Author: Cydney Marie

A Queer, Disabled theatre, movement, and media artist exploring change both by and within the arts.

Crooked Fool: Watching Adolescence through an Abolitionist Lens

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I’m a sucker for a sad, heavy show, so when I saw the description for Netflix’s new mini-series Adolescence, I knew I was in for one helluva tear-filled binge watch.

Now, I want to note that this is not a review of the show. I thought it was extraordinarily well done from a creative standpoint and the actors killed it. If you want a sad story with some important stuff to say, it’s more than worth it.

But since being exposed to abolitionist thinking, I watch shows like this differently.  There are an abundance of shows depicting crime and punishment floating around. Art and life are caught up in a never-ending feedback loop with each other, so it makes sense. But it’s hard to watch something as heartbreaking as Adolescence and not call certain narratives into question.

The series opens with one trauma after another:  First thing in the morning, 13-year-old Jamie Miller is arrested from his bed. His family is shouted at to show their hands and get on the floor. Jamie is promptly taken away in a police car with little explanation given to his frantic parents. He is taken into custody, strip searched, and put in a cell. The strip searching scene in particular got me: nothing was shown, but the looks on the faces of everyone else in the room and the officer’s voice instructing him to show the most intimate parts of his body made me vaguely nauseous even from the safety of my living room. I appreciate honest art, but that doesn’t make it any easier to watch.

Jamie is accused of murdering his classmate, Katie. By the end of the first episode, we find out it’s true. He’s guilty. The crime is revealed to have occurred against a background of online bullying and incel culture, with Jamie having picked up misogynist ideals in the process.

Our justice system in the US is, of course, a bit different than in the UK where the series takes place, but many of the practices depicted ring true to the experiences of incarcerated folks here, as well. I remember one incarcerated woman I spoke to talking about how she’d seen a list of events that could traumatize a person, and how inmates are subjected to most of those things on a daily basis.

It’s impossible to imagine a 13-year-old boy ever being able to feel safe while incarcerated, and the fact is, incarceration is often not safe for those in custody. Whether it’s a strip search or constantly being snapped at by guards with deadly weapons, prison is not a safe place. It’s certainly not a place to reflect deeply on your actions and heal the wounds that contributed to them.

And that’s the thing about prisons: they don’t directly address harm. They punish wrongs against the state, and that’s not always the same thing.

Sending Jamie to prison won’t bring Katie back. Nor will it address the tremendous pain her family must be experiencing, or any trauma inflicted on the other kids at the school. When one of Katie’s friends gets into a physical fight with another student over his role in what happened to Katie, we see how trauma begets more trauma, possibly leading to the criminalization of yet another child. Incarceration cannot solve any of these things. Punishment as a philosophy cannot heal wounds caused by harm.

A long period of imprisonment for Jamie also fails to address the pain experienced by his own family. They had armed officers break down their door early in the morning and pull their son out of bed to take him away. They were bullied and shunned by their community for a crime that they were not directly responsible for. They have to mourn the loss of a son who, though still living, will likely never be a part of their daily lives in the same way again. Taking Jamie away punishes them, too.

Maybe it’s easier to accept harsh, punitive measures when it feels like justice. But if they fail to actually address the harm experienced by Katie or the community, and if they fail to help Jamie understand and take accountability for the harm he has caused, then what’s the purpose?

And here’s the kicker: the focus on punitive systems takes away Katie’s humanity, too. One of the few criticisms I’ve seen repeated about this series is how little we know about Katie by the end. The entire show focuses on Jamie and his looming punishment, and rather than being an oversight on the part of the show’s creators, this is a perfect reflection of how the system actually works. The tunnel vision on the act of punishing a wrong leaves no space for the person who was harmed in the first place. In the eyes of the criminal justice system, the fundamental issue is that Jamie broke the law, not that Jamie caused another person harm.

Punishing Jamie also fails to address the issue that led to him committing a crime in the first place. There is simply nothing that can fix a child losing their life, but do we not owe it to ourselves and our communities to minimize the risk of it happening again? Thing is, crime never happens in a vacuum. Jamie wasn’t magically born a murderer. One thing Adolescence does well is helping us to understand what could drive a child to hurt another child. Putting Jamie in jail will not take away the circumstances that created an environment where a crime like that could happen. Online bullying and kids getting radicalized on the internet are not solved by locking up a child.

Here’s another pill that may be hard to swallow: Jamie is not all bad. No human being is. The show has moments where we see his humanity clearly, like when he asks for his dad during intake. He has moments where he’s polite and even kind of sweet. None of that excuses what he did, but it reminds us that no life is made up of a single moment. If he could find healing and learn to understand the harm he caused, could the community not benefit from his good qualities? Would we rather throw a human being away for a mistake, even a massive one, and let all the bad be, or find what opportunities we can to bring good into the world?

I’ve done a lot of volunteer work in prisons and with folks who are formerly incarcerated. Some of them hurt other people. Some of them had life sentences. None of them have ever harmed me. All of them had good qualities. I typically feel very safe in their presence. People can change. Think of the biggest mistake you’ve ever made – what if that moment defined your entire life?

Here in Michigan, we’ve had rulings in recent years that have retroactively eliminated mandatory life without parole for folks who were minors at the time they committed their crime. We know that brains are not fully developed at that age and that trauma can impact behavior. Punishing people forever for mistakes they made as children is not justice.

At the end of Adolescence, Jamie tells his family he plans to plead guilty. In doing so, he certainly forfeits the rest of his childhood, and depending on the laws where he lives, possibly the rest of his life. But even in prison, life does go on. People keep breathing and, in spite of horrific circumstances, they often keep growing. At least here in Michigan, life sentences can, in rare instances, be commuted, and people can come home. I’ve met some of those people. All I can hope is that Jamie’s story will have that kind of miracle. That the ending will be at least as complicated as the crime that began this heartbreaking story, and maybe just a little less painful. That maybe there will be some second chance and he’ll be able to truly reckon with the fallout of his actions, rather than just stewing in them for the rest of his life without learning anything. That maybe he’ll be able to put good deeds into the world to balance out the bad. That maybe we didn’t take his humanity when he took Katie’s life. That maybe two lives don’t have to be lost and two families don’t have to bear that loss.

Right and wrong and harm and healing are not black and white. They are complex sets of actions taken by people who contain multitudes living under systems that harm. Human beings are not all good or bad, they are just whole, and that doesn’t make things easier. It makes them harder. The question we have to ask ourselves is what we are going to do when difficult, painful things happen. Are we going to address the problem, or are we just going to try and lock people up so we don’t have to look at it?

Crooked Fool: The answer is not closing the door

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When I  started physical theatre school a year after having basically my entire spine surgically relocated, one of my classmates was quick to say, “When we study Commedia Dell’arte, there will be certain things you can’t do. You probably couldn’t do Arlecchino.”

For context, Arlecchino is a stock character known for acrobatics and over the top physicality.

I did eventually play Arlecchino. I ultimately found a character I felt more at home with, but I still did it.

To be honest, that comment pissed me off. I put that Arlecchino mask on out of pure spite. It also pisses me off when I struggle to nail a dance skill because of my back and somebody says “just don’t do that one.” Or when I go to a yoga class and somebody finds out my spine is full of metal and held together with rope, and they automatically recommend an easier class.

I want to make this very clear: when somebody with a medical condition, disability, or any other need tries to do something, the answer should never be “just don’t do it.” They should never be sent out of the room. The choice to participate in an activity is theirs, not yours.

The answer to a theatre student healing from a back surgery is not to deny them the opportunity to learn the same things as everyone else. The answer to somebody who needs an accommodation to play a character is not that they shouldn’t play that character.

Creative spaces have evolved to be exclusive. Our culture has historically included Disabled folks from public life, including the arts, so industry norms have not evolved to meet diverse needs. When we send somebody away because their bodies or minds don’t meet our standards, we are perpetuating that exclusion. We become the oppressors.

When I push back against meeting access needs in performing arts spaces, I hear a lot of “we can’t compromise our creative vision” or “it has to be this way.” But…does it really? Or is that just what’s easiest for those who hold power in the space? Just because something is doesn’t mean it has to be.

Excluding someone does not preserve creativity. To paraphrase disability activists Terry Galloway and Donna Marie Nudd, what it actually does is demonstrate that you are not or do not want to be creative enough to come up with a solution. If we can make an entire show from scratch, we can problem solve.

I am a stubborn person and I show up in a lot of spaces where people aren’t expecting someone like me, and sometimes where they don’t want me. And I won’t leave to make things easier on those who don’t have to question whether they belong in the space.  I value creativity too much to throw it out like that.

Crooked Fool: Meditating on restorative justice and the arts

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Last weekend, I was able to take a restorative justice training with the Dispute Resolution Center. This particular training was focused on circle processes, which basically set a container for allowing everyone with a stake in a given situation the chance to speak. In addition to being a tool for addressing harm, it turns out that circles can also be an excellent tool for building community. Maybe that’s why I couldn’t stop drawing parallels to theatre (shoutout to the others in the training for not making fun of me!)

A circle begins with laying a centerpiece down on the floor – maybe a blanket with a few objects of significance resting on top. There’s a brief reading or ritual at the beginning and the end, and an object is passed from hand to hand as each person takes their turn offering their thoughts on whatever the topic of the circle might be. Everyone else focuses either on the person speaking or on the centerpiece.

Restorative Justice practices are drawn from Indigenous cultures around the world. Restorative approaches to harm have been slowly gaining traction in the US over the past few decades, inevitably sometimes being whitewashed, appropriated, and co-opted by systems that are built around punishment and isolation rather than repair and connection. There’s a whole rabbit hole we could go down about restorative practices, but in this moment I’m most concerned about the community building aspect.

There’s a quote that I hear a lot. To paraphrase: “We can get hurt in relationships and we heal in relationships.” Whether we’re talking about personal disagreements or generational trauma, connection offers an opportunity to heal.

I’ve written before about how the arts can promote connection. My limited experience with expressive-arts based approaches through Telling It has also taught me how creating in community is not just effective at healing, but crucial for human wellbeing. Creating and sharing together fosters a kind of connection that makes tough conversations possible.

How different is it to speak in a group versus singing, rhyming, or dancing in a group? If live performance has its roots in religious ritual, how can it help create a space sacred enough and safe enough to dive into high-stakes conversations?

The performing arts are filled with examples of systemic harms and unchecked privilege. I can definitely see an opportunity for restorative practices to help address some of the more harmful industry norms. But I also think that focusing on deep connection in the arts has at least as much potential for creating change. How do we create spaces where people can speak openly about their thoughts, whether it’s about creative ideas or the power dynamics in the room?

So often, I feel as though we treat both creativity and restorative approaches to harm like extras: something nice to have but not crucial, and often overridden by the needs powerful systems. What if human expression and connection became crucial? What if deep honesty were centered? Who could be heard and what would be possible?

Crooked Fool: Flopping around like a dying fish until you accidentally make a thing

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I’m working on a solo clown show and it is killing me.

              It’s actually a clown show with some added baggage in the form of a critical eye toward depictions of disability and Madness in comedy. While that does have me worrying a bit more about the messaging and content of the show, it’s not the main reason I’m struggling.

              I do think that part of the problem is that clown is out of my comfort zone. I’ve had some training and I’ve been told I’m at least not terrible at it, but I’d be much more comfortable writing something really sad with some beautiful language. But the catalyst for this entire show was frustration with the fact that no one could tell me why there were so many depictions of hunchbacks in comedy, which led to a rabbithole on disability in clown imagery, which leads us to this damn clown show.

              Ultimately, though, the problem here is just that I’m making a show from scratch with a deadline and it kind of sucks. I think it will get done. It’ll probably be fine. But creating a new work from nothing is not the same thing as figuring out how to embody a story that already exists. And it’s not as simple as putting words on a page. It’s more like flopping around like a dying fish until you accidentally make a thing. And that’s stressful when you don’t know when the “accidentally making a thing” part will happen.

              In my case, I had something of a breakthrough this week, so even though I’m still daunted by everything I still have to figure out, I can kind of see the light at the end of the tunnel now. But I’m still feeling the crunch. And I need a nap.

              Honestly, though, I do think this space of unknown is kind of to be expected when you’re making something new. I also think we aren’t always honest with ourselves about how frustrating it can be.

              We live in a world driven by deadlines, reliability, and not wasting people’s time. While I can see the value of these things in certain instances, let’s be clear that these are capitalist constructs, and more so than that, they aren’t realistic 100% of the time. Making stuff can be messy and it can be infuriating. I think there’s room to have grace with ourselves. I also think we can be more compassionate with the expectations we place on each other.

              That’s it. That’s all I’ve got. Whatever I manage to come up with show-wise will go up in the Keene in a few weeks. More info to come.

Crooked Fool: I love theatre, but it has some problems…

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“Why do you do theatre?”

I’ve heard a lot of answers to this question. For me, a lot of it comes down to the way the artform pushes us to trust our own instincts and explore heightened states of being. There’s also a humanizing element to live performance that I think is incredibly powerful. But one answer that I hear over and over, and one that also holds true for me, is community. It’s being an integral part of an ensemble and being fully seen by both the cast and crew and the audience.

A couple of years ago, I was fully, 100% ready to quit theatre for good. I was tired of the rigid hierarchies, of petty politics and fragile egos, and of being told that my basic needs had no place in the rehearsal space. When I eventually dipped a reluctant toe back in, it was the feeling of community and being wanted that brought me back.

At the same time, that particular production  was laden with the same tempers, toxicity, and director’s-desires-over-human-needs mentality that made me want to quit in the first place.

Theatre is one of those places people go to feel seen and to be part of something. At its best, it’s a place where people can be valued and welcome and exist in wholeness in ways they can’t elsewhere. I do believe that theatre is sacred.

But that doesn’t mean we have to cling fearfully and unquestioningly to its norms and power structures.

Ideologies that tell us to “leave our baggage at the door” and that the “show must go on” regardless of our needs deny us humanity. They insist that our main value is to the show and that our value and needs as people are secondary. In denying accommodations for needs, these ways of thinking can also become incredibly ableist, and even if accommodations are given with relatively little pushback, the labor of getting needs met still falls disproportionately on the marginalized and minoritized people in the room.

We all know that commitment and heightened expression are hallmarks of theatre, and they do have tremendous power to elevate a scene and affect an audience. But no human being can be at 100% plus all the time. Perhaps this is a byproduct of a late-stage capitalist society that doesn’t appropriately value or fund the arts, but thespians don’t always get a lot of rest. On top of juggling day jobs and the realities of gig work, we’re expected to come and do sometimes demanding emotional and physical work for hours more on top of everything else. Where’s the conversation about balance? And where’s the respect for varying capacities? If somebody has a health condition or even just life circumstances that limit their capacity to explore that 100 every moment of rehearsal, are we just going to write them off as a bad actor and take away their place in the industry? All that does is lose us good storytellers, and closing out unique talents and perspectives just limits the craft as a whole.

And then there are the hierarchies. The egos. Maybe it is actually a good idea to listen if your stage manager says “places,” but is it also great to not be able to question the director if they’re offering a potentially harmful or problematic interpretation of a story? Or what if a direction is being given that isn’t possible to follow, whether for reasons of ability, mental/emotional health, or because it increases marginalization of the actors or the characters? We probably all have blind spots, but that’s why we have to be accountable to each other and continually do the work to educate ourselves. Not everyone steps up and does that work, and even for those who do, we’re human. We can’t know everything and we always have to be open to learning, and that’s especially true for those of us with privileged identities.

Theatre itself may be powerful and sacred, but it’s just as corrupted as anything else by the colonized, carceral, capitalist society we live in. Questioning rigid norms is not a disservice to the artform, it is the ultimate form of respect. Taking steps to ensure that every artist in the room can show up in wholeness and complexity, without erasing any part of themselves, maintains integrity in storytelling and ensures that valuable voices are not shut out of the room. Ignoring needs only prevents people from accessing their full potential. The greatness of theatre is dependent not on upholding every industry norm, but on asking tough questions about what the artform is capable of and how our unwillingness to change may be holding it back.

Theatre is absolutely a place where people can go to be whole, seen, and part of a community, but that only remains true if we commit to keeping it so the same way we commit to our objectives onstage. Examining power structures and community norms based in scarcity, unnecessary urgency, and privilege does not diminish excellence, it is a commitment to it. When we hold power in the room, whether because of our identities or our role in the production, we have the responsibility to put checks on that power, and doing so serves both the production and the theatre communities we love and that love us back. But that does mean stepping into the discomfort of questioning entrenched industry practices. It’s hard, it’s uncomfortable, and in the case of directors or producers who prize compliance, it can even be a career risk, but it is necessary to keep theatre sacred.

Crooked Fool: I’m bad at resting

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I’m an artist and I’m bad at resting. I am absolutely raging terrible at taking a break. I know rest is resistance…and I’m still bad at it.

As I write this, my brain is totally blitzed out and I can feel the blood vessels in my forehead slowly squeezing into migraine mode because I’ve been on Zoom more or less constantly since early this afternoon hosting meetings for everything from Ypsi Pride’s entertainment committee to a new theatre group I’m trying to get off the ground. I’m cranky and I’m sure I’ve gone a bit nuts and I still have to write this damn blog post. I also still haven’t done the reading for tomorrow’s classes, sent out the notes for either of the meetings I’ve hosted today, or responded to my cat’s ever more mournful meows for food (side note: he’s had like two dinners already; he’s fine).

I’ve written before about how deeply embedded grind culture has become in the arts. Students are also not known for their work-life balance, so I’m arguably twice screwed over in that regard, especially as a nontraditional undergrad trying to balance an existing life, career, and the need to support myself with an elite university built for younger, wealthier students who didn’t have to commute to campus or work their way through school.

But here’s the truth: grind culture has also embedded itself in me. Even as I scream into the abyss about how the expectations placed on people by their jobs and passions alike are unhealthy, ableist, and oppressive consequences of late-stage capitalism, I still can’t even personally practice what I preach.

The sad truth about artists is that we care deeply about what we do, and that makes us all too willing to give in to unreasonable and unhealthy demands on our time and capacity. Taking a break becomes a lot harder when you genuinely want to be doing everything on your to do list. There’s a level of guilt woven into it when you can feel in your bones the importance of what you’re doing.

I know that I do not owe any project or entity institution energy beyond my capacity or the exhaustion of my body. But all too often, I still give it. And there are surely power dynamics at play, especially when we’re talking about massive, powerful institutions that hold sway over my future. But then there are the passion projects and the volunteer-run community orgs…and sometimes, taking those projects on also feels like a form of rebellion in the face of so many power structures demanding my time. Resistance itself takes up energy. And rationally, I know this is by design. My exhaustion and the struggle to keep up with the things that are important to me in addition to those that are required of me is a byproduct of some incredibly unjust and unnecessary power structures.

But still, if I’m being honest, I find it hard to let go and do nothing. Grind culture has worked its way thoroughly into my thinking, and even though I know it’s not right, I still often give into it.

So yeah, I know it’s hard, and I get why we do it. Even so, I’m still going to keep trying to get myself to leave things be and not operate at 110% all the time. If I can channel my innate stubbornness toward an extra project I frankly don’t have the time for, maybe I can also channel it to doing nothing.

In other words: I’m going to bed after I post this.