I have never met an ogre. Green skin, pointy ears, and a preference for swamps are not part of my routine. For that reason there has been a learning curve in costuming Shrek's family for the play.
At first I tried to overlook the awkward parts of their character. Excessive burps, rudeness, and body odor are not
usually what a screenwriter highlights. But by the third run through I started to understand.
It probably helped me put the pieces together when I took Ben to his annual basketball tournament between opening night and the Saturday performance. The gym was packed with all kinds of disabilities. The people with Down's syndrome were exuberantly happy to be there, and doled out hugs to anyone who would take them. A girl in a wheelchair had difficulty
navigating her way in the crowd, but people made room. Kids who are noverbal were shepherded to the key and given a turn to shoot. People cheered for effort, not just success.
My son, and others with autism, were a tad overwhelmed by the noise. So was I. Twenty balls thumping, ten colors of jerseys, a guy dressed up as a lion, a loudspeaker that blared like an angry ogre. It made me want to head to the woods.
At this event, people
who struggle are welcome. But in some other circumstances, they are not. They inevitably get stared at, and whispered about behind cupped hands. Benjamin has his share of social blunders, but fortunately seems less hammered with what others think of him than the average bear. Which is one of the qualities that Donkey first admires in Shrek.
Shrek made me laugh. Cry. Ponder. He wrestled with loneliness, and longing. When Donkey is too afraid to cross the bridge
over molten lava, Shrek grabs his hand and leads him. When Farquaad wants to marry the princess, not from love but in the pursuit of power, Shrek steps in.
One of his songs is "When words fail." I like words. Love them in fact. I depend on them every day. But Shrek reminded me that in his world, and sometimes mine, they are not the only bridge we have to reach
each another.