian in the evening saying: “Maryna, good evening, I would like to discuss my emotional state in boarding.”

No, of course not.

At most, they will run past, smile, grab a muffin and disappear off towards their friends.

But it is still important for us to keep that connection with them. Not a formal one, not only through the school and parents, but a real, human one. That is why, whenever I can, I try to come to their little school events: concerts, performances, sports days, showcases, all that very British “children perform, parents melt, teachers heroically keep the whole thing under control”.

Recently I went to a Year 5 and 6 Performing Arts Showcase at one of the British boarding schools.

It was a kind of end-of-year performance where Year 5 and Year 6 students showed what they had learnt over the year: drama, dance, songs, monologues, piano, violin, clarinet, drums, ukulele, group performances, a pirate song, Wellerman and even What Shall We Do with a Drunken Sailor?

You sit there as a grown-up woman, a guardian who has seen plenty of British schools, thinking: right, we are about to watch some sweet little children’s performances.

And then a boy comes out and performs his own song, and you sit there with a face that says: “Sorry, are you definitely 10 or 11?” Then the children play the ukulele, which seems to be something of a cult instrument in British prep schools. Then come the monologues, scenes, dances, songs, and all of it is so alive, so brave, and at times astonishingly mature and professional.

But what struck me most was not even that. What struck me most was how the children felt on stage.

A full hall: parents, teachers, other students. And they walk out, sit down at their instrument, come up to the microphone and begin. And if something does not quite work, the child calmly, without panic, tears or trembling hands, turns to the teacher and says: “Can I start again?” Or asks to change the song. Or waits while someone helps adjust the instrument, the microphone, the chair, the lighting.

And there was something so warm in that, because you could see it clearly: they completely trust their teacher. They are not afraid to make a mistake. They do not freeze in terror that they are about to “perform incorrectly” and be told off. They know there is an adult nearby who will help, adapt, support, and that the world will not collapse because of one wrong note.

Honestly, that is worth so much.

Of course, I did not arrive empty-handed. I spent a long time thinking about what could make children happy when, in theory, they already have everything. In the end, I bought muffins. Just muffins. Small, fresh, tasty, easy to eat, no plates needed, and my inner practical woman was very pleased :).

And I really did not expect that reaction.

The children were so happy, as if I had brought them not muffins, but the keys to Disneyland. They said I was the best guardian on earth and that they were ready to carry me around in their arms. How wonderful it is when children can still be delighted by something simple.

In boarding schools, sweets are not freely available, meals are quite carefully structured, and an ordinary muffin suddenly becomes an event. Not because the child is deprived of anything, but because joy is not devalued by endless access to everything.

We also congratulated our little student separately: we gave her a lovely cap and a card with wishes for the next year. She immediately asked me to read the card to her because it was in Russian, and she herself, as she said, unfortunately now reads better in English.

I read it to her, and she liked everything: the cap and, of course, the muffin.

After the concert, we were given a separate room, and we sat with the children for a little while. They were being silly, laughing, completely unable to take a normal photo because, as we would say, they had ants in their pants, but that was exactly the charm of it.

I only filmed my own students, because British schools are strict about this, and rightly so. But I sent the photos and videos to the parents, so that at least in this way, through me, they could see the day: the stage, the performances, the smiles, the atmosphere, the school life that usually remains somewhere there, behind the walls of the boarding house.

How I love my work! It is such a wonderful thing to come to a little concert, bring muffins, see a child standing confidently on stage, send the parents a video, and give the family not a report, but a living memory.

I drove home singing in the car the whole way, and all my personal problems simply disappeared. Who would have thought that my very stressful work would turn out to be my own way of fighting stress?