I’m caught between what I want to do and what I should do. Right now, I’m going through something that I really want to write about. It’s a story that’s ripe (rife? wife? write?) with tension. There are twists and turns, comedy and tragedy. Writing this story would be cathartic and would help in my processing of it. I really want to write this story and share it on here. However, I won’t do that. At least not right now. 

You see, there are a number of problems with writing this story at this very moment. It involves other people who are in my life (which is always tricky). There’s a line between what is their story and what is my story. Currently, I’m not sure where that line is. That line helps me determine what I will share on here and what I won’t. Even if something makes for a good story, if it’s not mine, then I don’t feel I have a right to tell it. If I’m not at the center of it, then I’m telling someone’s story on their behalf which I don’t think is fair. 

 The main problem with telling this story right now, however, is a narrative conundrum. I’m currently smack dab in the middle of this story. There would be an exposition, a set-up. I know exactly where it would start. From there I would build the tension and sprinkle in some comedy. It would crescendo into an excitable peak! And then…nothing. This story isn’t over yet. I’m living the middle of it right now, this very moment. It wouldn’t make for a great blog post because it’s only half baked. There’s no resolution yet in real life so there couldn’t be one in the re-telling of it. 

Recently I was listening to a podcast with Brené Brown. Side note: all good things in my life come from Brené. In that podcast she said something that struck me. When discussing the vulnerability of sharing your story, specifically writing and presenting your story, she said that you should show others your scars and not your wounds. Full disclosure: I think she was quoting someone else but seeing as I’m not 100% positive where I heard it, let’s just credit Brené. This totally resonated with me and the more I think about it, the more I agree with it. As a reader, there’s something painfully uncomfortable about witnessing somebody share something they themselves have yet to process. Given that I’m in the middle of this story, I have not processed it, not as a whole. It would be a wound, the severity of which cannot yet be determined, and not a scar. 

An illustration of this point: when I first moved to Los Angeles, my new roommate Jamie (Hi Jamie!) took me and Sofia (Hi Sofia!) out to see some improv. It was one of our very first night’s in the city. It may have been the very same day that Sof put her parents on a plane to go back home. We were beyond pumped. This was our first time venturing out into the city. Jamie suggested we go see improv. The shows are usually dirt cheap and there’s tons of improv in the city. We decided to go to The Second City Hollywood. I can’t remember if Jamie took classes there or if he had a friend performing that night. In any case, we settled on Second City and then having dinner afterwards. 

I remember being very particular about what I wore. In my mind, going out at night in LA meant I had to look cool. I was young; I didn’t know better. I’m sure I looked mediocre at best and that no one gave a shit. I was so excited though. I remember thinking how goddamm cool it was that I now lived in Los Angeles and was going to see improv at The Second City on Hollywood Blvd. That was something cool people did, and I was now one of them. 

Jamie drove us from the valley to Hollywood. We jammed out to music in his car and laughed at the absurdity of having moved 2,000 miles from home. I’m pretty sure that’s the night I discovered Ain’t It Fun by Paramore, a song that still gets heavy rotation on my playlist. We found parking (a feat onto itself) and made the trek down the grunge factory known as Hollywood Boulevard. The dirtiness of that city would never cease to amaze me given that it is supposed to be the pinnacle of glamour. In any case, my excitement was building with every step down the boulevard. I was finally doing it. I was living in LA and doing things. 

We walk up to the building and get our tickets to the show. It was $5. I was floored. Who knew LA was so affordable?! 

The majority of my improv experience up to that point had been theatre games we played in college and Who’s Line Is It Anyway. I was an improv neophyte. I come to find out we’re about to watch Harold-style improv. This type of improv was developed by a legendary artist and improvisor Del Close. During a Harold, a member of the team will ask for a suggestion from the audience. They’d say something like, “What’s a terrible thing to bring on your beach vacation?” The audience then shouts out various answers: a parka, your cousin who can’t swim, a water phobia. Everyone laughs. Then the team member goes, “great, the worst thing to bring on a beach vacation is a parka.” Then someone else from the team steps forward and gives a monologue (an improvised one, duh) that is inspired by “a parka is the worst thing to bring on a beach vacation.” Maybe the monologue ends up being about that person’s childhood family vacation to Aspen where one of the kids didn’t have a coat so the parent’s wrapped them in a trash bag to go skiing (clearly this is an amazing improv show already). Then the team starts improvising scenes based on the monologue about the kid going skiing wrapped in a trash bag. Hilarity ensues. 

As we take our seats in the little theatre, I look around. The crowd is small but supportive. I would venture to guess this was a newly formed improv team and most people in the audience had a connection to someone on stage. As the house lights go down, my heart starts beating faster. This was the most LA thing I had ever done (that day).  

The improv team bursts out on stage like a hurricane. They’re pumped. We’re pumped. I’m pumped. Here we go. Let’s improv this motherfucker! The small audience was ready to be entertained as seven people prepared to make stuff up on the spot. 

I can’t remember what they asked or what suggestions were thrown out. All I remember was the monologue. After the audience suggestion, one of the company members steps forward to speak. He was a white guy in his late 20’s (even if that’s not accurate, it’s statistically probable that’s what he was). He pulls up a chair to deliver his monologue. I remember thinking that was kind of weird but, whatever, I’m a neophyte. What do I know? Now that I’ve actually studied some improv and seen a lot more it, I can say that yes it was weird to pull up a chair. Most improvisors just stand to give their 1-2 minute monologue. 

The excitement in the room is still pretty high, the audience continuing to giggle from the suggestions they threw out. Pulling out the chair shifted the energy a little. Not to worry. Maybe he has a bum ankle. Who am I to discriminate? 

He takes a quiet moment before speaking. Again, the energy shifts. It gets a little damper. We all get settled into what he’s about to say. Clearly, it’s going to be great since he needed a chair and a moment of silence. 

The small smile he had on his face disappears. Ruh roh. That can’t be good. He starts talking about his childhood. His real childhood. If I remember correctly, the first sentence or two was quasi-related to the audience suggestion. After that, the audience suggestion became a distant memory. A minute or two into his monologue about some childhood story, he mentions his dad. He stops. Oh shit. You could hear a pin drop. He needs a moment to breathe. I couldn’t tell if he was about to cry or scream. Things seem to take a serious turn. A few people shift uncomfortably in their seats. I look around the room. No one is excited. No one is smiling. The raucous silliness from a few moments ago is gone. He starts to choke up. He goes on to tell us about how his shitty father who had been a bastard all his life, had died a really painful and long death. He openly weeps as he tells this story. He recreates saying his final goodbye to a man that he both loved and hated. Silence. Then he stands up, puts the chair back and indicates to his team members that he was finished and it was time to start the comedy show. 

What. The. Fuck. 

No one knew what to do. The audience sat there, stunned by a 10-minute long depressing as fuck story about this guy’s dead dad. I felt so bad for the team on stage because they had to figure out how to shovel their way out of this turd mountain. It was clumsy and awkward, but they eventually got their footing underneath them. Sorta. As it turned out, they were a new team and they weren’t particularly good. At least, they weren’t that night. In fact, I would say they were actively bad that night. 

The three of us walked out of that theatre a little shook. Jamie kept apologizing for how rough the show was, which was silly given that he wasn’t the one on stage. Sof and I kept saying how fun it was just to be out in the city. We grabbed a bite to eat and bonded over having survived that improv show. That alone would have me classify the evening as a success. 

While that monologist clearly couldn’t read the room (i.e. maybe don’t tell depressing story about dead dad at improv comedy show), his biggest transgression was something else. He showed us a wound and not a scar. He hadn’t processed how his dad raised him or how he died. Everything was raw. It was present-tense for him. The grief he was carrying around was still active and palpable. He put it on display for everyone and that’s why we were uncomfortable. Inappropriate timing/setting aside, he shared something that wasn’t ready to be shared. He was in the middle of that story still.

It was an experience that I’ve reflected on from time to time. That monologue became a lesson that I internalized and when I heard  Brené’s words, a bell went off. That monologue perfectly demonstrates her point. When you dabble in creativity and sharing your truth, you have to have a grasp on it first. As a creator, you need to know your creation inside and out, even the scary parts. Distance and perspective help with that. We can’t share something still wet and dripping with blood. That benefits no one, not you and not your audience. 

So all that is to say, I have a juicy story that I’m in the middle of right now and will eventually share with you once I know the end and once it’s stopped bleeding. 

Also, don’t tell sad death stories at your improv show.  

Check out some of this week’s photo contributors:

Marcelo Moreira

Artem Saranin