New Yorkers use the question “you good?” for a far greater variety of situations than most. One way I’ve seen it employed as a form of allyship is when riding public transit.
Picture a young woman getting hassled by someone on a bus and a big fella sitting nearby takes off his headphones and gives her a head bob and a quick, “You good?” If she doesn’t answer, he comes over to sit next to her.
I’ve employed it myself. Seeing a couple in a the middle of a drunken fight. I’ll follow them for a while until there is a break in the shouting and I can make eye contact with the woman. “You good?” She might wave me off. Or she might give me the pleading look that says, stay with me. Stay here. Stay as a witness.
I know a lot of people dislike taking public transit because they prefer the safety of their car but I have found transit is the best place to be a good ally. It helps if you have this question at your disposal.
I made an off-hand comment to an educator and watched her eyes light up with understanding. In the hopes that it could help some other people it seemed like a worthwhile topic for blog discussion.
I’ve always been an actor. Both my parents were performers. Everyone in the family has some bit of performer in their personality. Our gatherings can turn into impromptu concerts. In those moments of spontaneous beauty it’s a beautiful gift to be a performer.
The rest of the time it makes life hard. And not for the reasons you might expect.
At least I had a roadmap because the entire family is so lousy with talent. I knew that some of my natural inclination to tear into a role is due to a performer’s instinct. Today, I play the role of historian. Today, I am the nerdy student running the study group. Today, I play the role of the funny nanny. When you’re a good actor you can slip into any number of real-life jobs and look from the outside observer to be crushing it.
But none of the jobs I had growing up felt right in the long run. I’m an actor. You can literally drop me into any job and I will find a way to bullshit my way through it and look like I know what I’m doing. You could have slipped a scalpel between my fingers and told me to perform surgery and I would have given it a go.
Are you starting to understand why this could make the formative years so fraught for a performer kid? Who the hell am I actually? What do I actually enjoy? Could I take on these jobs and identities on a permanent basis? I won an award at mock trial but does that mean I’m supposed to be a lawyer or is it because I should get cast as one on a long-running television series?
Some jobs fit my core character but it took me a lot longer to find those. As it turns out, science communicator was the closest one to my true personality. Who knew? Not me!
Educators may have an extra layer to untangle when they’re teaching hyper children who are characterized as “creative” types. It’s easier when they’re arty ones who like to draw and prefer introverted pursuits. But what about those hyperactive kids who are taking on everyone else’s emotional states throughout the day? One week she seems like a science nerd and the next week she’s all about playing therapist with her best friend. That’s a slippery kid. That one is tough to pin down. That one is probably an actor. Poor sod. So full of empathy for humanity they don’t even know who they are.
More than a few creatives end up in jobs they hate never acknowledging they were merely playing a role.
One way to solve a problem like Maria, is for a wise adult to help the kid identify their performer instinct so they will own it instead of having the instinct subconsciously wreck their professional life. They must know that the tendency to over-identify with people and jobs is a hazard of their personality type. They will need quiet guidance to listen to the voice in their head to know who they actually are.
To that end I did an actor’s workshop recently called Performer’s Mastery and it was exactly the mirror I needed to figure out what I prefer.
There’s a non-performer’s version and during a break I was talking to a past participant and mused that the performer version must be easier because we’re people who are accustomed to being in front of an audience and baring our souls.
“Noooo,” he said, shaking his head in wonder. “Performers are so much harder. We hide. We wear masks.”
The experienced facilitators are themselves actors and can see through all the bullshit. When Henry Mah writes that the process is life and death he’s not speaking in hyperbole. For some it is the death of an assumed identity. For many, the process will reveal hidden personality traits and it will change their lives:
“For me, it has been a journey to find the right trusting eyes to guide me forward. And the operative word here is “trust”. This is why I hold what I do at the Mastery to such a high regard. Because if you choose to trust me and put your process in my hands to guide and, in partnership with you, shape your journey, I hold that trust as sacred. I hold that trust as a scared bond to support your growth and betterment, and to go to the wall with you in a loving and supportive way to help you get where you want to go and then come back stronger and more present for it. It is a responsibility that I do not take lightly, because I believe that when you engage in this process with me your very life, actually and metaphorically, is at stake. And that means something to me.”
What individuals get out of doing a Mastery workshop is different based on their own issues. For me it was clarifying what I’m about. I’m a writer, yes. But I’m an actor, too.
Also, I’m a bomb ass bitch with sass to spare. But I knew that.
I’ve been fortunate enough to have a partner who supports my creative endeavors and does everything he can to allow me space and time to write weird novels about fertility cults and so I can perform in operas. He’s a mensch.
There did come a time in recent years though where I felt myself spread too thin. My girls are young and I wanted to be there for them, and even starting my own proofreading business that allows me flexible hours, the commute to performances on nights and weekends was a step beyond what I could reasonably handle.
I was fortunate that an energetic singer, mom of three, and choir director started a new group in my neighborhood just over a year ago comprised entirely of local mothers. I joined MomChoir in September and it has been a large part of what is proving to be a transformative year for me.
Let me back up by saying I have always been internally opposed to sororities as a concept. When I attended Emerson College I was strongly encouraged by gorgeous young friends to join their professional sorority Kappa Gamma Chi and even ended up an “honorary” member as I lived with so many of them. But I never officially pledged. I was working a full-time job to afford the steep tuition and I didn’t think I could give them the time and money their Greek life appeared to require.
How funny now to find myself in a group of nearly sixty women I cherish. We have frequent social gatherings and I find nothing but support and mutual admiration. Unlike so many past experiences in groups of women where neuroticism and back-handed compliments seemed to rule the day (oh, Egg Pictures and the PTA, I’m looking at you right now), this crew has been nothing but delightful.
We’re busy professional moms who had ovaries of steel enough to audition for a choir. Many had not sung in public since high school, if ever. Many had to be lovingly bullied by their family into attending the audition. “Honey, I love you, but if I have to watch Singin’ in the Rain with you again I will smash the television with my left shoe.”
Many — if not most — have suffered loss. Perhaps it’s simply that no one gets through life unscathed, but this is a group that has known personal, physical, emotional life tragedies. They’re women who faced down demons and it made them kinder not harder.
Compassion is not an attribute I would have attached to a university sorority, but I’m learning that there is one overarching definition to sisterhood: Mutual Support. When done correctly? There is a bottomless well of love and admiration in a room full of women who’ve suffered.
I need to digress for a moment and talk about (of all things) soulmates.
Many years ago, in Yosemite National Park, I had a fella declare that I was his one and only soulmate. I kissed him in response, but in my brain? Y’all. I felt like he had just told me with all sincerity that he believed in The Tooth Fairy.
This was not merely me being a cynical unromatic jerkface, I swear. Nor was it my basic requirement for evidence that a thing exists. Is soulmate a thing beyond zinging brain chemistry and compatible sexuality?
It actually took me many years to realize why I felt so much pity for him and only recent events that reminded me of a core basis for happiness. If you don’t know this already then let me shout it: WE GET MORE THAN ONE SOULMATE
This is a reality that many people learn when they become parents.
That there are broken-hearted darlings out there believing that their one and only true love is gone and thus they may never be cherished again pains me. I know it might feel like a truth because western culture and the Romantic Ideal is a lie that we’re peddled by most of our pop culture from a very young age. You must choose between — you are not permitted to love multiple people. And I’m not talking about the ever-trendy polyamory here, although there is a space for that discussion another time.
It was a few weeks ago when I was awash in a Yosemite-sized cataract of emotion for my Mastery crew and thus pondering this truth anew. I was reflecting on how fortunate I feel to love a plethora of people all over this planet when this visual popped up for Pi Day. I don’t know who made it but it is wonderful.
I love a lot of people. Truly and deeply and for everything that they are. All of their broken parts and their scars.
One of my MomChoir sisters posted a behind-the-scenes video to a fight song we’re slaying with in an upcoming concert, and Sagan help me, I am done. If I make it through this song without tears down my face it’ll be a minor secular miracle.
So this is what artists do. We put our whole hearts into the world and we give you permission to break them because we won’t ever stop loving you even if you hate us. And we’ve hearts big enough to nurture the world.
The kids at school have started to tear apart this stone wall.
As I was silently reflecting on how stone walls are some of the most long-lasting human edifices in history yet a few kids can tear one apart in a matter of hours, a mom started to growl about the mess. Then, a new teacher piped up, “This tells me they need some materials to build their own ideas. We should get them some logs and rocks to play with in the woodlot.”
A lot of things have changed since I was at school. I mean, I grant you this is especially true for me as I attended boarding school when I was ten years old that was run by nuns and lived with them in a mansion on a hill. So I’m this weird Dickensian throwback who is constantly amazed at the patience and empathy of modern educators. And I’m often struck by how many things can be reframed. It’s a habit in educators that I’m trying to develop for myself. Instead of being angry with the person who has perpetrated damage on you, ask yourself about the unmet need.
Meanwhile, a few lines sung from Bye Bye Birdie can cheer up grumpy parents. Because we all feel like Paul Lynde sometimes.
I attended the Healthy Family Expo with my youngest and we partook of a number of free samples. I realized later that if the kid were to have an allergic reaction I would have no idea which of the many exotic foods might be the culprit.
Like those delicious morsels? They’re made with crickets.
Now, as it happens, I’m a long-time fan of using insects for protein. Back when Evolution was my favorite store in New York City in 1998, I even bought a book on how to cook with cricket flour. (LOL like I was going to bake with any kind of flour.) But that was before we learned the insect populations are plummeting. Yikes.
Fortunately, though, these crickets are farm-raised back in Ontario so we’re not adding to the problem by eating these buggers.
And also fortunate, the little one didn’t have any allergic reactions. She even managed to stuff her face and jump on a trampoline with no ill effect.
It was a nice mommy and kid day at the expo. We ate a lot of weird stuff and didn’t puke — which is apparently my general assessment of a good day.
My friend has been extolling the virtues of sauna time to prevent some of the post-exercise soreness that I so often battle. And my partner loves going for a schvitz a few times a week so I decided to give it a try. Apparently, even Lady Gaga was all about it. Who am I to argue?
Well, here are some things that my male partner and male friend were not able to warn me about. The fact is, it’s harder for women. I have fewer excuses than most as I live near a public recreation center that features a new sauna and comes included in the price of admission. And yet…
should have realized that I was heading into what is essentially one of
the few male spaces left in a westernized and modern culture. Growing
up for a bit of my childhood in Denmark
I was no stranger to a place where grown men are naked and sweating,
but it’s different when you’re a child. For one thing, I didn’t see the
point of sitting still and being quiet so the sauna was not an appealing
My first time in the sauna as an adult I decided that I’d worn the wrong clothing. Most of the other people in there were in swimsuits. As I’m not interested in heated chlorine and thrush, this was not appealing. I wore my regular running clothes instead. Only after a few minutes in the punishing heat did I consider what it might be doing to my expensive and well-guarded sports bra.
Determined not to be put off by my wrong clothing choice and the fact that I was the only woman in the sauna that first day, I carried on. I’d been hearing too much about the benefits of a schvitz to give up.
I was in the small sauna with four men and one of them kept crankily complaining anytime someone left the sauna as opening the door let the heat escape. Eventually, his complaints became about women in particular. “They don’t even stay in here for more than five minutes. What’s the point?” I said nothing and carried on, now afraid to leave “too soon” even though this was my first time in a sauna. Great. Now I have to die in here rather than be the first to leave. We were in there for twenty-five minutes.
Feeling a bit of anxiety about the second time going to the sauna I had at least planned ahead with the clothing. I wore a loose-fitting tank top and running shorts. Once again, I was the only woman and all the men were wearing wet swim trunks. They spoke to each other — some in foreign languages. Fine. No problem. Just wish that one dude would stop staring at my chest. I guess this was the wrong clothing choice, too.
Third round, knees shaking a bit with anxiety. Oh, good. A woman is in there. Probably Korean and wearing a swimsuit, she does not appear to speak English as the four men in there with us shit-talk women who stay too short a time. Again. Different dudes, same topic.
But am I the type of person who gives up in the face of invading a male space? Or am I someone who sees a private room at a party with only Mel Gibson and Arnold Schwarzenegger smoking cigars with two other men and decide that this is the room I belong in? Reader, you know I had my first (and last cigar) that night because I will not be excluded and screw you for trying.
So I’m that type of person. Bloody minded.
Fourth round. My partner at this point is laughing at my anxiety it’s getting so bad but I am determined. He’s amazed at my bad luck. So I head over there. Three guys in the sauna. No problem. Two of them in a corner are chatting loudly and being a bit obnoxious but at least they’re not shit-talking women. Okay. Eventually, the other solo guy is all, “Can everyone in here read English?” Awkward silence. He asks again, more silence from us. “Because that sign over there clearly says not to talk in here.” The two dudes in the corner flash a look at him. I’m sitting in between them all. “What an asshole,” one of them mutters to the other. “Yeah, I’m the asshole,” says the cranky regular.
Me in the middle thinks, “Here we go.”
And I think back to all those scenes set in steam rooms and saunas in movies and television shows that I’ve seen over the years. Sometimes it’s mafia stories because we know that no one is wearing a wire and so that’s when you order the hit. Sometimes, it’s just to show off pure machismo in a movie because the lead actor worked hard for that body and he’s going to make the audience admire his chest hair, damn it.
This is a man’s space and I am not welcome here.
Nevertheless, I know I will persist.
Angry dude settled down as the other two guys were all, “Let’s get out of here.” I guess they couldn’t handle the heat.
In vacationing at Harrison Hot Springs with the family this holiday season I hadn’t realized we were venturing into the heart of Big Foot territory until I learned that the info center had a little “Sasquatch Museum” attached to their bungalow. I had assumed this would be a delightful trip into kitsch and looked forward to buying the kids some Big Foot-related swag. I was delighted when the visitor center even suggested they’d open the place for us since we were coming to town during a time it is normally closed! That’s a small town that knows how to cater to visitors.
As often happens to me when it comes to the reality of First Nations in the modern world, I realized this was about a lot more than tacky fun.
Kitschiness is often something cheap that is repeated so often in a motif that it can develop soul by sheer force of will. Big Foot lore is certainly that as it is everywhere in this small town. Sometimes in a form with flowing locks and intense gaze reminiscent of Jason Mamoa:
Or sometimes in its goofier child-friendly version:
I’m still learning about this part of the world and despite my secret love of cryptozoology and a general understanding that Big Foot is a thing here — why don’t we say the Pacific Southwest when we’re in Canada? — it just hadn’t twigged for me that this was a First Nations legend. The word Sasquatch is probably from a Salish word Sasq’ets, meaning “wild man” or “hairy man.” The First Nation of Harrison Hot Springs is the Sts’ailes (Chehalis). They had a special relationship with Sasq’ets and believed the wild man had the ability to move between the physical and spiritual realm. There are legends like this from pockets of isolated people all over the world. Most of the time is smacks of myth, but sometimes you actually find a “forest person” such as the urang-outang in Indonesian.
It makes me wonder if perhaps there were pockets of rare giant apes that coexisted with the First Nations people before they went extinct, perhaps even thousands of years ago. Is that less likely than the existence of mastodons or giant sloths?
The problem with Big Foot, of course, is that there’s basically no physical evidence, unlike the mastodons, and no “sightings” in recent memory except by people who tend to benefit from the legend. I’ve said before, I’m naturally a credulous person and it took many years of training to become a skeptic who takes a beat to consider evidence before diving headfirst into a story.
But still. I was thinking in terms of white men giving guided tours and speaking in hushed tones in a rain forest making us all feel like eyes were on us.
I had not expected to learn that the Sts’ailes had incorporated their forest man into seasonal dances. Is this a more modern addition to their dancing?
Modern at least for the last one hundred years as an old mask that was missing for a while only recently repatriated to their nation. Is it their Big Foot or is it a bear mask?
“After 75 years missing, a piece of Sts’ailes First Nation history has been repatriated to the community. The Sasq’uets mask disappeared from the Sts’ailes in 1939, believed to have been taken by JW Burns; the man often credited with having anglicized sasq’ets into sasquatch. Burns is rumoured to have become obsessed with the sasquatch legend while teaching at the Chehalis Indian School near Harrison Hot Springs BC.
Harrison Hot Springs and the shores of Harrison Lake have a long history of bigfoot activity and the elusive sasquatch is an important part of Sts’ailes culture. The Sts’ailes people believe that the sasquatch is the protector of the land. Because of this, a Sts’ailes man– James Leon– has spent the last 16 years of his life searching for this piece of lost history. After scouring North America, Leon discovered the mask was a little closer to home than first thought. Leon discovered that the mask was at the Vancouver Museum, and when he explained the story to museum staff they confirmed it was there.
The mask has now been returned to the Sts’ailes First Nation. Interestingly, the Sts’ailes people believe that to see the sasquatch is a great honour, and it will bestow a great gift on you.”
Harrison plays up the relationship between First Nations and this creature of legend in this tiny town, and between that and the natural hot springs, they appear to have a booming tourist trade.
Certainly, were I a giant hairy forest ape (and aren’t we all really?), I would choose a spot on a lake with a hot spring where I might float like a tea bag and regard the night sky and the snow-flecked hills around me, reflecting on in the majesty of the natural landscape.
A view of holiday lights from across the Lagoon.
A view from our hotel room at sunset.
So I’m taking the legend of Big Foot a bit more seriously now as I did many other indigenous stories that turned out to have a good practical reason for existing. My children, however:
EDIT: Was just told of this fun dance tune, The Sasquatch Funk.
There are certain TV shows that became a part of my core personality when I was a kid and watching my eldest totally glom on to Brooklyn Nine-nine this past year made me think about those shows that shaped me. I wonder if we are attracted to them because they already reflect our inner selves? Or do they do more than that and actually work to shape us the way a mentor might?
Social media was passing around a thing asking people to list their top five shows to indicate their personality and it prompted me to think about mine: MASH, Star Trek: TNG, Buffy the Vampire Slayer, Northern Exposure, and something British but I haven’t decided which one.
But listing the shows made me realize that I haven’t watched any Next Generation episode since they first aired. Yet the episodes made such lasting impressions on me that to this day I remember them clearly and can even head off a panic attack by putting on some Enterprise background noise. I am clearly not the only one if the 24-hour channel is any indication.
I have yet to find another television series that explores mature concepts of philosophy in a family-friendly format. I’ve started forcing my girls to watch some of these episodes. It’s prompted interesting discussions. They seem to enjoy the show and interrupt less often than when I usually try to foist something on them. Ann of Green Gables (’80s series) didn’t even hold their attention so completely.
Back when I first watched the series I remember being irritated by Dr. Crusher and Counselor Troy. I realize now that I like them a lot more because I’ve learned to disregard the beauty pageant levels of hair and make-up. Apparently, as a kid this was enough of a surface presentation for me to stop taking them as seriously as their male counterparts. Internal bias is interesting.
I’m grateful that the show had a large budget and filmed directly to 35mm so that even rebroadcast on our current hi-def screens it looks surprisingly modern. The decor not so much, but at least the kids don’t complain that the show looks cheap. And our current screen fidelity means certain things like stunt doubles or the noodles used instead of maggots in episode Conspiracy are now plainly visible. I enjoy spotting moments where the film is overexposed for the lighting or the Steadicam got bumped during a tracking shot.
EDIT: friend wrote to tell me this and I am sharing so as to give credit where it is due!
“As for how good TNG still looks, that’s a direct result of the painstaking remastering process that was done on HD several years back–in which the entire edited-on-video(!) series had to be re-edited, and all effects redone from scratch, using the original 35mm raw footage. It was so laborious and expensive that the subsequent repackaging on Blu-ray made far too little money for Paramount/CBS to justify doing the same for the remaining ST shows, and it’s probably the biggest reason the same hasn’t been done for the long-neglected Babylon 5 (which is in even worse shape than TNG was).”
There was a time in my twenties when I worked for a producer who would eventually become the head of the Scott Bakula iteration and I almost got to work on that show. I had a surreal holiday party experience where I skated with Bakula and his daughter on an artificial rink at Paramount. Or late one night wandering the backlot and stopping to watch Michael Dorn have his forehead make-up applied. These were the fangirl moments that made the long hours and insanity of Los Angeles worthwhile.
It saddens me that few shows still address the deeper probing topics that TNG and other Star Trek shows tried to examine. The closest we seem to reach now is BBC’s Black Mirror, but that lacks the optimism and spirit of adventure that I look for in TNG. And I think it would freak out the kids.
And then the revamped Star Trek movies are widely regarded as a warmed-over rehash of any generic “adventure” movie that bears little resemblance to the concepts of the original Star Trek vision.
But my original question remains. Did I love it because it reflected a core part of my personality that thrives on civic engagement and civility in the face of crisis? Or did it teach me to be that kind of person? Was it this guy who taught us how to be a boss?
(Interestingly, these days I am reading his distaste for children as a character flaw instead of as an endearing quirk. But that’s because I know how to be a Boss with two kids and a cat hanging off my elbows. He’s not good at multitasking.)
I don’t know. I don’t know if it reflected me or shaped me. I don’t know.
The show does support my observation of a uniquely human tendency that runs across all cultures where we decorate our interior spaces with images of what’s happening immediately outside. You don’t find photos of a Vermont winter in an adobe in Santa Fe, you find more images of adobes.
So of course you will have pictures of bleak planets and space stations to decorate your quarters on a spaceship. Because humans will be humans even three hundred years from now.
Urgh, that early ’90s decor in mauve is nauseating.
And just to tie it all together, I’d like to one day perform in a Klingon opera. This is fabulous, honest! Have a listen. It’s all the dissonance and belting you could ever want.
Certain cities ooze an ephemeral quality of “culture” and it can be tricky to explain exactly why. But then other times it’s clear how artistic expression is woven into the fabric of the urban landscape. Montreal is a city that provides a full sensory cultural experience.
From murals in every corner to music in every neighborhood, it’s teeming with art.
A number of musicians and dancers will be scheduled for outdoor events during the rush hour, which means that all sorts of people will get to see snippets of beauty and art during their commute. It’s refreshing to see well-heeled locals sitting next to folks sleeping rough, all enjoying the same performance in any kind of weather.
Or a number of public spaces with shared instruments that provide an opportunity to show off and shimmy.
Although I’m not certain who pays for these artistic expressions, I’m sure the city gets it back in the form of tourism and internationally-renowned reputation for creativity.
It was a stressful day and I needed respite. As is my wont, I chose a dark movie theater even though it was a beautiful sunny summer afternoon. I wish I could be the sort of person who can relax on a nature walk but I can’t. It would certainly be better for me than pounding popcorn and soda in a dark room.
My partner wondered why I couldn’t go for a relaxing walk instead of a movie I didn’t particularly even want to see. A question I hadn’t really considered before. Why is a movie or live theater the only space where I can truly relax? Whether I’m on the stage or viewing from the audience. I can also manage it in a dance class or some other fitness-related activity, so it’s not laziness at work here.
Where do you go to relax? I asked him.
A long bike ride.
A bus trip around the city.
A pub with the crossword puzzle at hand.
Sitting by a public fountain reading the newspaper.
A solo walk in the woods.
Going to sit on a beach.
I like being on my own but all of those options are not open to me. If I am alone in those spaces for more than ten minutes a dude will try to chat me up.
“Aw, shit,” he commiserated.
Unless the rando dude is at a theater to see some entertainment will I be sure to be left alone. In the darkness I can rest and know that I will not be bothered.
I thought back to participating in an opera competition and sitting in the wings with my friend, a pretty lass who had a tendency to also attract unwanted male attention. She was doing some stretches backstage and said, “I just feel so safe in a theater, I don’t know why.”
This was despite our conversation about handsy male directors and costars and what pests they so often turned out to be. Even that was less of a threat than just existing as female alone in a public space.
How many times had I worn a wedding ring in public as a woman traveling the world alone simply to try and fend off some of the aggression? Had it even worked? You’ll try anything to get some peace. Most often I would chat with a dude for a few minutes and try to turn him into a friend instead of an aggressive stranger. That doesn’t always work either.
Retreat into the dark theater and have a breather.