Pollyanna

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?