Tips of ice bergs

I've learned over my years of teaching that whenever I enter a room full of students and take a look around, I'm only getting the tiniest bit of those students' stories from what I see. Then when students speak and/or share more about themselves through written assignments or class discussions, I may understand a little bit more about them, but I still only have limited access to the full picture. 

I've come to think of it like this: I need to navigate a ship (the classroom environment, what I'm teaching, every member of the group's sensitivities) through a room full of ice bergs, and I can only see what's above the surface with no idea what's below. It's sometimes very difficult to ascertain students' personal sensitivities, backgrounds, and needs if I don't somehow create a space where students feel comfortable speaking to me about those elements of their personal experiences. I don't know what's below the surface, and I can't know unless students feel comfortable sharing.

I've thought that I've been doing the best I can, but after recent events on college and university campuses over the last two weeks have gained wide media attention and after listening to a public discussion at NYU on diversity and inclusion, I feel discouraged and unclear about the work that I do in my classrooms. Students of color are angry, upset, and clearly in a lot of pain while they're trying to learn, and that's counterproductive to the learning process. Based on stories they're sharing now, there are plenty of reasons to be upset and to be making demands for change. We as faculty have a lot of work to do when it comes to creating and sustaining more inclusive classrooms for students of color.

I also try to think carefully about how class and socioeconomic status play into a discussion of privilege. How assumptions about my class background are largely based on the color of my skin and my gender. I try to take the privilege that comes from my skin color and my gender very seriously in my interactions with other people. I sometimes feel that people are less interested in considering that my current socioeconomic status may not reflect where I came from, and may actually be far more complicated than my skin color and gender might indicate. I haven't found a way to share that in any kind of public way, and maybe that's part of the problem.

It comes down to telling our stories, right? We only know about other people what they choose to share with us. Beyond that, we easily fall into the trap of making assumptions based on past experiences, stereotypes, or what other people tell us. When people are comfortable enough to tell their own stories in the way they want them told and other people take the time to listen and hear the story, then we might start to get at the crux of all of these issues. 

One size does not fit all. Blanket policies can help, but we have to build spaces where conversations flow more freely. That's the way to melt the ice bergs. And then the path through rough seas might get a little less bumpy.

My grocery store as a soft target

My typical Sunday morning routine includes a run through Central Park that ends at Columbus Circle for a coffee and the week's grocery shopping at the Whole Foods on the basement level of the Time Warner Center, a higher-end shopping mall.

Today, as I emerged with my typical two bags of groceries for the week, I rounded my usual corner to walk to the entrance to the subway, and I proceeded to nearly run into a member of the NYPD's Hercules Team. Big guy, probably my age or a little older, helmet, sunglasses, bullet-proof vest, and an automatic rifle. I was taken aback at first, but then as I continued my walk to the subway it dawned on me: my grocery store is a so-called soft target. Or in a building that is considered a soft target. This also explained the police barricades up all around Columbus Circle. 

The huge loss of life in the past two weeks has certainly been on my mind a lot. I took two transatlantic flights since the Russian airliner was shot down over Egypt, and my nerves were a little frayed both times. Last night we ate dinner at a French restaurant on the Upper West Side, one that we eat at almost every week. It was business as usual. They seated us like they usually do, and only halfway through the meal did I realize that my back was to the door. I had a thought: "I wouldn't see it coming." "It" being someone with a rifle, like what had happened in Paris the night before. Or in Baghdad or Beirut a few days before. The people across the table would, but would that be quick enough for all of us to take cover? I looked over my shoulder, had a moment of panic, and then decided to just breathe it down. "Do not catastrophize this, Joey." But between that moment and what I saw this morning, I understand that something is different. 

As I write this, I know these are my First World Problems. People in other countries in the Middle East face these realities every single day. Their grocery stores, market places, bars, and restaurants have been soft targets for decades. I've got to find a way to know more of those stories, so that my empathy grows, so that my privileged position doesn't numb me but rather somehow produces more compassion and understanding about why these things happen. Knowing the stories is the only way to go here. 

Coming through

I've had the pleasure of working on a new project over the past few days, and my brain is buzzing with lots of anecdotes.  I'm collaborating with a Canadian writer and performer named Jenny Macdonald on her new one-woman show, Enthroned, set to premiere in Dublin's First Fortnight Festival in January 2016.

We've been in the studio together over the last five days, refining the second half of the play through new writing and then workshopping various sections. Our time together reaffirmed many things for me as an artist and a collaborator, and then one of the most important takeaways came from Jenny after one of our sessions. We were talking about the creative process, the challenges of writing, the difficulties of "knowing" the state of a project when we're right in the middle of it all.  Then Jenny said the following:

Creativity is not something you do; it's something that you let come through you.

Can it be that easy? Uh huh. It can. "Doing" often prevents me from discovering, because I'm too busy to notice what's really right in front of my face.

Loosen the grip. Stop forcing it. Let it come through me.

This relates to last week's musing about equal distribution of weight and not leaning forward. Maybe not having to try so hard. Let it come through me. Let it present itself. Let it emerge when it's ready. What a concept...

Jenny shared that nugget and many other pieces of wisdom during our work together these past few days. A pleasure and a privilege to collaborate with her on finding the creative path to a new piece of writing while embracing the notion that it's not about finishing. Rather, it's about finding the next stopping place for a share out to those that gather to see.

Leaning too far forward

I've trained with Jonathan Angelilli for over a decade, and with his help and support I've gone from having chronic low back pain and minimal core strength to running four marathons, enjoying spin class, and even doing pull ups. Jonathan has found any number of ways to help me understand the connection between the body and the mind, and that understanding has changed the way I feel about myself and the importance of physical activity in my life. And not just to be “physically fit.”

Case in point:

Over the last six weeks, my weekly training sessions with Jonathan have included about 30 minutes of boxing, a physical activity I never thought I'd do. I'm not actually in a ring sparring, but I'm learning punches and combinations that make for a very good workout.

We've been working on a right cross, and throwing that punch benefits from a pivot on the right back foot, a "putting out the cigarette" motion. I can throw the punch, but the pivot gives me trouble. The reason? Not enough weight on my back foot: I tend to lean into the punch, too far forward, and then I’m off balance and more susceptible to getting knocked down. My weight isn't centered on both feet, making the cross less effective because there’s less strength behind it. I'm getting better with each session, but more importantly, I'm starting to make connections beyond the act of throwing the punch.

Leaning too far forward when I try to throw the punch functions as a larger metaphor for many things in my life. Over the last two years I've worked to embrace the concept of "less is more," that sometimes what feels like less effort actually yields better results or greater progress in the end. I saw this play out first in my running, where fewer training runs translated into a less painful marathon. I've also seen it in weight training, where less visible struggle (scrunching up my face, grunting, "performing" my exertion) yields smoother and more efficient repetitions.

I've also started to notice a difference in my teaching and art making. Less time pounding away in a rehearsal translates into more focused creation with stronger choices based on instinct rather than on overthinking. When singing, if I relax and allow my jaw to drop rather than tightening up all the muscles in my face and “winding up,” the note comes out with a much clearer tone. If the assessment techniques in my teaching are more efficient, I have more energy in the actual class itself to engage with students.

I came of age as an artist and a teacher, really as a human being, thinking that “more effort” always equaled “better results,” and I’ve come to question whether that’s always the case. That said, I do understand that my hard work has brought me lots of success. Yet as I grow older and hopefully wiser, I'm learning that my "hard work" can sometimes be like throwing spaghetti at the wall and hoping something sticks. That's what the leaning forward represents for me. Sometimes the lean forward is an overcompensation, an unnecessary effort that repels rather than draws in. The leaning forward takes me off balance, opens me up to get knocked on my ass. By maintaining balance on both feet, my right hook has more power because my right foot pivots and throws more weight behind the punch. Maybe if I stay centered with my “weight” equally distributed and concentrate my effort when I make art or when I teach, I can strike a stronger metaphorical blow, have greater impact, deepen an audience's understanding.

Less effort can be different effort; it is by no means lazy. Throw some hip into it. It feels really good. Especially when there's balance.