Yes, and...

I was listening to Armchair Expert the other day.  The hosts both have a background in improv, as do many of their guests.  During an interview, someone mentioned the importance of “Yes, and…”  Suddenly, out of the 30-year-blue, I remembered what that phrase means.  And realized it’s something I’ve profoundly forgotten.  

When I was 15, I auditioned for the local Renaissance Faire.  I was a total Ren Faire dork and theater geek.  I did every drama-related thing in school, from backstage to lighting to acting.  I also did summer theater, wrote and staged Christmas plays, and thought a family vacation at the Shakespeare Festival was the coolest.  Uber-geek, and proud of it.  

I was thrilled at the thought of being part of the Renaissance Faire acting troupe for a season.  My drama teacher drove me out to a Holiday Inn in the heart of Amish Country, which was a little incongruous, but I dove right in--as much as an overweight, super shy, socially awkward 15-year-old dives into anything.  And that’s where I learned, as we were called up in groups to demonstrate our improvisational skills, what “Yes, and…” meant.  

The gist of it was: “Anything your fellow actor throws at you, you respond in the affirmative and add something to it.”  

So I said, “Sure!” to a 6’2” dude with a blue mohawk who claimed to have lost his keys in my shoes, and the rest was history.  I didn’t make the cut, of course.  But the casting people practised what they preached and didn’t slam me a solid, unworkable “no.”  They told me to audition again the following year, when I was older and could actually drive myself to work.  

I wish I had.   

I didn’t make it back the following year.  Probably because some cute boy said theater was for losers, and I lamely turned that into a solid “No.”  Two years later, I was attacked by a serial rapist and, from that point on, pretty much everything became a solid “No.” Not all at once, though some things fell off the “Yes” list immediately.  Including theater.  I no longer felt safe on stage or in the dark backstage or doing all the fun, body-centric exercise and games in acting classes. It was gone from my life within a year.   

I didn’t give up on creative expression--I went to a college known for its theater and dance.  But I never even went to a performance, much less participated.  I stopped using my body as the medium, and got very up in my head.  I switched to writing because it felt cozy, safe and disconnected.  

I’m not saying all writers are disconnected from their bodies.  That’s just how I used it.  As an escape from my body.  And from my, “Yes, and…”

The “Nos” built up over time.  There was strength and comfort in them. In a lot of ways, “No” felt like the only power left to me, so I wielded the crap out of it.  And totally forgot that “Yes, and…” had ever been a way of navigating through the festivities.

I didn’t have nightmares or suicidal ideations or dangerous behaviors, so I always thought I escaped the lingering effects of trauma.  I ate a lot and watched TV and, for the most part, functioned.  I believed the things that had fallen away--including the movement, energy, and person-to-person connection of theater--had done so naturally.  Like, part of maturity.  Simplification.  An elimination of stressors.  Why wouldn’t you remove stressful things from your life? 

Until one day I woke up and realized way too much had been removed.  All the doors and windows were closed and no one was getting in.  Even if I did suddenly remember and shout, “Yes, and..!”, there was no one to run with it.  

I give my mighty “No” credit for taking care of me as best it could.  It’s a legitimate coping mechanism, and it kept me as whole as possible.  But I would really like to restart the conversation: “Yes, thank you for protecting me for all these years, AND...does anyone know of improv classes for women in their 40s?  I think someone might have left their keys in my shoe. ”    

If you liked this blog, feel free to repost it on social media!