(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.)
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