Five it is.

I’ll start in the middle of this very busy, very fulfilling week. I’m in Lahore, happy to be working with therapists and actors and even a banker and a lawyer. I got to drive down here from Islamabad with the director of Fulbright in Pakistan and her husband. She played Bob Dylan as we descended (dramatically) from Islamabad and the plateau that reminds me of the chaparral around Riverside into the steamy Punjabi plains.  I loved every minute of it. We stopped at a rest area at the bottom of the descent and ate at a McDonald’s.  I’m in Pakistan.  I’m in Pakistan. We did not eat at the Dunkin’ Donuts. I’m in Pakistan. The times, they have a-changed.

And before I could get too high-horsey about eating at a McDonald’s in Pakistan, it was pointed out that fast food restaurants are one of the few places that hire teenaged girls for decent jobs. All right!

By the time Tuesday rolled around I, myself, was on a roll.  I’d made a speech-of-sorts at an alumni event at the Islamabad club; I’d taught improv to middle-schoolers; Theatre Wallay had put on their second improv show (“The Next Unusual Thing”) which was even more impressive than the first one in April. I’d gone to a party and out to dinner and walked around a tiny park by a  Western-themed restaurant called “Howdy” with a friend from Minnesota. I had momentum. Here’s proof:

And then this happened:

Followed by this:

Meanwhile:

I also did three workshops in three days in Lahore.  Wonderful students, exciting possibilities, gracious hosts. I know how lucky I am.

In the midst of this exhilaration–and it has been rejuvenating to work with these groups–my momentum hit a snag, although in improvisation terms, I could say I received a gift that I’m still not sure how to celebrate. I want to get this one observation out of the way because it has been gnawing at me like a patron on a burger at Howdy! This may seem arbitrary, but I’ve decided to give this one experience only FIVE sentences.  Just five. Whether it deserves more or not, I can’t say, but I’m going to limit the energy I give to exceptions to the rule. And I’m going to discuss this in improv terms. And now I’ve used up three sentences, but this is context, and isn’t context everything? Here goes.

I walked right into a power struggle with one of my (funny, imposing, commanding, imperious and impervious) students at one of the many workshops I conducted in Pakistan this week. The group was amazing, but he had no desire to be part of the ensemble and toward the end of the day he embodied this by sitting in the middle of the circle, texting on his cell phone while the rest of us debriefed after an exercise. I had spent four-and-a-half hours emphasizing the power of saying “yes, and” along with the benefits of grounding ourselves in the moment so we can discover the gifts of each situation. I did not want to surrender the last 50 minutes of the workshop to him, did not want to pamper him and cajole him and coax him back into the group, and I didn’t want to shame him by pointing out his behavior and, then, diluting the truly joyful atmosphere our group had created. And so the discussion continued around him and I never acknowledged his crystal-clear declaration: he was not going to treat the other improvisers as equals, and he was not going to give himself over to the group or to my leadership.

That’s five sentences right there. Two (or three) more:  We ended on a high note with everyone laughing and talking about the connections between improv and psychology, and for that I am glad.  Again, I loved working with this group and was impressed with their candor and their commitment. Maybe the way to deflate a (mild) bully is to stop feeding the (mildly) outrageous behavior.  And, again, I didn’t think we had time to work out whatever deeper issues were at work here (we were the two oldest men in the room; we both were used to having professor-power; it’s a lot to expect a collection of strangers to make themselves vulnerable at the request of an interloper; no doubt there were cultural issues around power and respect and expectations that I couldn’t see, although I’ve had nothing but responsive, committed participants here in Pakistan, more so than in the United States). But–in improv terms–I didn’t acknowledge the moment. Instead, I tried to manage the situation, and that feels, well, cowardly on my part and a bit disrespectful to the players I’d asked to be brave and vulnerable.  Rats.

It could also be that I over-thought this. Maybe I over-thought this. I still have a point, but I over-thought this.  Improviser, heal thyself.

In the midst of all this improvising and over-thinking, a lot of my students were curious about political developments in the United States.  They were as glued to the Kavanaugh hearings as we were, and their questions about the midterm elections and the electoral college and the 25th amendment indicated that they are watching us with hawk eyes. Questions arose.  What’s the proper approach here? Speak out and harden the hard-liners? Try to manipulate the chaos? Despair when the powerful deride the vulnerable?  A man I met at a gathering told me how much he had loved being in the States and how he had real affection for Americans. And then he said, “the beacon has dimmed,” and that broke my heart.

Again, again: This is what I love about improv when it’s at its most vital: we jump into whatever moment is happening–good, bad, confusing, disappointing, exciting, loving, genuine–and we support one another. We don’t protect each other from the reality of the moment. We don’t turn on each other with blame and derision.  We live it together. I still haven’t figured out on stage how to respond when another improviser railroads a scene, when other players are just pawns in his or her drama. Obviously, it’s a struggle in real life as well.  We have rotten role models at the moment.  I would like to become more like Hubert Humphrey. Be happy in the skirmish. I bet he was a great improviser.

Here’s some Judy Collins.  As we go marching, marching…