A Dream

I enter a theater, which I have been given as my room to use for a school I am teaching at. I have a prep period, but I need to quickly finish some grading. As I start to try and do that, this theater—multi-leveled—begins to fill up with students.

I ask the students their names and what teacher authorized this, but they refuse to answer me. I call the number I am supposed to for help, after misdialing. When I finally reach someone, I am told they cannot help me because they are busy with the beginning of the school day. However, I notice it is not a message I am hearing but a live person. When I comment on this, the person admits no one should have the theater booked.

I continue to try to kick the students out, even as more and more pile in, saying they need to work on their assignments.

Then a cis, white, cocky male teacher enters. I explain that I have been given this room and that the students are being rude to me when I ask simple questions. He goes off, drawing the attention and admiration of the students. They love him.

But he isn’t teaching anything. Instead, he asks the students if they want him to perform, and he performs an act that centers around him monologuing as a main character while the students say things that his character responds to.

I try to leave to find help but cannot. I return to the room, still having not completed any of my grading, to find the teacher still mid-monologue. Giving up, I sit back down at the lighting board, where I began in the first place, deciding, "I guess I’ll just grade."

A girl says, “I really like your ramen.”

Then I awake.

The Grading Stage

A Play in One Act

Setting: A multi-leveled theater, dimly lit. The stage is bare except for a large lighting board and a worn chair. Papers are scattered across the floor. The fluorescent lights hum faintly, creating an uneasy atmosphere of tension and expectation.

Characters:

Scene 1: The Theater as a Room

The TEACHER enters the theater, papers in hand. They sit at the lighting board and begin grading. A few moments of uneasy silence pass. Slowly, STUDENTS begin filing in, filling the balconies and the stage.

TEACHER: No, no, no. This isn’t… This isn’t your room. I’ve been given this space. This is my—my prep period. (Looks up, flustered.) Who authorized this? Who sent you?

STUDENTS: (Chorus, whispering and overlapping) Assignments… Work… Escape? Perform?

TEACHER: (Stands, frustrated) I said, WHO SENT YOU? You’re not supposed to be here!

(The whispers grow louder but do not answer. The TEACHER dials a phone. It rings, buzzes.)

VOICE: (Over the phone) The school day has begun. Help is not available. Please try again later.

TEACHER: No! This isn’t a message—you’re speaking to me! You’re the one who’s here!

VOICE: Shouldn’t… Shouldn’t… No one booked this room.

(The phone clicks off. The TEACHER sinks into their chair. The whispers rise again. A STUDENT begins tapping on the wall. Others join in, creating a cacophony of sound.)

Scene 2: The HERO-TEACHER Arrives

The HERO-TEACHER bursts into the room, basked in an absurdly bright spotlight. The STUDENTS cheer wildly.

HERO-TEACHER: Ah, my beloved scholars! What a joy it is to see you. (To the TEACHER) And you must be… what? The custodian of boredom?

TEACHER: This is my room! I was assigned here!

HERO-TEACHER: (Dramatically) Assigned? Such a small word for such a great space. This is not a room—it is a stage! A place for grand ideas and even grander performances!

(The HERO-TEACHER launches into a monologue. The STUDENTS cheer.)

Scene 3: The Ramen Girl Speaks

The TEACHER slumps back into their chair. RAMEN GIRL approaches, her steaming bowl of ramen in hand.

RAMEN GIRL: I really like your ramen.

TEACHER: (Baffled) I don’t… I don’t have ramen.

RAMEN GIRL: (Shrugs) But you could.

(She sits on the edge of the stage, eating silently. The TEACHER tries to grade but cannot focus. The HERO-TEACHER continues their monologue. The whispers of the STUDENTS rise. The fluorescent hum grows louder. Lights fade to black.)

CURTAIN.

The Grading Stage: A Dialectical Analysis

The Grading Stage begins with a stark moment of defensive assertion: the TEACHER, seated at a lighting board, says, “No, no, no. This isn’t… This isn’t your room.” These first words capture their uneasy relationship with the space, their authority already fragile and contested. The lighting board, meant to symbolize control, instead highlights the TEACHER’s precarious position. The scattered papers around them only deepen the sense of disorder. From the start, the play presents a critical tension: authority is demanded from the TEACHER, yet they lack the means to exercise it. This moment is not an abstract critique of power; it is staged directly through fragmented language and misaligned symbols of authority.

The TEACHER’s labor—grading papers—is introduced as a mundane task but quickly becomes symbolic of their alienation. “I’ve been given this space. This is my—my prep period,” they mutter, repeating the claim as though trying to convince themselves. Yet their attempts to concentrate are repeatedly interrupted by their own visible frustration and the disorder of the theater. The stack of ungraded papers becomes a visual marker of their failure to impose order on their work. The scene reflects Freire’s critique of the “banking model” of education, in which labor becomes mechanical and detached from meaning. The TEACHER’s inability to complete even a single task emphasizes their disconnection, not only from their work but from the students they are ostensibly there to evaluate.

The arrival of the STUDENTS disrupts this precarious dynamic further. They enter silently, filling the balconies and climbing onto the stage without explanation. The TEACHER, visibly startled, asks, “Who authorized this? Who sent you?” Their question, though repeated, receives no response. The STUDENTS’ silence is not merely disobedient; it is oppressive, creating an atmosphere of tension. Their whispers—“Work? Perform? Escape?”—begin to ripple through the room, overlapping and growing louder. These phrases are fragmented and cryptic, mimicking institutional jargon without context. This interaction aligns with Judith Butler’s theory of performative authority: the TEACHER’s power is not inherent but depends on recognition from the STUDENTS. Their refusal to acknowledge the TEACHER renders their authority meaningless, transforming the interaction into a farcical struggle for dominance.

However, the STUDENTS’ resistance is not liberatory; it reflects their own alienation. Their whispers, though disruptive, do not propose an alternative to the system they inhabit. Antonio Gramsci’s concept of hegemony helps clarify this dynamic: even as the STUDENTS resist the TEACHER, they remain constrained by the language and logic of the dominant order. By echoing phrases like “Work” and “Escape,” they reveal their own entanglement with the institution, unable to imagine a world outside its framework. This doubling—where both the TEACHER and the STUDENTS are trapped in parallel forms of alienation—exposes the systemic nature of the play’s critique. The TEACHER’s authority and the STUDENTS’ rebellion are both symptoms of a system that denies agency to all participants.

The TEACHER’s attempt to call for help is one of the play’s most revealing moments. Picking up the phone, they dial frantically, muttering, “There shouldn’t be anyone in this theater. No one.” The voice on the other end offers no support, responding, “The school day has begun. Help is not available. Please try again later.” This detached reply underscores the systemic indifference to the TEACHER’s predicament. When the TEACHER protests—“You’re speaking to me now! This isn’t a message!”—the voice doubles down, repeating, “Shouldn’t. Shouldn’t. Shouldn’t. What should is irrelevant.” This moment exemplifies Slavoj Žižek’s notion of the “non-functioning function,” where systems persist not by resolving their contradictions but by displacing them onto individuals. The phone call, instead of offering resolution, highlights the TEACHER’s isolation and powerlessness within a structure that demands control but provides no support.

The buzzing fluorescent lights and the STUDENTS’ escalating whispers transform the theater into a space of oppressive tension. Mark Fisher’s concept of hauntology resonates here: the theater becomes a site haunted by the unfulfilled promises of authority and order. The TEACHER, trapped within this space, becomes a figure of spectral labor, their attempts to impose structure repeatedly thwarted. The scattered papers, the lighting board, and the phone—all symbols of control—are revealed as impotent tools within a system designed to alienate rather than empower. This scene captures the TEACHER’s complete estrangement from their role, as they are forced to bear the contradictions of a system that cannot function but refuses to collapse.

The entrance of the HERO-TEACHER shifts the dynamics of the play dramatically. Bursting through a side door and basked in an exaggerated spotlight, they proclaim, “Ah, my stage! My beloved scholars! You honor me with your presence.” Their theatricality immediately captivates the STUDENTS, who cheer and applaud. Unlike the TEACHER, whose authority crumbles under scrutiny, the HERO-TEACHER commands the room effortlessly. Lines like, “A teacher is a lighthouse! No—more! A guide through the storm!” are delivered with such charisma that the STUDENTS respond as though they are liberated. Yet this moment is deeply deceptive. The HERO-TEACHER’s authority is not grounded in substance but in spectacle. David Graeber’s critique of neoliberalism resonates here: the HERO-TEACHER commodifies education, reducing it to a performance centered on their persona. The STUDENTS’ applause reflects not empowerment but complicity, as they embrace the spectacle without questioning its hollow core.

The HERO-TEACHER’s monologue shifts the focus from the system’s contradictions to their own performative role. They mock the TEACHER—“A custodian of silence? Do names matter when you’re alive with the spirit of the moment?”—while thriving on the same institutional framework that alienates their predecessor. Slavoj Žižek’s concept of fetishistic disavowal applies sharply here: the HERO-TEACHER and the STUDENTS “know very well” that this performance offers no meaningful transformation, yet they participate in it as though it does. The HERO-TEACHER’s success is not a resolution but a reflection of the system’s ability to adapt, replacing one failed mode of authority with another while leaving its contradictions intact. This dynamic reveals the interplay between labor and spectacle as mechanisms for sustaining the system’s failures.

RAMEN GIRL, however, offers a quiet yet radical disruption of this cycle. Approaching the TEACHER with a bowl of steaming ramen, she says, “I like your ramen.” The TEACHER, visibly confused, responds, “I don’t… I don’t have ramen.” RAMEN GIRL shrugs and replies, “But you could.” This simple exchange cuts through the abstractions of both labor and spectacle, grounding the play in materiality. RAMEN GIRL’s focus on ramen—a mundane, tangible object—introduces the possibility of agency rooted in the immediate and the real. Freire’s emphasis on praxis is central here: transformation begins not with rebellion for its own sake but with the recognition of concrete realities and the capacity to act upon them. RAMEN GIRL refuses to participate in either the TEACHER’s bureaucratic struggle or the HERO-TEACHER’s theatrical spectacle, pointing instead to a third path that prioritizes material and practical action.

The unresolved ending of The Grading Stage reinforces its critique of education as a system defined by contradiction. The TEACHER, unable to complete their grading, returns to the lighting board in defeat. The HERO-TEACHER continues their monologue, sustained by the STUDENTS’ applause but offering no substance. Meanwhile, RAMEN GIRL sits silently, eating her ramen, her presence a quiet counterpoint to the theater’s noise. The fluorescent hum grows louder as the lights fade, leaving the audience with no resolution, only the persistent tensions of labor, authority, and resistance. This lack of closure is not a failure of the play but its central insight: the system cannot resolve its contradictions because it depends on them to survive. RAMEN GIRL’s presence, however understated, offers a glimpse of an alternative: a reclamation of agency that begins not with grand performances or compliance but with the recognition of materiality and possibility.

The Grading Stage dramatizes the contradictions of education not as abstractions but as lived interactions. The TEACHER, HERO-TEACHER, and RAMEN GIRL are not mere symbols but dynamic forces within a system that sustains itself through alienation, spectacle, and resistance. The play’s critique emerges through its action, language, and silences, revealing the structures that shape its characters’ actions while gesturing toward the cracks where transformation might begin. By refusing resolution, The Grading Stage forces its audience to confront the contradictions it exposes, leaving us to grapple with the structures we inhabit and the possibilities we might reclaim.