Rant

I abandoned the entry I started last night. With each sentence my ideas became more listless (“people change”; “time passes”). I wasn’t invested in what I was writing. What I really wanted to do is rant.

In improv, we often begin a class with a rant. The students line up against the back wall, get a topic (“traffic!”; “weather!”; “democracy!”), and then purge their streams-of-consciousness onto the stage (we used to start shows with rants; I’m not sure this bolstered ticket sales). The goal is to increase our energy while letting our minds run free. The emotional contagion we create from yelling in unison helps us forge a group mind; ideally, when we begin our scene work we now have an unconscious pool of images and emotions from which to draw.

Or not.

I don’t like rants. No one listens. We talk over each other. Everyone gets hot and bothered. More than anything, the scenes that emerge from the rant are just a relief after all that aggression: “Thank god they stopped that hollering. What does a talking turtle have to do with democracy? Please let there be an intermission.”

So I won’t rant.

Much.

Just a bit about news from home.

Okay. Imagine this at full volume from the back wall of an airless theater:

(Lights up. Yelling)

I’m sick and angry about US politics, about the anti-democratic behavior of a marauding minority whose only objective is to dominate and diminish others.

I’m disgusted by the racism, the White supremacy, the winking apologies.

I’m weary of watching prominent men who physically and sexually abuse women get rewarded, like they’re the victims because “people can’t take a joke.”

I’m dumbfounded that you expect me to live by the rules of your religion.

I’m not really dumbfounded. I’m used to it, but I thought we’d made some progress.

I’m furious that ONCE AGAIN gay people are being accused of “grooming” children when, week after week after week after week, sanctimonious men in America’s houses of worship expect their wives and parishioners to forgive them for their actual pedophilia.

I’m tired of feeling helpless, because this helplessness is a lie. We are still, tenuously, a democracy. This is not the time to give up.

I know we’re technically a republic. Point taken.

Whew.

(What I really want to do is swear.)

(Piano gliss; lights change; begin scene; go for laughs; regret becoming a turtle because, at my age, it takes forever to stand up and so I’m doomed to be on all-fours for most of the show. Blackout.)

Speaking of righteous rants, it’s the fifth-third anniversary of the Stonewall Riots today.

While I don’t particularly believe in ranting, I do believe in boundaries, a fundamental part of healthy improv scenes and human relations. In light of that, I’m going to curtail my diatribe and look at borderlines, healthy and otherwise.

Before shows we will often go around the circle and voice our physical boundaries (“my back is killing me, so please be careful”) and, occasionally, our emotional ones (“I’m not up for too many divorce scenes tonight”) (although this can backfire; divorce will be the first word on everyone’s lips).

At first I was skeptical of this practice. It seemed too precious. Performing requires some bravery; we really don’t want the audience to have to take care of us (talk about a boundary violation). The words of my first improv teacher, a remarkable woman named Cynthia Szygeti, have stuck with me for over thirty years. When we were tentative or self-conscious she would lean back in her chair, throw her arms above her head, and bellow, “There are no extra points for fear! JUMP!”

I really needed to hear that.

Now, however, taking about boundaries before we go on stage makes good sense to me. In fact, it’s a way of practicing the “yes, and…” principle that is at the heart of improvisation. We aspire to make our scene partners look as good as possible, and to do that we have to respect them. We honor their gifts; explore their declarations; try, with real commitment, to listen to them and respond. We don’t jump on their backs in a heedless scene about a messy divorce. We help each other get back on our feet when, after five scenes, an aging improviser’s been a turtle and then an ottoman and then a toadstool and then a beetle and, finally, a scone.

We try to recognize each other’s sovereignty while knowing the limits of our own. And when we violate a boundary–something that will surely happen–we listen and apologize. It’s not easy, but it’s worth the effort.

I think about my students here at AUW. They come from Bangladesh, of course, but also from Afghanistan and Myanmar and Syria, among other places. I don’t know what they’ve been through to get here–I hope if they share that with me I’ll have the good sense to shut up and listen–but I do know most of them have lived intimately with fundamentalism of the religious and political variety. Some, because they’re women or an ethnic minority, have been driven from their homes. Talk about a boundary violation. Where do we humans get off deciding some groups of people are worthwhile while others are not?

I should paste that on my bathroom mirror. Read it every day.

Seriously, when I think of the trauma inflicted by religious and political authoritarianism (often disguised as Patriotism and Love of Country and–god help us–God’s Plan) and the wastefulness of it all, I feel enraged. My students here don’t show that fury. They are going into careers in sustainability and environmentalism and management. Even if they struggled a bit with the first exam they can’t blame their grades on cynicism. They are, at least in class, resolutely positive. I love being around them. And there will be extra credit.

Let’s look at Bangladesh:

Just to the left of the photo above is a building that, apparently, has been under construction for over five years. The concrete shell is finished, but none of the interior work has been done. While I was waiting for the shuttle with another faculty member we heard a very distinct “Moo.” “Cows,” my colleague said to me, and then explained that a herd of 20 cattle is living in the building until next weekend when they will be slaughtered for Eid al-Adha, the Islamic holiday honoring Ibrahim’s willingness to sacrifice his son at God’s command.

Later this afternoon a student brought me a rainbow heart pin in honor of LGBT Pride here at AUW. The world is complex and barely knowable. Another good thing for me to keep in mind.