Improv: the Cult

I just finished reading Tina Fey's new book Bossypants.

Fey devotes a large portion of the book to discussing improv. It wasn't until I was reading about the culture she found herself immersed in that I realized NOT EVERYONE DOES THIS. I have been taking my role in the improv cult for granted.

I don't ever assume that everyone went to nursing school. Or that everyone else grew up in West Roxbury. Yet I forget that years of rhyming drills weren't part of everyone else's college experience. I forget that not everyone spends their spare time playing make believe. It's easy I guess, because most of my friends have a unique day job that I know little to nothing about, and then at night they do what I do. Everyone I associate with has the same basic story that I do about finding and falling in love with improv. We don't have to talk about it, because although we went through it separately it was a shared experience. It's just what we all did, and what we all do. I'm not talking about being part of a show-biz social circle, although at there is certainly some overlap. I'm not even talking about belonging to the "theater kid" clique, although I have those groups of friends as well. Improv ingrains itself into you in ways you don't even consciously realize. To quote Tina Fey exactly: "studying improv literally changed my life."

I once posted a piece about what it means to apply the rules of improv in a medical workplace. This was a response piece to Liz Caradonna's blog post about the benefits of having a trainer improviser in the office workplace: Beyond the Funny.

When I joined The Yellow Submarines in high school, I had no way of knowing I was beginning a life long journey down a new way of life. I don't care that it sounds over dramatic to you. It isn't.

The Subs and I watched Whose Line is It Anyway (the British version) and thought "we can do that." So we did- learning and perfecting short form games each week. We went to see shows at Improv Boston and Improv Asylum, idolizing grown ups who had somehow made improv their livelihood.*  Still, improv was just a game to me until I auditioned into Mission:IMPROVable at UMass.

My time in Mission was the most serious I have ever been about  improv. We rehearsed three times a week. We had a show every Saturday. If you could not make all three rehearsals, you couldn't perform in the show on Saturday. If you missed too many rehearsals a semester, the director would talk with you about your commitment to the group. We hired alumni to come back and give workshops. We raised money and went to Chicago every year on Spring Break to see shows and take workshops  at iO and The Annoyance. We did corporate shows, and college road shows during the school year. In the summer time we played at birthday parties for friends, and tried to busk on the streets of Boston.

We used to do a warm up called "Yes, Let's" and the attitude behind the game permeated our performances and our friendships. Want to make up new structures on stage, with a live audience? Yes, let's. Want to try to do an entire show backwards?  Yes, let's. We failed sometimes, but that was half the game. the other half of the time we were brilliant. We were fearless in our love of the art.

By the end of sophomore year with only a handful of  exceptions, EVERYONE I interacted with on any kind of regular basis was an improviser. My friends. My roommates. The guys I dated. When I left college I was more concerned with what I was going to do for my last show with Mission than I was with any other part of graduating.

My social circles now are slightly more diverse by virtue of my job, but not by much.  My involvement in the Improv Boston community as well as my role at Improv Asylum see to that. Plus, most of my best friends from Mission are still in touch, some on a weekly basis.

So I really do forget that not everyone knows how to hold an "object work" coffee cup,  and that not everyone knows cares what a "Harold" is. Most of my coworkers during the day won't "mirror"  funny voices and don't "yes and," jokes. Instead they laugh and then ask me how my stand up is going and if this is part of my routine.

Sometimes I wonder what I'll do when I eventually move on from Improv Asylum. Until I read Bossypants it was easy to imagine that I might just retire. Try something new entirely. But now I know that even if I took a break from performing for a while (which, to quell any rumors before they start, is not my plan), I would never, ever be able to leave the cult. You take it all with you. Like a language that you never forget how to speak, like your handwriting but when you're not thinking making it neat, like the side you sleep on in your bed when no one else is there. It's just who you are.

Enough

Interesting coincidence in The Telegraph  as I browsed through my Google Reader, catching up on a week's worth of writing from some of my favorites.

I've thought about getting a tattoo on and off for the past few years. One design that I absolutely can't shake is the word "satis." It's Latin for "enough."

I love the word "enough" for its dual connotations. It can mean being comfortably satisfied or can insinuate  the breaking point. (Who, while bickering with their sibling,  hasn't heard their mother scream "Enough! Knock it off."?) I love the idea of a reminder that I do not need anything more because my cup is full. Satis. I also enjoy the reminder to not put up with a lot of bullshit. "That's enough of that," my little tattoo will remind me. Satis.

And in this recent blog post Stephen Hough voices his love of the word "enough," for most of the same reasons I do.

Maybe we should get matching tattoos, Mr. Hough!

Finding Your Niche

Today I am going out to UMass Amherst to address the second bachelor students. I went and spoke to the undergrad nursing class in January and it was a huge success. What am I going to talk about? I'm going to talk about figuring out what kind of nurse you are, and creating a role for yourself in the world that fits that person.

My involvement in coming to speak to the school of nursing is the stuff of fairy tales for me. I was well known in the School of Nursing, and mostly well liked. However, since I was not a traditional nursing student, not many of my professors expected I would become a nurse.  In fact, when I graduated, they didn't read off a hospital after my name, which is what typically happens.
 "J. Jones, Cooley Dickinson, Northampton, Ma.  A. Morrison, Children's Hospital, Boston."

For me they read, "M.Whitaker... (loooong pause) will be... will be performing at Improv Asylum in Boston," because I had just made the NXT cast and that's what I wrote on my graduation information sheet.

So when they invited me back to speak to young impressionable students... that amazed me. It still amazes me.  I always fantasized I would have a chance to tell my story to people it might matter to. And now I am being given that chance.

Nursing school was difficult. Not because I wasn't great at memorization, cramming, or writing 20 page papers the night before they were due. Boston Latin School taught me all that a long time ago.

No, nursing was difficult because I was trapped between two worlds. Comedy and Nursing. Theater and Medicine. Art and Pragmatism. Doing both made sense to me, but it made little sense to many of my professors.

In fact, I had one clinical instructor who, on a weekly basis would take me aside and ask if I had quit Mission:IMPROVable yet. I hadn't. I had been in the group for four years before she met me, I explained. I planned on doing improv professionally later on, I told her. And so long as it didn't effect my grades, it was really none of her business. Even as I pulled in a steady line of "A"s on my papers, tests and care plans these little side bars continued because "comedy just isn't an appropriate hobby for a nurse."

This is what I looked like sophomore year of Nursing School.
I wouldn't have placed bets on me getting an RN either.

Meanwhile, I was fighting some personal battles. My father had passed away at the beginning of sophomore year and my mother was/ is unable to work. I was newly financially responsible but couldn't qualify for aid because they assuming my mom could throw some of Dad's pension my way, which she couldn't actually afford to do. So I had taken out a loan and was working as hard as I could without quitting improv. Often I was coming to school not having slept at all because I had to work overnight shifts to make money.

One morning, my white sneakers split in half after being on my feet all night. The next morning I pulled on my green high tops and went to my clinical in West Springfield where I was shadowing a school nurse at a local high school. We had been working together for a few weeks and she had already commented that I could relax the school uniform so I went in and everything was fine. The next week I still hadn't replaced the shoes because I needed to wait for my next paycheck. Unfortunately, this was the day my UMass clinical instructor decided to visit me at the clinical site. She took me into the back room, where we let girls who say they have cramps lie down when they want to skip gym.

I stared a a poster on the wall of "100 Things To Do Instead of Smoking," and listened as my instructor told me that I was the reason people don't take nurses seriously. I thought about all the nurses in the world wearing teddy bear scrub tops and tried not to open my mouth. She told me the next time I came in I better have white shoes. I told her the truth. That I couldn't afford them right now.

"Don't you have parents?" she asked.
"I have one," I answered, daring her to go further. Which she did.

A verbal fight ensued. In the end, I won. But not before some terrible things were said on both sides. She insulted my family. I threatened to take it to the Dean. I'm amazed she passed me that semester. But she did. Green high tops, sassy back-talk and all.

Those stories are just two examples. There were a million reasons I hated nursing. I wanted to quit, but I have never been a quitter. I have never walked away from something just because it's hard.  I was good at the technical skills, and I got good grades on every care plan. The only thing that was hard, it seemed, was being accepted by other nurses. I just didn't fit in. Maybe it was enough, I thought, just to know I could have gone into nursing. 

The person who finally got through to me was Jennifer Foster. She taught Culture and Anthropology. She had traveled the whole world. She wore funky clothes.  When I mentioned to her that I was probably leaving the school of nursing she listened carefully and then said simply, "don't."  I'm paraphrasing here but she told me, "you don't hate nursing. You hate the culture of nursing school. When you leave here you choose what you want to do, and the people you will do it with. You will find your niche. The nursing world needs more nurses who are like you. Because only you will fill that niche. Don't forget that."

I didn't forget that.

When I spoke to the students last winter I told them that one of the most important things they could do for themselves was remember that they are free to NOT take advice. They do not have to listen to people who tell them to quit something they love. By the same token, they also do not have to listen to me.

 Everyone on my path was trying to do something good for me. The woman who hated comedy wanted me to be a successful (and published) psych nurse. She was giving me advice from that lens. The woman who hated my shoes wanted me to be taken seriously, and she was worried I wouldn't be. It made her say some very mean things, but it had originated from a helpful place. But I was free to politely disagree with them. As soon as you figure out that you are free to NOT take advice, life gets a lot easier. It really frees you up to set goals and then systematically pursue them. Or you know, float through life on whimsy like I do, accidentally landing both my dream jobs in one year. Whatever works for you.

I received a lot of emails afterwards thanking me. A lot of students said they were glad someone had the courage to say the things I said. Some of them said they also had been thinking about quitting because they don't feel like they fit the "nursing mold."  They felt better now. I felt better too. Telling all the stories about nursing school helped me let go of my anger.

So, I found my Niche. Obviously. But the thing about Niches is that, sometimes they change too. If they didn't I'd still be teaching theater at a Montessori. That was perfect for a while, but then it wasn't anymore.  I'm going to add that to my speech today.  You have to continue to be aware of yourself, reevaluate your goals and your dreams and then keep carving away at your place in the world. Because for a room full of intelligent, dedicated, passionate people there's absolutely no excuse not to do what you love.

mutated marine life

For the past month or so, I've started posting riddles for my patients to think about while they're in line for their medications. I write a riddle every morning at whatever medication station I'm working at.
When a bunch of patients have gotten the riddle I change it up.

The other day I wrote,
"It has holes in the bottom, holes in the top, and holes along the sides. But it still holds water. What is it?"

One of my young guys approached the counter.

"It's not a fish is it?"

"No," I told him, smiling.

"Is it an octopus?"

"Since when does an octopus have holes in the top and sides?" I asked.

"A chernobyl octopus!"



So that's the new answer to the riddle. Because "sponge" is a lot less funny.

Happy Easter! love, the 80's!

I actually have a copy of this commercial on a VHS copy of the stage production of Peter Pan with Mary Martin which aired on NBC one year. I have no idea if it aired every year or what, because once I had it on VHS I watched it approximately every single day for the rest of my life. 

Easter Tridium

Easter is almost here, and that means the end of Lent, for which I am always eternally grateful because Lent is the gloomiest season of all in the church. 

I didn't go to church on Holy Thursday this year because I was scheduled for shows. I didn't think I would mind, but I did. Mostly because in the past year I found a church community that takes the feet washing to a new level. That may seem weird and uncomfortable to some people, but it's exactly the hands-on version of Catholic theology that I relate to so well. 

"You're not a real Catholic," Jeremy said recently with an air of surprise, "you're like a strange Christian- hippie hybrid." *

I guess I am. It doesn't help (or should I say that it doesn't hurt?) that during Lent this year instead of revisiting The Devout Life by St. Francis de Sales, (as I have done in years past) I instead read:

- If God is Love, Phillip Gulley and Jim Mulholland

- If the Church Were Christian: Rediscovering the Values of Jesus,  Phillip Gulley

and excerpts from 

- The Women's Bible, Elizabeth Cady Stanton 

 Throughout the years I have had periods in which I have taken great comfort and pride in the church. I have also had periods, difficult to shake, where I am embarrassed, ashamed, saddened and troubled by the church.   But I've always retained my membership. I've never not been Catholic. The same is true now.  Although, now I am more comfortable than I have ever been just defining myself as a Christian-Catholic Hybrid. **

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* This is because I told Jeremy I like to pray in the woods. He doesn't even know about the feet washing.

** If we have to have definitions. Which we don't. Because that's, like, just The Man trying to keep you down.  Let's go burn our draft cards. And our bras. And the tip of this joint. 

In Print!

 UMass Amherst Magazine was Boston themed this month.
 As such, they ran a story by Patricia Sullivan about Improv Asylum.
 The piece features me, Norm Laviolette and Jeremy Brothers because we're all hi-larious UMass alumni.
You can check it out here. Personally, I think she captured us perfectly.

Expiration Date

I bought orange juice in November. I was sick; thought some juice would make me feel better. For some reason, however, I never opened the juice. I never unscrewed the cap, and more importantly, I never popped the inner seal.

This past week I decided to clean out the contents of the refrigerator. As I tossed aside forgotten leftovers and a half rotten bag of spinach, I came across the OJ, tucked in the very back of the fridge next to a tin of maple syrup.

The stamp on the carton read Nov 29 10. Curious, I shook the carton and then opened it up. I poured myself a glass and took a whiff. Orangey. The juice was the color of its parent fruit, without any sign of mold or rot. I drank three glasses of it as I finished the rest of my work. The next day, because I saw no problem with it, I finished the rest of the carton.

My little experiment's results didn't surprise me. I tend to be lax with expiration dates. Unlike the well meaning friend who once tried to dash the pills out of my hand once she saw the Tylenol had expired, I think of the tiny numbers as more of a suggestion than a rule.

This attitude was definitely something I learned as a child. In his copy of "Dad's Own Cookbook", my father found a chart of how long food can last when properly stored. He made a photocopy of it and it hung on our refrigerator as a guideline. The book, which I now have in my own kitchen, has this to say about hot dogs for example:
- opened package: one week
- unopened package: two weeks
- in a freezer and wrapped: 1-2 months

WebMD offers similarly practical advice in this feature article, as well as a guide to interpreting the difference between things like "sell by," and "best if used by" labels.*

On my lunch break at work while trying to get updates about the weather I stumbled on an article on Boston.com's home page about exactly this issue.

The article raised an interesting point - regardless of whether  individuals choose to take a risks on an "expired" product or not, is it ethical (or legal) for schools or prisons to use foods which are past their dates.

Ah, So. The rub. I don't mind eating yogurt that's a week past its due date after I spot check it. What's more, after looking at it and smelling it, if I saw nothing wrong with it I would even give it to my own mother! But the question remains: would I want it dispensed sight unseen in a school? In a hospital? In a prison?

 There is so much food wasted in this country every single day.  In college I waited tables in the dining room of an Assisted Living Home for a while. At the end of the shift, I watched as entire pots of soup, plates of steak, steamed veggies were thrown into the dumpster. I begged the chef to let me take the wasted food at the end of the day to a local Soup Kitchen. "I'll do it myself," I said. "I'll come in on my nights off to pick it up as well." I imagined recruiting friends. We'd truck it over in backseats of our cars each night before the kitchen closed.

He smiled sadly at my idealism and then dismissed it. "We can't," he said. "The food wasn't kept on warmers. It can begin growing bacteria as it cools. As a chef, I simply couldn't allow people to eat that food. If they got sick..." He trailed off leaving me to my disappointment. It was one of my first lessons in the complexity of Hunger as one of those Big World Issues. Some people have more food than they need. Others have none. But sharing might be dangerous, so throw all the pot roast away.

So what about food BEFORE it is cooked? Do we have to throw that away too? Based on the voluntary dates that have been chosen arbitrarily in some cases and conservatively in almost all cases? what about milk in sealed bottles? Meat in its plastic sheath packing? What about canned goods, frozen foods, and rice in closed boxes?

Personally, I am not scandalized by the idea that prisons, schools, or even hospitals use food past the labeled "date," as long as the decisions to use the foods remain informed. Kitchen staff should have a knowledge of basic food safety and access to guidelines about the life expectancy of properly stored foods. They should be empowered by their direct supervisors to question stock based on what it looks like or smells like when they open it. The way anyone would do when cooking for themselves or a family member.

Also in college, under the tutelage of some Freegan friends I learned to harvest foods from dumpsters just after the local super market tossed away the day's produce. To this day, I don't see this as being much different from my Farmers Market strategy.** One of my favorite things to do then was to stake out the  Dunkin Donuts on Rt 9 near Spirit Haus.They didn't put trash in with their donuts. Just bagged up the donuts and tossed them away at 11pm. Sometimes they would just hand them off, all bagged up like that. The donuts had reached their "expiration time," and could no longer be sold to customers.

But they were still good. Believe me.

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*At this point I'd like to smugly point out that WebMD says that food which is frozen is "safe indefinitely," which I tried to explain to a roommate recently when he wanted me to toss three perfectly good boxes of veggie burgers.
** The trick is to show up at Haymarket just as things are shutting down. When I've timed it right, I was able to  buy bags and bags of fruits for a mere fraction of the price they fetched all day.

My brother always asks me about my blog before he asks about my job.

My last blog entry is dated March 17th and that makes sense. The very next day my landlord began construction on my bathroom. Since I was staying with friends/ showering at the gym, I did not have a ton of time to update the blog. The renovations took a week, and after that I began using my days off to travel. I hit New York City, Tampa, Sarasota and Chicago all within the past couple of weeks. At a time when I should have been blogging MORE so I could share all the amazing things I've been doing, I scrapped public writing off the priority list altogether in favor of keeping a personal journal.

Je ne regrette rien. Seriously.

Yesterday was Palm Sunday, marking the beginning of Holy Week. Alas, this too means writing may be scarce for the next few days as I try to spend some extra time in contemplation. But never fear, writing will once again be a priority as of next week as I shed my wool coat for a denim jacket and trade vanilla chai lattes for iced coffee from Dunkin Donuts.