Yes, and … Islamabad (and Beyond)

(Or: The Musings of a Partisan Improviser.)

(Look away if you’ve had quite enough.)

Ahem.

Tuesday’s election hit hard. I realize many Americans felt otherwise.

Amidst all the grief, the anger, the exhaustion, the recriminations and analysis, the distrust and the disgust, the bewilderment and resentment and disbelief and resignation, the celebrations, the contempt, and the deep, deep, deep, deep shame unleashed on Election Tuesday, I taught an improv class the following night.

While driving to class, I wondered if anyone would attend. An improv class at this particular moment felt frivolous. After all, we’ve collectively hurtled off a cliff, some jumping headlong, others wondering how to pull the rip cord.

And now we’re supposed to play Zip-Zap-Zop?

Katy, my friend who produced this improv class, sent out an email earlier in the day to see if anyone felt up to participating. “Please, please, please show up,” I muttered all afternoon. You see, I wanted to be with other people, other like-minded people who might be feeling the same cultural vertigo I felt.

Dennis drove to the class with me while I muttered away. He’s my home. It meant a lot to have him close while the world, once again, flipped on its axis.

“Why all the drama?” someone who doesn’t know Jim Robinson might ask. “Isn’t he simply swimming in the pulsing, grievance-fueled zeitgeist that is 2024?”

Perhaps. Some Americans–at least in my neighborhood–dove right into the moment, unfurling their enormous MAGA banners the second Harris conceded. Frat boys across the street from the University of St. Thomas–I taught there for over fifteen years–put on red-white-and-blue stovetop hats and got hammered in front of their squat version of Trump Tower. The Bros at the gym have been incongruously giddy.

To be fair, I displayed my Biden/Harris bumpersticker for weeks after the last election. Maybe it’s just a matter of scale.

Or maybe not.

In my head, November 5 put an end to something important: the possibility that our country could embrace decency. Through a stark, reductive lens, one campaign offered hope. One offered fear. Living in hope felt exhilarating. Maybe we could turn a page. Maybe we weren’t going back. Maybe there’s a place at the table for all Americans, as contentious and messy as the ensuing food fight would be.

But slogans are slogans and reality is, well, real. And complicated.

Still, on the dank evening after the election, in the A Space in NE Minneapolis, the entire class (!) gathered to finish a three-session improv class that had begun when it seemed–naively–that postcards and fundraisers and voter registration drives could root out the deep rot in our history.

A killjoy in the best of times, I started the class with a quote from Timothy Snyder’s “On Tyranny.” In order to undermine authoritarianism, Snyder suggests that we ought to:

Make eye contact and small talk. This is not just polite. It is part of being a citizen and a responsible member of society. It is also a way to stay in touch with your surroundings, break down social barriers, and understand whom you should and should not trust. If we enter a culture of denunciation, you will want to know the psychological landscape of your daily life.

Katy had (wisely) brought Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups, so while the class looked at one another and nibbled I read a second prescription from Snyder:

Practice corporeal politics. Power wants your body softening in your chair and your emotions dissipating on the screen. Get outside. Put your body in unfamiliar places with unfamiliar people. Make new friends and march with them.

Thusly armed, we made Timothy Snyder proud by making eye contact and burning off the calories from Katy’s delicious Reese’s Cups. We listened to each other to create funny, exuberant, intelligent, ridiculous scenes.

How did this happen?

We acknowledged the moment with Yes, and….

We tried to let go of judgment.

We succeeded in making each other look as good as possible.

Get this: No one made fun of immigrants or disabled people. Or women. Or people of color or LGBTQ folks. Or libs or MAGA hats or rural Americans or coastal elites (hello). Or sissy boys (hi) or butch women.

No one used sexual assault survivors for a punchline.

No one mocked other citizens whose economic disenfranchisement drove them away from the Democrats (funny, funny). No one took on a snide hillbilly accent. No one called anybody stupid or denigrated anybody’s faith.

No one went for big yucks by insinuating that children aren’t safe around gay men, or that beta males deserve to have their heads bashed in with a hammer because, god help us, that’s hysterical.

We didn’t even make fun of Kamala Harris or Tim Walz or JD Vance.

Or Donald Trump.

My blood boils while I type this. Regarding authoritarian leaders, I paraphrase the wise among us and address our former- and upcoming-president:

We don’t need you. We need each other.

And what if someone had punched down in Wednesday night’s improv class?

What if someone–again, god help us–had said, for laughs, “your body, my choice”? What if someone had called a woman the b-word or the c-word? Or denigrated trans kids and their supportive families because that (bad) improviser’s religion requires them to ostracize those who haven’t earned the grace their faith controls?

What if a class member declared that being Black or female (or both) were just the set-up for some obscene joke?

As the instructor, I would have said, “No.”

As a human being, I would have said, “No.”

I trust that the class, in one voice, would have said, “No.”

But here we are.

Some of us are cheering this outcome. I say “us” intentionally. It’s the Us/Them lie that keeps getting us into this mess.

Still, I’m not going to say there are “very fine people on both sides.”

I’ll leave that to our President-elect, the one who cheered on the Neo-Nazis and the Klansmen and the White Nationalists in Charlottesville as they killed a counter-protestor.

Heather Heyer. That’s her name.

Our 45th and 47th president wants us to be afraid of each other. He wants us to make room for hate in our homeland and also in our hearts.

No.

In our improv class (and in the two other improv classes I’ve taught since the election), we won’t tolerate intolerance.

We won’t make room for hate.

In order to create a vital, respectful, courageous environment, we choose to elevate inclusive voices over exclusionary ones.

This has nothing to do with Republican/Democratic affiliation. We’re all capable of hate, and we’re all capable of being genuinely fine people.

Now, what?

A group of us met for breakfast at Cecil’s Deli in Saint Paul this morning (consider this a recommendation) to celebrate our Fall birthdays. Greta, a wonderful theater director/writer/actor/friend, asked the seven of us what we wanted for the upcoming year. A good question, since we cannot go back in time.

I’ll let these captioned graphics do the talking for me.

And…

Oh, I love this (courtesy of Ehime Ora: https://ehimeora.com/about):

Please comment if you’re so inclined.

What do improv and democracy have in common? Jen Scott, Dennis Curley, and I plan to wrestle–joyfully enough–with this question on Wednesday, September 25 at the Hive Collaborative in Saint Paul at 7:00. Look for ticketing information in the caption beneath Dennis’ enticing poster:

Why would we do this? Without giving everything away, Jen, Dennis, and I plan to create a 90-minute functioning democracy in which improvisers (this could be you!) experience the following:

INSPIRATION: In improv and democracy, we listen closely to our companions and our compatriots so we can address the challenges directly in front of us. We discover the inspiration we need as long as we’re curious, generous, optimistic, and respectful.

COLLABORATION: I’ve taken to saying, “Improv isn’t about you and it isn’t about me; it’s about the worlds we discover together.” I say this–to myself and my students–to deflate the self-consciousness that balloons whenever we show our vulnerabilities. Within the guardrails of a functioning democracy (and an improv circle), we let go of our self-consciousness and get to work together.

COMPROMISE: Yep. We also get to compromise, both as small-d democrats and as improvisers. Of course our stories have value; our values ought to matter, too. But in improv and in the voting booth, we get the opportunity to ask, “How can I make my scene partners, my neighbors, my opponents, my country look as good as possible?” (A challenge, this one.)

NON-VIOLENCE: Improv and democracy crumble when we resort to violence, whether we use our words or our fists. When the dust settles, we’re left with shame, with exhaustion. Our goal in both endeavors is to channel positive energy and keep the game alive!

FLUIDITY: We embrace change–or at least we try to embrace change–on stage and in a democracy. And when chaos inevitably arises, we go back to the humane principles of respect, respect, respect: doing this allows us to grow, knowing that any elusive, ultimate goal will dissolve in the next moment. And then we’ll improvise again.

Look!

This got a bit lofty.

Onward.

I keep thinking about Timothy Snyder’s (amazing) book “On Tyranny” and the lessons he gleaned from the 20th Century on how to fight, well, tyranny. His twelfth lesson on resisting authoritarianism could be lifted directly from any good improv curriculum. Snyder writes:

LESSON #12: Make eye contact and small talk. This is not just polite. It is part of being a citizen and a responsible member of society. It is also a way to stay in touch with your surroundings, break down social barriers, and understand whom you should and should not trust.

Snyder’s advice rolls along amiably until the last clause: “understand whom you should and should not trust.” At first glance this warning seems at odds with the “Yes, and…” philosophy of improvisation. Shouldn’t we remain open to everyone in an improv group? In a democracy? Listen to every voice, even the ones that aim to undermine the group?

The answer to the questions above is a resounding NO!

No? You heard me. In improv we don’t say “yes” to declarations that silence, diminish, or demean another person. We don’t submit to bullies, and we don’t say or do whatever we want with impunity. As with democracy, we don’t just shrug our shoulders at lies, at hate speech, at strong-arm fictions about vulnerable citizens (and guests). We don’t trust grifters and conmen and sexual abusers and toxic narcissists.

Or, at least, we shouldn’t.

Instead, we need to acknowledge these distressing voices. We can respond thoughtfully rather than react. And, in doing so, we shine a light on the destructive power of interpersonal violence. And then we try to do better.

(Maybe I’ve been fortunate, but in over 30 years of teaching improv I’ve only had to stop a destructive scene once or twice. And when I did, the student causing the harm was mortified. Then, crucially, WE TALKED ABOUT IT.)

Here’s how Snyder finishes his lesson on eye contact and small talk:

If we enter a culture of denunciation, you will want to know the psychological landscape of your daily life.

Maybe the USA needs a good improv lesson. The “psychological landscape” of our country has taken a turn for the worse over these past few election cycles. Our social discourse, our dearest friendships, our families have all been infected by a “culture of denunciation.” In improv–as in democracy, perhaps–we try to identify the fear-driven choices that keep us at each other’s throats and, carefully and intentionally, offer alternatives that help us live together harmoniously…or at least more attentively.

Well, shoot. I meant to entice folks to attend our workshop. It will be fun, I promise (have you met Jen Scott and Dennis Curley? Fun, personified!).

I’ll be there, too, trying to channel this happy long-haired dachshund as he looks beyond the frame of this iStock photo at the possibilities of a more promising, more democratic future!

Comments, please.

Look! https://www.simpletix.com/e/friends-indeed-tickets-168575#smtx-click (Follow this link for tickets OR, if you can’t attend, for a Pay-It-Forward Donation of your choosing.)

A donation link! Do you feel ambushed? Hoodwinked? Gaslighted and gobsmacked?

I’ll be brief!

Table Salt Productions is producing a fundraiser (Friends, Indeed!) for the Centre for Expressive Psychotherapy in Bangladesh on May 15, 2024 at 7:00 in Saint Paul at the HIVE Collaborative. I’ve worked with this organization for two summers in Chittagong, Bangladesh, learning about Expressive Psychotherapy and teaching improv classes based on improving mental health.

They do great work! Consider the following a testimonial collage:

Our fundraiser will feature music by Jen Scott (Penny and the Bandits) and Dennis Curley! We’ll also enjoy some improv performances with Kelly Kohlbacher from The Theater of Public Policy and Delta Giordano from Mental Health Resources. And–at the risk of being pedantic–we’ll glance at the ways improv can improve mental health by:

Regulating the Autonomic Nervous System

Reframing negative narratives through non-judgment

Helping us enter purposefully into ambiguity

Strenthening Social Engagement skills

and

Asserting productive boundaries

So, come if you can! Donate if you’re so inclined: https://www.simpletix.com/e/friends-indeed-tickets-168575#smtx-click.

Thank you, thank you!

Tickets and donations: https://www.simpletix.com/e/friends-indeed-tickets-168575#smtx-click

One of those “perhaps-I’m-older-than-I-feel” moments arrived last week in the form of Pollyanna Whittier, a much-maligned fictitious little girl who has, since her inception at the hands of author Eleanor H. Porter, become the avatar of toxic positivity. Porter’s 1913 creation touched a nerve, so much so that at least three other authors hijacked young Pollyanna and incorporated her into over a dozen “Glad Books.”

The plots wrote themselves. In each iteration, Pollyanna relentlessly played the “Glad Game” (Find the good! Score spiritual points!) in her attempts to cheer up her spinster aunt and every other sourpuss who got in her way. Her popularity peaked in 1960 when The Walt Disney Studios brought this emotional bully to life with the help of Haley Mills. Just one year later, Mills starred in The Parent Trap, creating the dual roles of identical twins who conspire to bring their divorced parents back together. In both films, the parentified child prevails, unencumbered by boundaries but bogged down with emotional baggage that, in adulthood, will most likely play itself out in horror films or Swedish cinema.

The point is, when I referenced Pollyanna (me: “perhaps I’m being a Pollyanna”) in my Improv and Mental Health course at the University of Minnesota, not a single student knew who–or what–I was talking about.

Some context: My Improv and Mental Health class at the U of M ended last week. I always give a short goodbye speech on the final day, prefaced once again by a momentary jag of emotion during which I gulped and sputtered. (You are at work, Jim!) After I gained composure, I told them, truthfully, that they had–in seven short weeks–created a loving, accepting, celebratory environment that stands in stark contrast to the cruelty erupting all over the planet.

I’ve talked about this before.

My students looked at me like the young people they are and smiled. Perhaps they found this proclamation excruciating. No one spoke, so I forged on, into the void:

“I don’t want to be all Pollyanna about this, but if we can create this kind of space in this classroom, maybe there’s hope for the immense spaces beyond these walls.”

I couldn’t read their reactions, not while they picked up their jackets and backpacks and scrambled out the door. Midterms loomed, multiple part-time jobs demanded attention, some of them may be in the first flush of love or slogging through the rigors of heartbreak (and, appropriately, didn’t share this with me). They’re busy building their lives; they indulged me with a few nods and a smile or two. My generation hasn’t made it easy for these young people, what with our paralysis around gun violence and climate change and authoritarianism and all the forms of rank fundamentalism that turn actual human beings into numbers and precepts and collateral damage and cannon fodder. They never begrudged me for my failings, but I couldn’t help but think about these catastrophes as I watched them leave.

(I’d put good money on the fact that Eleanor H. Porter would never have written a young adult novel entitled Jim R. There’s no pressing need for another soothsaying-sad sack. We already have magnificent Sad Books promoting the Sad Game. Have you read A Little Life by Hanya Yanagihara? Leave the World Behind by Rumaan Alam? Anna Karenina by Tolstoy? Fred Gipson’s Old Yeller?)

What a drag. Of course, the world holds more complexity than Glad or Sad. (Duh.) We discussed this in improv class, how we get to, whether we like it or not, live dialectally, smack dab in the middle of contradictions that can only be fleetingly resolved. This isn’t to say we throw our hands in the air and curse (although I do, often); instead, we focus on what’s right in front of us and, when we can, acknowledge reality, show compassion, say NO to violence, try to set things right when we lose our sh*t. We see ourselves in the actions of others and begin again and again and again…

Dang it.

This dialectic showed itself in our Honors course as we hovered between the ridiculous and the sublime. Immediately after playing “Where Have My Fingers Been”–a game where students create an improvised scene between their right and their left index fingers–we discussed Dialectical Behavior Therapy (DBT) and the ways improvisation mirrored its techniques. In both endeavors, we try to stay grounded while acknowledging chaos; we go for the laughs, knowing that trying to be funny guarantees we’ll flop. We gesticulate wildly while our fingers do battle or fall in love.

As with improv, DBT helps adherents strengthen their Distress Tolerance and Emotional Regulation by entering into Contradictions with Curiosity and Calm (I’m capitalizing on purpose, not like Someone Else who also won’t shut up.) In improv, we don’t know the outcome of each scene. We aren’t fortune tellers. But when we jump in with the intention of making our scene partner look as good as possible we can–fleetingly–be both inspired and compassionate. We do look for the good, just like Pollyanna did with her Glad Game. At the same time, we don’t disavow our fear (“What if I fail?”) and our pettiness (“Why did they get the laugh?”) and our despair (“How does this help anyone?”). We live with it. All of it. We don’t strike out. We try not to panic.

Now that I’m out of the classroom and wandering around the wide world, I find myself wondering–once again–how improv applies to World Peace and Democratic Values. I dragged my actor/director/singer/playwright friend Greta Grosch into this discussion about Pollyanna and politics when the two of us met at SK Coffee in Saint Paul for a session of Silent Writing. We gabbed the whole time. As Greta was about to leave–having written nothing (my fault)–she said, “My father always answers ‘I’m grateful’ when anyone asks how he’s doing.” I’ve met Ken Grosch, Greta’s dad. I admire that man. And while the Glad Game and the Grateful Game share some stringent rules, I do think gratitude might just be a winning strategy.

Is this so? Let me know in the comments!

One more thing. Since the pandemic the Twin Cities has become the turf for posses of wild turkeys (I just learned this term; in captivity, groups of turkeys can be called “gaggles” or even “gobbles.” How did I not know this? My dad sold poultry supplies!). These two turkeys greeted me in front of Northrop Hall while I rushed to class. They refused to cooperate for a photo or even budge when I waddled past. I’m grateful for this. No lie.

How about that?

(An entry from home.)

I don’t cry on the first day of school like I did when I was a kid. Now I grouse and moan and question my decisions, but the tears don’t flow. Thanks to the Honors Program at the University of Minnesota, I’ll be teaching a seminar called “Improvisation and Mental Health” for the next seven weeks. Class started at 8:00am last Wednesday. Perhaps my tearless state speaks to my wobbly-but-improving mental health, a prerequisite to teach this particular class. Or maybe my tear ducts froze. In any case, I dragged my feet.

You know what? Class went well.

Because of Dennis (who dropped me off on campus before daybreak so I’d be free to take the train home), I made it to Northrop Auditorium on time. My students–once again–surprised me with their insight. We laughed; they decoded the cryptic links I’d plastered all over the university’s counterintuitive “teaching platform” (I miss the mimeograph machine, and not only for the smell); I took the light rail back to Saint Paul and didn’t sleep past my stop.

The password for my university email account actually worked.

Thus began my fortieth year of teaching. Funny, too, how I learned this new lesson for the billionth time: simply showing up is a good enough place to start.

In improv we aspire to show up physically, cognitively, and emotionally. To do this, we commit to the moment by saying, “YES!” even when our knees shake and our thoughts spiral. We acknowledge the fear/anxiety/expectations/excitement as entry points for unscripted moments. We dive into the flow whether it’s cold or hot or frozen or tepid. We trust that by saying “YES” to the moment (and each other) we will discover what the moment offers, what it requires, how it will bring us together in ways that celebrate our specific gifts and our universal shortcomings.

“YES” has power. It liberates us. It can dissipate the fog of the the fusty “no” (but, clearly, has little power over the strained metaphor).

Along with this, “Yes” also gives power to the crucial word “NO” by making “no” distinct and intentional.

To every thing, turn! turn! turn! This includes “YES” and “NO”. Once again:

–“Yes” does NOT mean agreement. It means we acknowledge the moment as it is. We don’t agree to hurtful or insensitive scenes.

–We never agree to anything that diminishes or demeans another person. In fact, we say an emphatic “NO” to cruelty.

–And, equally emphatically, if something goes against our gut, we say “N0.”

Is listening to our gut different from attending to our nervous system? (Of course, our gut is regulated by our nervous system.) Both inform us; we ignore them at our peril. But what’s the difference between feeling distressed and feeling disgusted? Am I splitting hairs?

I’ll give these questions a tussle. Our nervous system registers distress, telling us to fight or flee (or freeze or flop or friend) when confronted by uncomfortable or threatening situations. The response protects us, but sometimes–often, for many of us–these anxious responses become neurological habits based on past trauma, old scripts, generalized fears, cramped expectations, and self-consciousness. While the nervous response is in the moment, the threat comes from the past. Saying “Yes” and (oh, god) embracing this discomfort might make us braver. And happier. At the least, saying “yes” instead of relinquishing our power to the word “no” can lead us through anxiety and into a new, more satisfying experience.

But the gut response? That’s different. When our gut speaks up we feel nauseated. We expel our breath in sharp gusts, hoping to blow back the infectious poison. Our lips curl. Our nostrils flare and we turn from the decay, the stench. Our necks snap back in disgust. We are offended. We want to spit. The source of our disgust may be threatening, but more than that it feels wrong.

In improv, as in life, when we mistrust our gut, we do ourselves harm.

Witness last week:

My nervous system told me distressing stories on the way into class on Wednesday: “You’ve forgotten how to teach!”; “A class on mental health? Shouldn’t the university have hired someone else?”; “Maybe you should button your collar; you look like a cross between an aging polar bear and David Hasselhoff.” Had I given these thoughts credence I’d have spent the morning hiding under the covers in a turtleneck and sports coat, wondering what threats the afternoon had in store.

Instead, I recognized these stories as habitual, breathed in the invigorating, freezing air, shook out my tense body, and improvised with my students. Joy! I may have been the only passenger smiling on the train home. I can’t say for sure; the sun was in my eyes and people tend to avoid large men in bulky coats who take up more space than the seat affords.

When I got home and plopped on the couch, my gut kicked in.

I turned on the news. I listened to our twice-impeached ex-president disparage and defame a woman he’d been found liable of sexually assaulting (had the statute of limitations not expired, he would have been charged with rape). The TV blared about MAGA followers who, at their leader’s instruction, threatened judges and jurors with violence. All the while the indicted one laughs. He sneers. He eggs on his supporters, encouraging them to maim and dismember, to violate his former constituents, destroying their safety and security with lies and innuendo. He brags of his ill-gotten wealth while soaking his flock for all they’re worth. He suggests his vice-president should be hanged by the blood-thirsty crowd he unleashed.

Now, imagine our ex-president acting out the following real-life scenes in an evening of improvised comedy.

(The curtain rises.)

He mocks John McCain for the injuries he suffered as a prisoner-of-war.

He mimics a reporter with palsy for comic effect.

He suggests shooting migrants in the legs at the southern border. He repeats this line for laughs.

(All of this really happened.)

(Curtain falls.)

I imagine you’d turn your head in disgust. I imagine your gut would heave; your eyes would tear up; your entire body would recoil. I imagine you’d say NO.

You might even boo him off the stage. Banish him from the club. Offer him improv lessons to see if his humanity can be salvaged.

Sympathizers say it’s all in jest. That he’s simply saying what everyone is thinking. That he’s just an improviser.

Just an improviser?

No.

Hell no.

From the depths of my expanding gut: NO.

(In improvisation, when we feel stuck or stymied, we DO SOMETHING. Maybe we could vote: https://www.eac.gov/voters/register-and-vote-in-your-state.)

Comments?

Poster in Frere Hall, an exhibition space that once housed the British colonial government in Karachi. Apparently, the first attempt to codify badminton rules also occurred in this building. Priorities were set.

I wish I knew more about the plenary session advertised on the disintegrating poster above. The speaker doesn’t promise a better world or a doomed one, just a different one. Seems like truth in advertising to me.

The CDAF grant winds down; Casim and I leave Karachi tomorrow morning after our final “Laughing Matters” show tonight. As with Islamabad and Lahore, Karachi has kept us busy. We sat for interviews on four TV morning programs and, in the process, had our Tarot cards read and our horoscopes revealed on air (my downfall will be my greed; please send money). We also visited schools to conduct workshops and spent an evening doing improv at a beautiful dance studio with one of Pakistan’s premier classical dancers. On top of this, the Pakistan American Cultural Center has hosted two workshops (and our show tonight) while keeping my blood sugar robust with endless cups of tea.

I also got sick; probably a case of hubris (“I’ll eat what I want!”).

Here’s some picture-postcard-charm from Karachi, a city I didn’t expect to like. Sneaky place. I’d come back in an instant:

Quaid-e-Azam House, Jinnah’s residence until his death in 1948. The architect, Moses Somake, was a Jewish-British-Indian man who designed many prominent buildings for the Raj. Some people here have lamented the demise of Karachi’s cosmopolitan character; fundamentalism can be a powerful astringent.

The Arabian Sea at Clifton Beach.

Poor Casim. Whenever he asks what I want to do, I say, “Could we stop by the beach?” I didn’t burden this unfortunate beast.

The Pakistan American Cultural Center. If I lived here I’d spend hours on this lawn, watching the crows circling overhead and hoping for a sea breeze. A charming place.

I have a weakness for schools and for evening classes. I may be alone in this. At the Pakistan American Cultural Center.

Distressed door at PACC.

The Pakistan American Cultural Center has unfurled lots of these descriptive banners (I am compassionate; I am smart). Fortunately, there are many to choose from.

I enhanced the color on this photo, but not by much.

Upstairs at Frere Hall. The trees don’t grow as tall here as they do in Lahore; they’re scrubbier, too. Can’t stop thinking of California and the Inland Empire.

Many, many beautiful mosques in Karachi. This doesn’t feel like the time to visit one as a tourist, so I went to the Christian cemetery instead. How did Nascimento Albuquerque find his resting place in Karachi, Pakistan, especially after Partition? Wish I knew.

More flowers, this time at the Dolmen Mall Clifton. Had paneer rolls and mint lemonade in an air-conditioned vegetarian restaurant. Both were laced with a hint of guilt and shame.

From the Frere Hall gallery: “God is in everything…”

…even at the KFC and McDonald’s. Both employ teenage women–an opportunity that doesn’t seem to come easily here–so I should wipe that sneer off my face.

Casim and the Blowfish. Summer tour pending.

A lot of the beachfront property in Karachi has disintegrated due to the harsh, sandy winds and the humid, salty air. Clearly this house had additional help in its demise; its neighbors, however, crumble slowly from this wearing abrasion.

Silhouette on a hot, windy afternoon just west of Karachi.

As I mentioned, Casim and I have been guests on FOUR different morning programs in Karachi, promoting our workshops and shows. The hosts’ ability to keep up the banter impressed me as they generated rapid-fire questions that sorely tested my improv abilities. Over the course of these four mornings I was asked if mental illness wasn’t entirely men’s fault; what I thought of Matthew Perry’s untimely death (very sad); if space was essential to a happy relationship (see you soon, Dennis!); and this question, presented here in dialogue form:

INTERVIEWER: When did humanity go wrong?

ME: Um.

(I actually tried to reframe the question to be about improv and its beneficial, collaborative effects. Casim took over in Urdu, thank goodness, although I’m not sure any language has the vocabulary to pinpoint a sufficient answer.)

Our brushes with fame, captured digitally:

In Aaj News’ shiny blue newsroom.

Cheerful makeup artist, working his considerable magic.

At Bol News, being jaunty enough.

With Casim and Amna Malik, host of Dawn News’ Chai, Toast aur Host. I blushed.

When we weren’t basking in our televised fame, we spent most days and evenings doing workshops (28 in 21 days). I came away from every one feeling hopeful. In fact, and at the risk of getting simpy, the sentiment on the plenary session poster from Frere Hall–Another World is Possible–rang true.

We experienced these other possible worlds multiple times. In Karachi alone we worked with members of oppressed sexual minorities, trauma survivors, neurodiverse clients, adolescents, kids, senior citizens, lawyers, Urdu speakers and Panjabi speakers and Sindhi speakers, sweaty older White men whose digestion refused to cooperate (hi!), librarians, social activists, corporate trainers, feminists wearing hijab and feminists who didn’t, psychologists and occultists and atheists and fervent believers. Guys who play guitar and those who admire them…

In every single case we laughed and exhaled and supported one another. Our differences didn’t evaporate; instead, we all hung out happily together, a perfectly acceptable and accepting mix, at least for those moments.

I read the international news this morning and could feel the divisions reasserting themselves, the dividers fanning the flames, heckling their opponents (their opponents?) as if anyone could win at this violent, stupid, wasteful game.

Good grief.

With artists, actors, and dancers at Sheema Kermani’s studio, underneath her movie and performance posters. Ms. Kermani’s in the red-and-white sari, just to the left of Casim. A vital, committed, persuasive activist, she wears a sari as a form of resistance. Follow this link to learn more: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ca2NrK3CJ3U.

With Student Affairs staff at Habib University. The vertical garden behind us gets its water from condensation in the school’s air conditioning system (which, in turn, is solar powered). Fantastic place.

At the Institute of Business Administration in Karachi. A boisterous bunch.

The cast of our “Laughing Matters” show at the Pakistan American Cultural Center. A brave, funny group, all recruited at the absolute last minute.

(I’m back in Islamabad, leaving tonight for home).

Almost done. Pat Strandness–an improviser herself–recommended this poem by Jack Gilbert; my lifelong friend (and source of inspiration) Addie Sinclair referenced it in the comments for the previous posting. Perhaps this convergence is a sign that we ought to take Gilbert’s poem to heart:

Now, I’m not sure about God and the Devil, but I appreciate Gilbert’s acknowledging the need to defend delight in the face of seemingly intractable horrors. His line, “We can do without pleasure, but not delight” captures something I’ve been trying to fathom since I got here. The dubious pleasures conferred to a White man in a (not entirely) post-colonial world don’t sit easily for all concerned. I’ve been lauded and pampered beyond all measure with genuine hospitality (and, occasionally, some sly resentment); recruited for my Western voice by more-qualified Pakistanis; allowed to escape the grim poverty and retreat into an air-conditioned cocoon whenever the delicious paneer rolls–

(Hold on! This is in real time. No kidding. Autocorrect just changed the last sentence to read, “Allowed to escape into an air-conditioned raccoon.” That is delightful. My super-clever paneer line just got eaten by an air-conditioned raccoon. Surprise, absurdity, popping the pedantic balloon: something that makes us gasp and be out of time for a moment.)

The universe has spoken. I have said enough. Thank you, autocorrect.

I just saved you from a lecture. You’re welcome.

(Just one more thing, though): Gilbert’s last lines serve as a coda to another poem I love, Ithaka by C.P. Cavafy. Both poems speak to exploring and the beauty (and horror) it can reveal; both use harbors as metaphors for finding a place in this world; and both encourage us to cultivate an alert, observant mind.

The hope expressed in Cavafy’s poem kills me:

May there be many a summer morning when,

with what pleasure, what joy,

you come into harbors seen for the first time

(from Ithaka by C.P. Cavafy)

Gilbert seems to speak to an older audience, one that–maybe–feels the inevitable chill.:

We stand at the prow again of a small ship

anchored late at night in the tiny port

looking over to the sleeping island: the waterfront

is three shuttered cafés and one naked light burning.

To hear the faint sound of oars in the silence as a rowboat

comes slowly out and then goes back is truly worth

all the years of sorrow that are to come

(from A Brief for the Defense by Jack Gilbert)

Ah. I want to thank Casim Ovais for taking such good care of me and for enriching all the work–and we did a lot of work–we did together. I’d also like to thank him for stopping every five minutes so I could fuss with my phone and take portraits like the one below.

Casim, hoping the gate will close on further photos.

At the gate, now, about to fly home by way of Doha and Chicago. Thanks for reading…

Waiting for a chance to return. Thank you, Pakistan.

The tarot reading on TV revealed my greed. I want more comments.

We drove past this sign on the way to a workshop at Beaconhouse University in Lahore last Thursday. It gave me pause.

Master Biryani suffers from no lack of confidence. Lahore, Pakistan

Unlike Master Biryani, I worry about overpromising and underdelivering.

You see, I do believe in the potential healing powers of improvisation, particularly when the focus stays firmly on acceptance, non-judgment, and collaboration. Casim and I have been testing out this premise for the past two weeks, first in Islamabad and now in Lahore. By tomorrow evening (Inshallah/God willing), we will have conducted 18 improv workshops, presentations, and shows in just two weeks.

We’ve been busy.

And, I think, effective. At each of these events, we’ve lead the participants through exercises that encourage them to be in the present moment physically, mentally, and emotionally. I’d call this the crux of my CDAF (Citizen Diplomacy Action Fund) project. Witness my pedagogical stance below:

Teachers teach. At the United States Educational Foundation in Pakistan’s Lahore office.

And, I’ve left each of these workshops feeling energized and hopeful; the students–almost without exception–have participated with great gusto and commitment. I’ve learned a lot about short-form improv from Casim, and our debriefing sessions with the students, so crucial when connecting the lessons learned through improv exercises to a healthy mindset, become more succinct, more applicable with each session.

Casim, a talented and generous improviser, keeps me afloat. Together we explain how making your scene partner/friend/colleague look good alleviates self-consciousness and the anxiety that goes with it. Casim makes me look good.

Our connection, too, with Fizza Suhail, a trauma-informed therapist and a professor at LUMS (Lahore University of Management Sciences), has deepened our work considerably. Her discussions on attachment and attunement–our earliest relational connections and our subsequent ability to react in synchrony with others–have helped us explore how a playful, gentle, celebratory approach to human interaction can soften the petrifying effects of early trauma.

Casim Ovais; Fizza Suhail; me. A serendipitous convergence. (And they’re both really funny.)

We’ve gotten an exuberant response; I think we’re doing good work.

But I don’t want to be Master Biryani (remember him?) by promising the moon and stars. Our work is modest, as it should be. It’s also incremental, based on practice and repetition. Which is why I can’t stop thinking about the gentleman who sought me out after an evening workshop last week, wondering how he could possible use the “Yes, and…” approach when his country was, in his words, “falling apart.” “How will this training make a difference,” he asked, keeping his hand gripped to my forearm as he implored me for guidance.

Pakistani truck art with self-explanatory message.

His question caught me up short. Comparisons are odious, as my grandmother used to say, but I’ve wondered the same thing about my homeland, a place I love as much as the Pakistani gentleman at the workshop does his. What can improv do in the face of monumental challenges?

The scope of these challenges is daunting: Another mass shooting. A treasonous Speaker, second-in-line to the presidency. Wars which ignite and persist. Legislators mocking the less fortunate, mimicking their leader who threatens our citizens with violence, covering his ass by calling it all a joke.

None of it’s funny, of course.

So the question arises, again and again: How can we pursue mental health without crawling into a cave and praying–to whom?–for this massive madness to pass, for the constant barrage of horrible news to whittle down? What actual steps can we take? I didn’t want to offer improv as a panacea to the heartbroken Pakistani man. In that moment, I was stymied.

Have you heard of “screen apnea”? It seems we stop breathing when we first look at our screens. The smaller the screen, the longer we hold our breath. And then our nervous system engages in the fight-or-flight response and we find ourselves anxious and overwhelmed, all because of Facebook and group texts.

I finally responded, after I took a long breath, saying something like this: When we dread the future we often feel powerless. Our anxiety skyrockets. We can’t see each other for all the anger and despair. Improv offers a reprieve from this alienation by grounding us in the present moment. It can help us connect with others without regard to our affiliations, nationalities, sexualities, spiritualities. We can change this moment, and maybe the next, and then possibly the one after that. That’s something, right?

The Pakistani gentleman nodded. Maybe he didn’t believe me. Maybe he wanted a more encompassing answer. I can’t blame him, but I’ve seen the joy and lightness strangers can experience when they laugh together in the moment, and I told him that I hope improvisation can be a moment-by-moment antidote to all the poison in our shared atmosphere.

Maybe these pictures will help. In all of our workshops we stepped outside of the insanity and discovered something joyous. Witness:

At Olomopolo Media in Muslim Town, Lahore. Casim observed that practicing improv “inoculates” us from real stressors. An apt metaphor.

Beaconhouse University students, poised after a rigorous game of Zip-Zap-Zop.

A school picture? No! It’s the participants at the United States Educational Foundation in Pakistan’s office in Lahore. Thanks again to Casim and Fizza Suhail for bringing the PowerPoint to life and then some (we laughed; they laughed; we kept the staff at the USEFP office well past closing time)(thanks and sorry!).

With Casim and the NUR International University psychology students at Fatima Memorial Hospital in Lahore after a FIVE HOUR workshop! Real stamina.

My feet on display after our show “Laughing Matters” at Olomopolo Media. A glorious evening where the performers and the audience members changed roles with ease. This is for Jen Scott: It was the definition of an Infinite Game, if an infinite game can allow itself to be defined.

Thanks to Olomopolo Media for hosting two workshops and our show. Cheers, too, to Fizza Suhail who improvised on stage for the first time and made it look effortless.

Casim and I fly to Karachi this afternoon. I’ve loved being in Lahore. None of these photos does the majesty of this place justice, but I’ll give it a go:

Outside the Badshahi Mosque in Lahore.

Domes and minarets above the canopy of trees.

Puri in flight before sizzling in oil. Outside the famous Capri Restaurant, Lahore.

Lahore at night on the grounds of the Gymkhana. The word “gymkhana” derives from an early term for tennis. Or polo. Alligator shirts and stuff.

The garden outside Olomopolo Media. Could sit here all evening.

Compelling sculpture outside the Quaid-e-Azam library.

Watchful cat in the Bagh-e-Jinnah (Garden of Jinnah) (Jinnah was Pakistan’s first governor-general).

Quiet morning in Lawrence Gardens.

The hosts at NUR International University sponsored me at the Lahore Gymkhana, a kind of country club that has turned its back on the modern world. Strange, quiet, serene, colonial, hidebound, exclusive/exclusionary. Residents must adhere to a four-page dress code. I left my crocs at home:

“Where luxury comes as a guest to take a slave.” Thank you, Joni Mitchell.

The Lahore Gymkhana at night. Thanks to the hosts at NUR International University for letting me stay here. The breakfasts alone recommend the place; by the time the tenor sax renditions of 500 Miles, Jambalaya, and Don’t Cry for Me, Argentina had looped I’d find myself well into my third serving of halva. Sugar, oil, flour, butter: addictive.

Imposing guard with kind eyes at the Lahore Gymkhana.

A few more photos from Lahore:

Wrestling with a peacock in Lawrence Gardens. The real ones–which show up when least expected–could take me in an instant.

My mug is everywhere. Here I’m hovering above the welcoming committee at NUR International University. They gave me beautiful flowers, too.

Casim points at my face with a collection of colleagues at Fatima Memorial Hospital.

(Days have passed; now I’m in Karachi. As I type this I’m sitting on my bed in the Karachi Gymkhana, waiting to start again. Here’s a preview):

Does this need a caption?

In the meantime, I’m going to take a page from Master Biryani’s book and offer some unsolicited and universally applicable advice. Please use it wisely:

I like comments. Lots of them. Just saying.

How about this: I’m back in Pakistan on a Citizen Diplomacy Action Fund (CDAF) grant entitled “Supporting Community and Mental Health through Improvisation.” Five days in and I’m only now starting to get my bearings. In fact, when I’ve tried to come up with a cohesive blog entry I’ve punted and, instead, watched all sorts of Instagram reels featuring clumsy panda bears and (why?) anacondas that have somehow slithered into people’s HVAC systems.

I’m here promoting mental health.

Thank you, CDAF.

…and improv, it seems, where we let go of our expectations in order to find inspiration in the present moment (a place where anxiety–which is future-oriented–can’t flourish). My best laid plans have been leading me in circles, so I’m going to take inspiration from my non-linear thoughts and let the (mostly) random order of these photos tell this story.

Onward. Sort of.

Taken from the in-flight screen on Qatar Airlines from Doha to Islamabad. My plane is huge.

The US State Department funds this grant (thank you!) but unlike the previous Fulbright experiences, it doesn’t determine housing or transportation. If you weren’t one of the dozens of travel agents and worldly friends I consulted to arrange this trip, consider yourself lucky.

Once onboard the plane(s) I watched wellness videos provided by Qatar Airways to ease my concerns (are my compression socks working? Should I be able to feel my toes?). After 37 hours of travel I arrived in Islamabad at 3:00am. My talented and funny co-facilitator Casim Ovais picked me up and drove me into town.

Casim Ovais with me on the terrace of the Fulbright House in Islamabad. An engaging storyteller, he.

Jet lag and personality got the better of me at first. I continued to fret about the things in my line of sight (I need eyedrops but can’t keep my eyes open wide enough to use them; the time difference involves simple and impossible math) and about things far beyond it (the world is on fire; the world is really on fire).

Don’t Worry, Be Happy by Emily Starck (2022). How did she capture the human nervous system so perfectly? And ironically?

The day-to-day, moment-by-moment focused my buzzing mind. Some evidence:

Looking out over the Fulbright House gate at the Margalla Hills above Islamabad.

Life goes on at the Fulbright House. (I may never use this.) (I will never use this.)

Ejaz and Sheeru (“little lion” in Urdu). Ejaz takes good care of us; Sheeru has other agendas.

Adeel, engrossed in the Pakistan/India cricket match. We were instructed not to talk during the game. Even now I’m concerned that I’m not using the correct terminology.

We wave at each other every time I leave.

Comforting straight lines between the boulevards in Islamabad. Excellent for channeling the frantic chatter of an anxious mind.

On Day Two I rode with Casim to the twin city of Rawalpindi. A world away from Islamabad, if only a half hour by car.

Saqafati Sure (Cultural Note) by Ahmed Habib (2020). Eerie similarity to Starck’s painting above. An old guide book I found compares Islamabad to Rawalpindi as “chalk and cheese”; “chaos and control” might also fit. Pindi, as the locals say, is vibrantly alive.

My CDAF project began:

I spoke about my CDAF project at the unveiling of the Pakistan Institute of Mental Health in Rawalpindi. An honor. The Urdu script behind me reads, “Untie the knots in your heart.” Poetry and psychology can coexist. See below.

Poster on the wall of the new PIMH clinic. I agree, for what it’s worth.

With the esteemed staff of the PIMH. One of the speakers elaborated on the logo: The endless circles in our mind confuse us; the strands of wheat, when ingested indiscriminately, make us sluggish. The goal, then, is to free the mind and disencumber the body.

Neon in a Rawalpindi coffee shop near the Pakistan Institute of Mental Health. A different approach to the troubled mind.

Visited four schools in five days to facilitate workshops; attended three rehearsals; gave two speeches, AND took part in this talk at The Black Hole, an educational and performance space in Islamabad named by an arts-conscious physicist. Casim-with-a-Q and Fizza shone!

Casim came up with the name “Laughing Matters” for our talks and shows about improv and mental health. Genius!

Along with Casim as co-facilitator, I’ve been leading workshops on the psychological benefits of improvisation. We do exercises that encourage participants to leap into the present moment even as they feel anxious or self-conscious. To do this, I spend a lot of time emphasizing that, in improv, our goal is to make our scene partner look as good as possible. We acknowledge the gift of their presence over and over and over again.

We also have fun, and, in one case, we had cake. I turned 64 on my fourth day here; the teachers and staff at City Grammar School in Rawalpindi got me a delicious red velvet cake. I’m becoming a crier in my old age (with or without eye drops). They sang; I got misty.

Celebratory photo at the end of our three-hour workshop. Cake, Casim, the school principal (next to me), and some enthusiastic teachers whose finely-honed improv skills opened my eyes, again.

Murals everywhere.

Rules, too.

At Bahria University. Modesty encouraged and enforced. Creativity unbridled, despite or because. I don’t know.

Casim is producing a documentary on Applied Improvisation–taking the skills used in improv and applying them to life outside the theater–while Abrar (center) has been our trustworthy and gifted cinematographer. He stepped in front of the camera, reluctantly, after our workshop at the National University of Sciences and Technology (NUST) in Islamabad. My goal is to make him laugh. I have my work cut out for me.

We’re also doing improv shows in three cities as part of the CDAF grant. Our first show opens tonight at Theatre Wallay in Islamabad. At rehearsal, the director and cast gave me a second birthday cake (chocolate with coffee icing). Oh, man.

Happy birthday to Eddie, too. I’m a twin in a family of twins; it felt good–and familiar–to be surrounded by the Theatre Wallay cast while I’m a world away from home. (Hi, Dennis.)

Moon over Theatre Wallay’s outdoor stage in Bani Gala, Islamabad. The logs are part of the set for a Flemish/Belgian play they’re producing, in Urdu, next month.

Casim oversees interviews with cast members for the Applied Improv documentary.

I chose two poems to end this meandering entry. My own words can’t encapsulate the strangeness of doing light-hearted improv workshops while the forces of authoritarianism and fundamentalism unleash such violent cruelty on the world. The poets Adrienne Rich and Mary Oliver will have to contain this fission.

Fission and Fusion by James de Villiers (2023).

Today, it feels right to put Adrienne Rich’s poem first:

Tomorrow, Mary Oliver’s poem may feel to me like “silly” words in my “personal weather.” For now, I like the fact that these poems comment on each other, one ending and the other beginning with that demanding pronoun “I.”

How to resolve this? In improv–for what it’s worth–we try to step into the unknown, the discomfort, the fear (and the joy). And then, moment-by-moment, we live with resolve, if not resolution.

One last thing: Improv’s not about me. It’s not about you. It’s about what we discover together. This takes practice.

Send me some comments, please.

Sunset over Rawal Lake in Bani Gala, Islamabad.

Existentialist on Chatteswari Road at 5:30am.

Alas. I took all of the precautions listed on the tee-shirt above and still spent the Eid holiday alone in a Dhaka hotel room, sick as a dog.

The revealing part? It wasn’t that bad.

Hotel instructional card by the telephone. The punctuation and the aphorism made more sense when I was delirious with food poisoning.

I spent three days in a dark, air conditioned room eating yogurt, honey, and hardboiled eggs (sequentially, for the most part). The staff circled around me like a hawk or my mom, chastising me when I ordered too many dairy products or when I stepped outside (which I did, three times) without an umbrella. I rallied enough to get back on the bus for Chittagong; on the way home we stopped at the same roadside restaurant where I’m sure I’d had the offending meal. The waiter remembered me, reciting my exact order as I hovered by the entrance. I commended him on his memory and ordered a milk tea and nothing else.

A painting in the AUW canteen, warning of fast food and its dangers. Apart from a canister of (stale) Pringles and some processed cheese slices, I’ve been very good.

I do like the public safety warnings here in Bangladesh; the watchful hotel staff come by it honestly. Maybe it’s the language translation, but I’ve received more good-natured scoldings in the past two months than I’ve had at home over the Christmas holidays. For instance, “Avoid the Attitude of Competition” has been painted for the drivers to see on every pedestrian overpass between here and Dhaka. Not sure if that would have saved me and my “loose motion,” but I think it’s a worthwhile instruction. As with many public health campaigns, this one falls on deaf ears. People don’t drive here. They hurtle.

This isn’t Bangladesh, obviously. Still, this community could use some words of wisdom on its bridges and underpasses.

The bus, like the hotel, provided another cool respite from the chaos of the cities and my uncooperative body. I loved sitting in my reclining seat on the upper deck, watching the (beautiful, green, shimmering) scenery go past. I always emphasize in my improv workshops that THIS moment is the moment of inspiration because it’s the ONLY moment we can work with. I really did try to keep this in mind; doing so lessened the disappointment of forfeiting all my Eid plans.

This all-embracing philosophy was put to the test by my three-year-old traveling companion, just two seats away. He had a device of some sort–one that played videos–and he delighted in the Old MacDonald song for a good portion of the five-hour trip.

Maintenance rehearsal–where we just repeat words over and over again–is less effective than elaborative rehearsal. With elaborative rehearsal, we take new information and make a meaningful attachment to pre-existing information. For instance, why did Old MacDonald name his dog Bingo, or does the possessive pronoun “his” refer to Old MacDonald himself? Why would MacDonald’s parents name him “Bingo MacDonald”? Did he have a cat, too?

(And for all my smarty-pantsness, my lifelong friend Anne pointed out that Old MacDonald’s creed was “ee-i-ee-i-o,” not “B-I-N-G-O.” I blame no one but myself.)

Cox’s Bazar at night, looking back from the shore toward the shops and hotels and open-air fish markets.

A week’s worth of rice, curd, and turmeric dal settled my stomach and so I accompanied M.K. Jatra to Cox’s Bazar International University to conduct an improv workshop for his Expressive Psychotherapy students. No one complained when I asked them to run around in the swampy conference room; in fact, the students’ enthusiasm more than made up for the listless ceiling fans and the damp, disintegrating carpet. By the time Jatra and I rolled up our pants and walked out into the tidal pools (see above) I was hot, sweaty, dazed, and very, very grateful for these remarkable students. Their sincerity and commitment broke my heart in the best possible way.

The Bay of Bengal from Marine Drive, south of Cox’s Bazar, heading for the Myanmar border. The concrete structures (that look kind of like seals) line the entire coastline in an attempt to prevent the over-heated salt water from crossing the road and leaching the rice paddies. Climate change is here.

The following morning we hired a car and drove along the ocean road to the Teknaf Zero Point and the Naf River jetty where goods (and people) from Myanmar’s Rakhine State cross the international border. In 2012 I taught for a semester in Myanmar. The first democratic elections in years were held while I was living in Yangon, giving rise to cautious optimism for a healthier, less oppressive society. All that hope has been dashed by the recent military coup. Seeing Myanmar, even from a distance, brought back memories of my friends and students whose lives have been truncated once again by an authoritarian government.

Gazing toward Bangladesh from the jetty on the Naf River.

Myanmar on the far side of the trees. Close to a million Rohingya people from Rahkine State live in Bangladesh’s refugee camps, forced out by the Burmese government for being Muslim. They can’t return to Myanmar and they can’t really assimilate in Bangladesh, although AUW has a significant number of Rohingya students.

So much bloodshed. At the same time, it’s impossible to overstate the beauty of this part of the world. We left Cox’s Bazar early in the morning when the light had a first-day-of-school brilliance. I’ll lapse into cliché, but the light really is golden. Over the ocean sat enormous, billowing thunderheads with sheets of rain falling beneath. The green and silver rice fields, bisected by red dirt lanes that lead to ancient copses (hi, Shanan), seemed to vibrate with life. Goats and cows lolled about in defiance of the (sparse) traffic, causing our driver to swerve but not swear. (An awful, awful moment: he hit one of the goats with a sickening thud. All morning that sound reverberated in my ears. Can’t stop imagining the terror that poor creature must have felt at the last moment. We careened on, guilty of many things).

Heading north to Cox’s Bazar. In the lower right corner of this photo is an iconic Bangladeshi sampan, still used for fishing. These crescent-shaped “Moon Boats” maneuver the shallow coastline on their nightly expeditions.

From another world (and courtesy of National Geographic).

Now I’m back in Chittagong, staring at my luggage and wondering how I’ll compress two months into an overhead compartment. I’m ready to come home and yet my heart clutches when I think of this school and my students and everything that will go on without me. Rather than indulge my maudlin tendencies, I’ll post some pictures of places and people:

If you say so.

Help! (Roadside mural on Cemetery Road, Chittagong.)

Friends.

Survived the wrecking ball, for now. Chittagong.

Early morning Chatteswari Road. Chittagong.

Each unit comes with a thesaurus. (The other day in class we discussed Carl Rogers’ “self concept.” I asked the students to complete this sentence: “I am__________.” One woman said, with complete confidence, “I am cute.” Another said, “I am taciturn.” I love it here.)

Leading this workshop today at the American Corner. Results below.

A great group at the American Corner! Improvisers, all.

Selfie with students at the opening night of AUW’s musical adaptation of Little Women. Jabin–next to me–played Meg March with good humor and genuine feeling. She and her cast mates earned thunderous applause and standing ovations. A perfect production for an audience of brave, resilient women.

People I encountered on my early morning walks:

I showed him the results of my photography. This captures his response.

Outside the hospital on the other side of Cemetery Road.

Encouraging gentleman at bus station ticket counter. I made exact change.

Our driver from Cox’s Bazar. He let me take his picture, but would not face the camera.

Lone soldier with Myanmar across the river.

Jolly man.

Vendor at the Zero Point.

Pensive man.

Invaluable maintenance man (with goats) at Thames Tower. And by “invaluable” I mean VERY valuable.

So goodbye, Bangladesh. Geopolitics and religious strife tear at both our countries, convincing us that we need to be suspicious of one another. I feel it, and in my more exhausted moments I had a hard time finding compassion and commonality. More often than not, though, this place taught me (once again) the value of having an open heart, or at least the aspiration to have one.

The Facebook algorithm knows me better than I know myself, which is how this Pledge of Allegiance found its way into my feed. Thanks for listening to me–

Yep.

The women of the AUW Boxing Club will not be erased. I don’t have permission to post their actual photos, but I did witness their ferocity, their determination, their joy.

Last week I attended the inaugural meeting of the Asian University for Women’s Boxing Club. I took some photos of the veteran boxers, the two coaches (one of them male), and the novice members, many in bright red hijab, but I couldn’t capture the exhilaration that carried the event. I also didn’t have permission to post these photos, so this will have to do:

Faculty sponsor with bespoke and outspoken tee-shirt.

Most of the women in this brand new club are Afghan. Some were celebrated boxers in Kabul before the most recent takeover by the Taliban. One speaker, the president of the club, alluded to the obliteration of women’s boxing–good lord, of women’s civic participation–in Afghanistan after the US forces left. She chose her words carefully, apparently aware that even from the safety of the AUW auditorium she shone as a fiery rebuke to the Talibs. Over the exuberant cheers of her classmates and the pounding bass of the looped club music, she whipped up the crowd with exhortations to take control of their own lives, to stand up to the threats of men. At the end of her speech–and before the thrilling demonstrations–she stared at the audience and said: “Suffering makes your life beautiful.”

A club with grit and heart and POWER.

Quite a declaration. From the comfort of my front row seat and my privileged male gender, I could think of a thousand ways suffering makes life ugly; even in a beautiful country like Bangladesh, all you have to do is step outside to be confronted with the debasing reality of poverty and hunger and sexism. But I don’t think the Boxing Club president was pawning off some “When-life-gives-you-lemons” pabulum on the student body. She and her “lady boxers” (her words) kicked and punched and pivoted with such laser-sharp intensity that whatever the driving force that motivated them might be–anger, excitement, despair, self-defense, vengeance–these women used it to transform their suffering into something extraordinary. Beautiful, even.

I walked home, grateful as could be to have been in the presence of such perseverance. Even the (insert expletive) humidity couldn’t dampen my spirits.

Two clubs sponsored Pride at AUW: The Queer-Straight Alliance and the Art Club. Evidence of their vibrant collaboration above.

That very same week, AUW held a second Pride event. As the resident psychology instructor, I’d been asked to facilitate a conversation in which students wrote their “confessions” on an index card. Once these cards were collected, I was to pluck them from a fishbowl and read them aloud. I said I thought this was a bad, potentially unethical idea. Where were the resources in case a student revealed something desperate? Confession implies sin; do we want to conflate LGBTQ concerns with sin? (No.) I’d been double-booked and would have to run to another workshop at the other campus before the hour ended; what if I left a student in the lurch?

My concerns were duly noted and then dismissed.

Awaiting the LGBTQ deluge.

Fortunately, the faculty turnout nearly matched the students’ attendance and so my leaving early wasn’t a problem. The balloons, a nice touch, outnumbered the human participants; they exploded at random from the heat, insuring that no one dozed off. My ethical concerns also deflated after I figured out a way to screen the “confessions” before reading them aloud. The context differed from LGBTQ life in the West, but the worries expressed on the index cards sounded familiar: Most students feared rejection by their families and their friends. In Bangladesh, religion, culture, and politics all conspire to make gay people ashamed of themselves on a deep, fundamental level–not so different from the American Right’s cynical strategy to revile gay folks with insinuations about “grooming” and “psychic crises” in children who happen to find out that some of their classmates have two moms or two dads.

(A cruel, narrow-minded strategy, if I do say so myself. Suicide rates for LGBTQ teenagers in the US have increased over the last three years, due in part to the relentless hectoring by religious fundamentalists and their political bootlickers. Some stats from The Trevor Project and NPR: https://www.npr.org/2022/05/05/1096920693/lgbtq-youth-thoughts-of-suicide-trevor-project-survey.)

Think about it.

A perennial question arose: In light of these students’ bravery–the fact that they showed up in a room to discuss identities and behaviors that are illegal–how should this faculty facilitator address his own identity? More questions followed: Does my coming out model courage or does it crowd out the students’ experiences? Does it make the discussion all about the teacher and his need to self-disclose? What are the legitimate risks to sharing one’s homosexuality in Bangladesh? Which boundaries should remain in place?

I blanched and, instead, used the pronoun “We” (i.e. “How do WE address the judgment implied in the statement, ‘You don’t look gay'”?) as if I were straight out of the House of Windsor (pun intended). Not that Bangladesh needed another royal family member to call the shots, but there We were, dispensing noblesse oblige with our fingers in the fishbowl.

We found this on Wikipedia: “Throughout his life [King] James had close relationships with male courtiers, which has caused debate among historians about their exact nature.” Indeed. (And, yes, King James was from the house of Stuart. I looked it up.)

While we’re on the subject of royalty and its post-colonial after-effects, Bangladesh inherited its criminal laws against homosexuality from the British Indian Government in 1860. These anti-gay laws are still on the books, to devastating consequence.

Xulhaz Mannan, editor of the Bangladeshi LGBT magazine Roopbaan, was killed in his apartment in Dhaka along with activist Tanay Fahim by religious fundamentalists in 2016.

Coming out as LGBT–or even as an ally–for a Bangladesh citizen involves terrible risks. Imprisonment, estrangement, violence and murder (see above), suicide: Bangladeshis face these threats daily if they try to live openly. Coming in and coming out as a know-it-all-Westerner overlooks that reality. I wanted to defy the shame that can keep gay people like me in the closet, and I also wanted to tread carefully before running to my next event.

What a tightrope. And a compromise. Here’s to the brave LGBT students and their allies, both in the US and–especially–in Bangladesh.

Thanks to Bonni Allen for the headshot and to Nabila Afroz for the poster and the mid-session tea. I made it on time to this really enjoyable workshop.

I can’t exactly vouch for my mental health here (it’s hot and that makes me fussy; did I mention that?), but the improv workshop after the Pride event was an unmitigated blast. Here’s hysterical proof:

Modeling contemplative mindfulness with some students.

Time winds down. I’ll be in Dhaka for the Eid al-Adha holiday and, the following weekend, in Cox’s Bazar to give another improv presentation. Been feeling torn in two. I’m excited to return to summer in Saint Paul and I finally feel useful and connected here. People have faced worse conundrums.

Places and portraits, while I’m still in Bangladesh:

The entrance to Shilpakala Arts Academy, where I’ve seen plays about Che Guevara, post-partition East Pakistan, the liberation that turned East Pakistan into Bangladesh, the origin of the Bangla language, and gift-giving gone awry, courtesy of O. Henry. All of it in Bangla.

Monsoon approaching Chittagong. Photo from the roof of Thames Towers.

Early morning construction worker in Chok Bazaar.

Same morning, different profession.

Kindly gentleman at the former British Railway offices.

Coconut vendor, just before the rain.

I took too long trying to get the iPhone to focus.

Knife sharpener, stopping on his daily rounds through the neighborhood.

Friendly AUW canteen worker. He won’t give me seconds, but he does so with a smile.

Buddhist monk and Pali professor. He moved the footlight to create these shadows.

This gentleman invited me to join him in calisthenics at a nearby park...

…and so I did. (Hello to Karen Connelly who has taught me the benefits of bilateral stimulation and to Katy McEwen who has worked thanklessly with my midline dysfunction.)

Aquarium storefront on a Monday evening in Chittagong.

Eid al-Adha approaches. A doomed fate for this poor creature; his sacrifice will feed a few. When I left the building this morning, the only other animal on our street was a goat. By this afternoon a huge bull and two more goats had joined them. Lowing and bleating behind every garage gate, now. Haunting.

Beautiful Bengal.

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