Teaching Shakespeare to Elementary & Middle School

Living room (2019), Brick wall (2020), Treehouse (2020), Witch hat (2021), Tea time (2022), Top right (last week)

As we close the curtain on what may possibly be our final Shakespeare performance, I find myself reflecting on the journey that brought us here. For anyone feeling overwhelmed at the thought of introducing the Bard of Avon to their littles, I have a story that I hope will encourage you.

When I first began researching homeschooling, I kept seeing the same awe-inspiring mix of subjects—families regularly incorporating Latin, nature journaling, Plutarch, and Shakespeare. I didn’t understand why anyone would study Latin. I had little personal interest in nature. I’d never heard of Plutarch. And to be completely honest, I had nearly failed my Shakespeare class in college. What was I going to do with that?

Six years later, I can proudly say that three out of those four subjects have become a normal part of our homeschool routine. (Nature still gets outsourced to moms who know the names of trees.)

In our very first semester of homeschooling (2019), a friend from church asked if I’d like to bring my kids to her house weekly for Shakespeare. I was intrigued.

She poured tea into fancy cups for our combined ten children (I was fostering two at the time), and we sat around listening to a dramatized version of A Midsummer Night’s Dream. I remember sweating anytime she paused the audio or looked up—was I supposed to know who just spoke? What was so funny? My kids dreaded those sit-downs, and I clumsily followed along in my book while her oldest—slightly older than mine—delighted in it, narrating summaries with ease.

Looking back now, those memories make me smile. The literature I’ve read with my children over the years has steadily grown in complexity and depth, and that growth became unmistakably clear a few months ago when we started listening to The Taming of the Shrew. All three kids—now in middle school—smiled and sighed with relief.

“Finally,” one said, “this one’s easy.”

Shakespeare wrote plays—not private novels to be read in isolation. His words were written to be performed.

The last day of that first semester, my friend tossed a blanket over some kitchen chairs, handed out lines, and let the kids act out their favorite scenes. The next week, she moved away. But I was determined to continue the path we had started.

Ken Ludwig’s book How to Teach Your Children Shakespeare took my hand and brought us further than I ever thought possible. The ArkAngel performances on Audible became our go-to, and the Playing with Plays series gave us kid-friendly versions of nearly every play we explored—plus other classics in the same style.

Armed with these resources, I invited every homeschool family I knew (all elementary age at the time) to my house for Shakespeare Tea Time. We broke many thrifted teacups and consumed more sugar than I care to admit, but I left each gathering feeling elated. I was teaching as I was learning—and everyone was growing.

We started each play by reading a simple, illustrated synopsis. Then each child picked a character, a peg doll, and some googly eyes to craft their own cast. As we listened, I’d point to the corresponding child’s doll when their character spoke, helping us track the voices and tone. Any time one of us moms laughed at the right moment, we felt like geniuses.

Ludwig’s method gave us a thoughtful order to follow and key lines to memorize. Each week we practiced in funny voices, repeating the lines until we could recite them before encountering them in the play. I learned to pace us—2–3 hour plays took us about 5–7 weeks to finish, and we left 3–6 weeks after that for performance prep.

As my kids took acting classes under a phenomenal teacher, our living room performances moved to the backyard. My husband built a stage out of a crib mattress, and a friend painted a brick wall on canvas to hang from the fence. As one of my children grew skilled in sewing, the costumes grew more elaborate too.

By our fourth play, Macbeth, we had begun meeting at our church—which had a full stage. After we finished the audio and selected roles (based on the kids’ top three choices), I handed out PDF scripts and helped them highlight their lines.

That’s when my son came to me and asked, “Can the kids do it by ourselves? Without any parents?”

I was stunned—and nervous. Would their expectations be too high? Would they feel like failures if the show didn’t match the vision in their heads? Could they manage the staging, costumes, and set decisions without tears, fights, or someone storming off?

I shared the idea with the other parents. After a brief pause, we all agreed: let’s give them a chance.

For the next three weeks, the kids practiced behind closed doors. Eventually, we asked them to set a performance date.

We’ve done this for years now, and every single time the kids say the same thing:
“We are SO not ready.”

After another couple of weeks, a few extra friends and family joined us as the players did a “quick” run-through before yelling for the parents to enter.

The lights were off, except for a single stage light. Eerie music played as we filed into chairs the kids had arranged in rows. I sat up front and felt my foot bump something—it was an iPad on FaceTime. I later learned the kids had set it up so they could watch their cues from backstage.

That performance left me speechless. Even the preschoolers had been included—as tiny witches!

Two years ago, life shifted. We lost every single participating family for one reason or another. San Diego is a transient city. Military life is unpredictable. Puberty changes kids’ feelings about theater. And homeschool families, as wonderful as they are, can be flaky. But we didn’t quit—because it was too much fun.

Thank the Lord for social media.

I posted an invitation in a few homeschool Facebook groups for any kids old enough to read—and the response was incredible. This new group was different. These weren’t kids being introduced to Shakespeare by their parents. These were kids from diverse backgrounds, beliefs, and family cultures—and they all loved theater.

We started a group text, agreed on a $50 participation fee, and rented a local venue with a real stage and curtains. Since my kids were the only returning performers, one of them became the default director. But by the next play, four different kids wanted to direct. We’d never done auditions before, but with this group, they became necessary. Emotions ran high, so we even implemented anonymous voting to assign parts fairly.

With the earlier group, we had families drop out the week of the show—twice—but whoever was directing stepped in to fill the gap. And yet these kids would die before missing a performance.

The new venue came with its own challenges—toddlers with nothing to do, parents who were a little more hands-off. So the next semester, we transitioned to Balboa Park’s Butterfly Garden. It was a perfect mix of beauty and freedom. Littles could run around, the backdrop was stunning, and strangers often peeked in on rehearsals.

Once, during a Henry V scene, a group of high schoolers passed by, laughing. My son, who was playing the king, didn’t miss a beat. He raised his hand and proclaimed, “You will bow to your king!” The response he got wasn’t exactly courteous—but the Shakespeare kids roared with laughter and loved him for it.

We’ve had families disappear without warning, toddlers wander onstage mid-monologue, kids cry over casting, and even a parent or two struggle with the idea of taking direction. But these kids? They’ve learned so much. How to work with others, how to give grace when lines are forgotten, how to laugh when props get left behind or scripts go missing. They’ve hated Shakespeare. They’ve loved Shakespeare. And they’ve grown through it all.

This last play had me teary-eyed. It was the best they’ve ever done—even though they insisted they were the least prepared.

Oh! I actually just got a phone call—a co-op in Oklahoma City wants me to teach Shakespeare!

Perhaps we’re off again.

Want to Bring Shakespeare to Life in Your Homeschool?

You don’t have to start with a stage and spotlight. Maybe just brew some tea, press play on an audio performance, and let the kids doodle while they listen. Or gather a few families and laugh your way through a scene together. The goal isn’t perfection—it’s connection. And sometimes, connection begins when you’re willing to try something bold, even if it feels a little ridiculous at first.