It means we also have to learn about 'performance'.
Quite frankly, I could do without it.
The mere word conjures up images of black leggings with matching black polo sweaters along with the superfluous use of the term 'Dahhling'.
I didn't sign up for Drama classes.
The mere word conjures up images of black leggings with matching black polo sweaters along with the superfluous use of the term 'Dahhling'.
I didn't sign up for Drama classes.
In the same way I didn't sign up for group work.
Before choosing my course modules, I attended the 'Hispanic Cultures' sample lecture during 'Orientation Week', in which the tutor treated us to a highly enlightening lesson on the origins of the Argentine Tango.
She played us music to illustrate the different styles and evolution of the genre.
It was extremely interesting and, more importantly, thoroughly enjoyable.
It was extremely interesting and, more importantly, thoroughly enjoyable.
I went out immediately after the class and bought one of the albums whose tracks she'd sampled.
Well, I ordered it from Amazon.
The point is that I was so enthused by the teaser lesson, I signed up for the module without the slightest hesitation.
I had no idea it would turn out to be the nightmare that it has been.
Studying the horrors of the evil military dictatorships of Franco, Galtieri and Pinochet was bad enough.
But group work has proven to be the ultimate in inhumane torture.
If only those three monsters had known its power, they could have wiped out far more insurgents in a much shorter space of time.
Studying the horrors of the evil military dictatorships of Franco, Galtieri and Pinochet was bad enough.
But group work has proven to be the ultimate in inhumane torture.
If only those three monsters had known its power, they could have wiped out far more insurgents in a much shorter space of time.
Our tutor, who just falls down on the heterosexual side of effeminate, has shoulder-length hair which he persistently has to sweep out of his face.
His badly-aligned teeth, that should have been orthodonticked many years ago, cause him to lisp in a way that may serve to underline in my mind the near-ambiguity of his sexuality.
Added to which, he is young enough to be my son.
It's hard to refer to someone as 'Mr.' when you feel they should be the one to proffer respect.
I've already had a run-in with him over how unfair it is to be graded as a group rather than as an individual when I'm the only one in mine who actually seems to give a fuck.
Consequently, I've resigned myself to just getting to the end of term in this subject without failing.
Today he asks us to stand in a circle.
Oh god, what next?
'OK everyone,' he declares ebulliently, 'we're going to play a game called 'Pass the Clap!'
I have another Tourette's moment.
'There's medication for that!' I shout.
Thankfully most people laugh.
It restores my faith in my sense of humour.
I was seriously starting to worry that I'm not quite as funny as I think I am.
Now that fear has been somewhat appeased, I'm seriously starting to worry I may actually have a mild form of Tourette's.
I'm not sure how much research has been done into the phenomenon.
And whether or not it's an advancing disease for which you can display 'early warning signs', but sometimes I genuinely do struggle to contain the vocalisation of words before my brain kicks in.
The object of 'Pass the Clap', contrary to what you, or at least I, might imagine from the title of the game, is for someone to start with a single hand-clap, and for the others in the circle to 'feel' when it's right to continue with another.
It keeps going until two people break the continuity by clapping at the same time.
The idea is to see how many claps can be achieved before this happens.
The best we can manage is 3.
We're clearly not a particularly sensitive or perceptive bunch.
After that little exercise is exhausted, i.e. pretty quickly, 'el tutorio' asks us to split our respective groups into smaller groups of 3 in order to try and reenact a short scene from the play.
The setting is the living room of a couple's beach house.
'Replete with a plethora of unstable plastic bucket chairs that have mini-desks bolted onto the side,' I think.
Despite my cynicism, I force myself to try and use my limited creative visualisation skills.
The 'couple' comprises Paulina and her lawyer husband Geraldo.
The background to the scene is that Paulina was horribly tortured and raped by Pinochet's henchmen - the principal protagonist of whom was a doctor - while defiantly protecting the identity of her leftist husband Geraldo.
Geraldo suffers a flat tyre on this particular evening and is rescued by a certain Dr. Miranda, who he invites back to the house and to whom he offers a bed for the night.
In the early hours of the morning, Paulina whacks the Doctor over the head, thus rendering him unconscious, drags him from his bed, ties him to a chair, gags him with a pair of her knickers and wields a gun in his face.
Despite being blindfolded throughout her ordeal, she declares to Geraldo that Miranda is undoubtedly the Doctor responsible for the atrocities she suffered and pronounces she wants justice.
She says she recognises him by his voice and even his smell.
The truth is never actually revealed to the audience; instead they are left to ponder and draw their own conclusions.
It's not supposed to be slapstick comedy.
But Buster Keaton would feel quite at home in the unfolding 'drama'.
I find myself in a threesome, if you'll pardon the expression, with 'Lady Marmalade' and a fresh-faced, virginal young chap from our group named Liam, who at least is good at research.
He's a sweetheart but he does have the tendency to giggle innocently at everything.
I immediately volunteer to play the role of Paulina.
She's crazed, paranoid and out for revenge.
I feel I fit the bill just right.
Liam, offers to play the part of Geraldo.
'Lady Marmalade,' hasn't volunteered to play anyone, because it is abundantly clear that she has not even read the play.
By default she gets the role of the gagged and bound Dr. Miranda, who doesn't, due to his predicament, have many lines in this scene.
'Lady Marmalade' sits in the chair and puts her hands behind her back.
I stand over her and point my fingers at her shiny auburn face in the typical 'pretend gun' fashion.
I start calmly enough, but she's not taking this seriously.
She starts laughing a flailing her arms around.
For Christ's sake, they're supposed to be tied behind her back - a fact I try to bring to her attention.
She then decides to ad lib the script, by offering, in her best inner city Dublin accent, ridiculous excuses for why she could not have been my torturer.
'Sure I was away on me holidays,' she laughs, 'so it coudna been me.'
She then starts rocking backwards and forwards, like she's davening at the wailing wall, and swishing her heavily-laquered auburn hair in all directions as her laughter turns to hysteria.
Tears and mascara are running down her cheeks creating deep troughs in her thick auburn make-up.
I look at Liam in disbelief, but he just shrugs his innocent little shoulders and giggles helplessly.
As I immerse myself in the part, I find myself unleashing 'Paulina's' wrath on 'Miranda' in a spittle-filled bilious rage.
I'm quite impressed with how quickly 'Lady Marmalade' succeeds in suddenly switching into character.
She manages to emulate fear quite well.
And as I press 'the gun' hard against her forehead, I would go so far as to say there's an almost genuine look of terror in her auburn eyes.
Our tutor calls an end to the session, and as I lower my hand, I can see the indentation left by two of my fingernails in 'Lady Marmalade's' flesh.
It gives me a great feeling of satisfaction.
©Alacoque Doyle
His badly-aligned teeth, that should have been orthodonticked many years ago, cause him to lisp in a way that may serve to underline in my mind the near-ambiguity of his sexuality.
Added to which, he is young enough to be my son.
It's hard to refer to someone as 'Mr.' when you feel they should be the one to proffer respect.
I've already had a run-in with him over how unfair it is to be graded as a group rather than as an individual when I'm the only one in mine who actually seems to give a fuck.
Consequently, I've resigned myself to just getting to the end of term in this subject without failing.
Today he asks us to stand in a circle.
Oh god, what next?
'OK everyone,' he declares ebulliently, 'we're going to play a game called 'Pass the Clap!'
I have another Tourette's moment.
'There's medication for that!' I shout.
Thankfully most people laugh.
It restores my faith in my sense of humour.
I was seriously starting to worry that I'm not quite as funny as I think I am.
Now that fear has been somewhat appeased, I'm seriously starting to worry I may actually have a mild form of Tourette's.
I'm not sure how much research has been done into the phenomenon.
And whether or not it's an advancing disease for which you can display 'early warning signs', but sometimes I genuinely do struggle to contain the vocalisation of words before my brain kicks in.
The object of 'Pass the Clap', contrary to what you, or at least I, might imagine from the title of the game, is for someone to start with a single hand-clap, and for the others in the circle to 'feel' when it's right to continue with another.
It keeps going until two people break the continuity by clapping at the same time.
The idea is to see how many claps can be achieved before this happens.
The best we can manage is 3.
We're clearly not a particularly sensitive or perceptive bunch.
After that little exercise is exhausted, i.e. pretty quickly, 'el tutorio' asks us to split our respective groups into smaller groups of 3 in order to try and reenact a short scene from the play.
The setting is the living room of a couple's beach house.
'Replete with a plethora of unstable plastic bucket chairs that have mini-desks bolted onto the side,' I think.
Despite my cynicism, I force myself to try and use my limited creative visualisation skills.
The 'couple' comprises Paulina and her lawyer husband Geraldo.
The background to the scene is that Paulina was horribly tortured and raped by Pinochet's henchmen - the principal protagonist of whom was a doctor - while defiantly protecting the identity of her leftist husband Geraldo.
Geraldo suffers a flat tyre on this particular evening and is rescued by a certain Dr. Miranda, who he invites back to the house and to whom he offers a bed for the night.
In the early hours of the morning, Paulina whacks the Doctor over the head, thus rendering him unconscious, drags him from his bed, ties him to a chair, gags him with a pair of her knickers and wields a gun in his face.
Despite being blindfolded throughout her ordeal, she declares to Geraldo that Miranda is undoubtedly the Doctor responsible for the atrocities she suffered and pronounces she wants justice.
She says she recognises him by his voice and even his smell.
The truth is never actually revealed to the audience; instead they are left to ponder and draw their own conclusions.
It's not supposed to be slapstick comedy.
But Buster Keaton would feel quite at home in the unfolding 'drama'.
I find myself in a threesome, if you'll pardon the expression, with 'Lady Marmalade' and a fresh-faced, virginal young chap from our group named Liam, who at least is good at research.
He's a sweetheart but he does have the tendency to giggle innocently at everything.
I immediately volunteer to play the role of Paulina.
She's crazed, paranoid and out for revenge.
I feel I fit the bill just right.
Liam, offers to play the part of Geraldo.
'Lady Marmalade,' hasn't volunteered to play anyone, because it is abundantly clear that she has not even read the play.
By default she gets the role of the gagged and bound Dr. Miranda, who doesn't, due to his predicament, have many lines in this scene.
'Lady Marmalade' sits in the chair and puts her hands behind her back.
I stand over her and point my fingers at her shiny auburn face in the typical 'pretend gun' fashion.
I start calmly enough, but she's not taking this seriously.
She starts laughing a flailing her arms around.
For Christ's sake, they're supposed to be tied behind her back - a fact I try to bring to her attention.
She then decides to ad lib the script, by offering, in her best inner city Dublin accent, ridiculous excuses for why she could not have been my torturer.
'Sure I was away on me holidays,' she laughs, 'so it coudna been me.'
She then starts rocking backwards and forwards, like she's davening at the wailing wall, and swishing her heavily-laquered auburn hair in all directions as her laughter turns to hysteria.
Tears and mascara are running down her cheeks creating deep troughs in her thick auburn make-up.
I look at Liam in disbelief, but he just shrugs his innocent little shoulders and giggles helplessly.
As I immerse myself in the part, I find myself unleashing 'Paulina's' wrath on 'Miranda' in a spittle-filled bilious rage.
I'm quite impressed with how quickly 'Lady Marmalade' succeeds in suddenly switching into character.
She manages to emulate fear quite well.
And as I press 'the gun' hard against her forehead, I would go so far as to say there's an almost genuine look of terror in her auburn eyes.
Our tutor calls an end to the session, and as I lower my hand, I can see the indentation left by two of my fingernails in 'Lady Marmalade's' flesh.
It gives me a great feeling of satisfaction.
©Alacoque Doyle
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