cicadas chirp around me
buzzing and bursting at the seams for something to change
something has to give
but it won’t be me
and it won’t be you
I can feel my skin peeling off
gross, disgusting, unnatural,
yet praised
the summer sun burns me and
boils me down to my
bare essentials.
I become nothing but what you want me to become.
but when autumn comes near
I feel the weather cools
and I become myself again.
the cicadas die off,
and only their shells remain.
I am more than that. I will always be.
i’m not the one to sound alarms
when there’s not an emergency,
when nothing ’round me would cause harm
or initiate urgency.
a crash, a boom, a slam, a bang,
the explosion of someone’s voice
can leave me grasping for somebody
to give me another choice.
it’s all at once, it’s always been,
and i know it always will be,
but every time i think of this
i wonder how this world is free
since i’m not made to handle things
of multitude, for i am just
a person with a complex mind
of particles that come from dust.
and who really isn’t just that?
is anybody else around
to witness nature’s caveat,
the deaf’ning, overwhelming sound?
because i know i’m not alone,
but it truly does seem like so
when i go in search of my own
and all i get is told to go.
so what to do in such a state?
a person who is nothing but
as moved and living as the late
can only pull their eyes closed shut.
unless, of course, there was a hand
to hold and have and know and pass
through all the hurt and turmoil that
come with this life, this knowing path
of crashes, booms and slams and bangs,
of letting that heaviness hang,
of knowing even on your own
you’ll never truly alone.
emergency! emergency!
a social peril, a dire need
to be together, joined at once,
to fight the good fight attonce
“to have and to hold,”
but what is left in my arms if not empty platitudes
if i forget to take action with my love.
i’m made of the dignity i was born with,
of the earth beneath me, the sky above me,
the insects and mammals and fish around me,
of the people around me.
i am tied to them forever.
with all of my dreams of leaving myself behind,
as long as there are others i will always be here.
marriage is a promise to another
and the public
that someone’s story will be a part of yours,
has been a part of yours,
for better or for worse.
i am married to my past, my present, my future,
to my former footsteps and the dirt that surrounds them.
i am married to my loved ones, my peers,
and those who will never love me back.
i am part of something greater, something better,
something bigger than me or anyone that i could think of.
marriage, really, is everywhere and in everything that you can think of.
just like love, and just like hope.
i will have this peace. i will hold my loved ones.
now and forever.
i remember when i was nothing but Hope
i remember when i thought that my Hope was enough
to save the world.
when i felt that everything was to be done right.
when i had the answer to absolutely everything
and nothing could change it.
in elementary school i was always
running to be the line leader,
to tell my peers to buckle up
and wait their turns
and stand up straight
and quiet down
and then it’d all be fixed.
and i remember wanting to be president.
to solve world hunger and bring world peace,
to bring a better life.
the eyes of a child and the eyes of an idealist
are one in the same, and
both are so very needed.
my eyes grow dimmer,
my prescription weaker,
and i have cataracts on my soul, my spirit,
and i can barely see the light anymore.
the Hope, it persists nonetheless
like a echo.
it has lasted far longer than i ever thought it would.
i can even hear it now.
but it is dying, slowly and steadily, no matter how many times i resucitate it.
i now see those who i love and care for
who i worry and fear for
being told by others who will never care to know my loved ones
to buckle up
and wait their turns
and stand up straight
and quiet down
to listen up
and quickly move
and shut their mouths
and stay alert
and don’t speak up
and don’t resist
and don’t you dare.
and to refuse would be risking everything.
i fear for those risking everything.
i fear for them, and for those who will be told they’re risking everything
no matter what they do.
when do you cry for help?
when it is too late? when you’re there just in time?
where is our line leader. does such a person, such an entity, even exist.
will it ever.
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.
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?
