I’m Not the Only One with a Show

The last week of March 2015. Tech week for Dancing the Mural. I have 5 artists flying or driving in from out of state: two of them arriving the day of dress rehearsal. I have pieces that are being finalized and set during tech week. I have dress rehearsal. I have long rehearsals leading up to the show. I have three fifth graders from a South Tucson elementary school and one community member performing with us. I have a crew that needs to load in and completely strike (as in take all of the equipment to an offsite storage unit) the show in our site specific location every night. I have a very heavy “mobile” stage that needs moving. My phone number is the box office number and I have tickets I need to print and a box office to organize. I have to make sure volunteers and front of house have things taken care of. I have to worry about security, costumes, and rides of artists. I need to make sure this mobile mural is finished and gets to the location of the performance. And I am also dancing in four out of seven choreographies premiering in the show.

I am the epitome of heroic leader, which by the way, is the standard model for modern and contemporary dance companies. One dynamic leader – a la Martha Graham, José Limón, Alvin Ailey – the driving force pushing a company, an art form, the dance field forward. The model has not changed much for the dance community since then. So here I am, juggling and struggling in an outdated model; a one-woman force carrying a company on my back, singlehandedly running a community-engaged multimedia art performance.

addtext_com_MTg1NDUwMTgwODI3

 

And my org was nominated for a Governor’s Art Award so I have to travel the 4 hours to Phoenix and back on Tuesday night of Tech week, in the middle of the madness, in the off chance that we win (we did not). And the EmcArts program, which I am now a fellow of, changed the date of the first Arizona seminar to the morning of the show’s opening, so now I have to attend that. (I show up late and the facilitators are not impressed.) I have a million and one things to do, fires to put out, artists to calm and reassure, details to smooth over. I am at my wit’s end. The house is a mess. I am a mess. Spread so thin. Being pulled in a thousand ways.

 

And I am not the only one with a show. Thursday morning, the day of dress rehearsal, at 9am, my son has a school play. The annual Easter performance. I never miss his shows, which usually run 2 mornings. Knowing full well I can’t make the Friday morning show (given that dress rehearsal will run late, I am directing/producing/performing in a show that evening, and I am already booked for this EmcArts thing), I go to the Thursday morning show.

It was a cute show. He was a roman solider. I was exhausted. But I arranged the company’s Thursday rehearsal schedule around that show so I could make it. I think I went straight to rehearsal after his show. I think I worked straight from 10am-midnight that night. I think. I can’t quite remember.

But I was there. Tired. Exhausted. But I was there.

addtext_com_MTg1MTE4MTc1MDM0

Failure + The Tortoise and the Hare

MPA_TortoiseHareImage.jpg

It is 12:30pm on a Monday in February 2015. I am sitting in my incredibly messy home office, desk by the window, glancing out at the warm AZ sun. I have 1 hour before I needed to pick up my son from school. This call can’t go long.

I am on the phone with Tay and Val, two Singaporean documentary filmmakers based in Seattle. We are all going to be attending the first ever Community Arts Gathering in Ajo, AZ in March and Tay and Val are interested in me performing in their ever-evolving traveling project “Dreams Unlimited.”

That is when it happens. Tay casually asks me “What is your biggest failure?”

In Tay and Val’s project, they look at the 5 Fs that they identified as impediments to one achieving their dreams. I can’t remember what the other 4 were, perhaps funding, fear, or family. But it was failure that they ask me about. “What is your biggest failure?”

I tell them that in my personal experience, failure is not a big cathartic crisis where everything falls apart at once, like some Hollywood movie. No, for me, my days are filled with little failures that, over time, snowball into huge failures. And all of these failures have to do with my lack of balance between the million roles I play in my small performing arts company and my most important job, mothering my special needs son. The short fuses, the rushing him out the door, the lack of nights and weekends together, the hours he is in front of a screen while I am writing and administering grants to fund artists – grants where not even a penny of funding comes my way. Those little moments, the countless “hurry up, we are going to be late” and the short “I don’t have time for this” that I say to my son almost every day. Those are my greatest failures.

The Tortoise and the Hare

I’m at the Community Arts Gathering in Ajo, AZ. A day after I performed a compositional improvisation about failure and motherhood, I attend a workshop led by the Kimi Maeda whose performance Bend I saw the night before. Bend combined sand drawings and film footage to retell a true story of two men who were interned in a Japanese American relocation camp during WWII. I am most interested in her work with sand drawings; in particular, the physical movements her body uses to create the drawings. In her workshop participants, such as myself, are going to create sand drawings that illustrate specific challenges their communities face that can be transformed into desired outcomes. Great, I thought, sign me up!

For some reason, I am in and out of the workshop. It may have been for one of the five meetings I have this month with the education team that is evaluating my son for autism services. I may have stepped out to remind my ADHD husband to pick up our kid at a certain time and take him to daycare. It may be the talk I am giving about cultural competency and the arts, or the large org grant I have due this week. But most likely it is all the fires I have to put out given that my show, Dancing the Mural, is less than two weeks away and there is a mural that still needs painting, a frame for the mobile mural that needs building and the organizing of rehearsal and artists travel schedules that are not going to organize themselves!

But here I am in the middle of this workshop. I am sitting next to a woman who I just met. She is one of those people who have a vibe about them; a vibe like you have met them before. I felt like I knew her and there was a genuine calm and inner peace radiating from her aura.

Pretty soon, we are paired into groups and asked to share a situation where we wished we had acted differently. If you knew me, you would know that I don’t do that.

So here we are, getting all warm and fuzzy (barf!). Generally, in a warm fuzzy here-come-the-tear-situations, I stay on the surface. I don’t go deep. I do not like to open up. I do not like to be vulnerable. I do not trust people and I don’t share. If I have to share, I share a mundane story adding some bells and whistles to make it seem deep. I usually don’t share how I actually feel in those situations.

But for some reason, today is different. Perhaps it is because I did the failure performance the night before. Perhaps it is because my guard is down because I am so stressed out and busy with the upcoming show. Perhaps it is this woman’s aura and that feeling that I know her. I ended up actually telling her the truth. I shared my most vulnerable challenge: time and my son. Given my crazy work/life schedule, everything is timed down to the last second. It has to be. The only way I have a snowball’s chance in hell to get anything done is to have my day planned out to the nano second.

My son and husband are my complete opposites. My son once took two hours – TWO HOURS – to eat a meal. They take their time and time is not an issue. It does not exist.

How does this play out in my day to day life? With a lot of yelling. By me. At my son.
To hurry up. “Hurry up, we are going to be late!” “Five minutes, we have to leave in
5 minutes.” “Come on, come on, COME ON!! LET’S GO!” “We’re late, I told you so!!”

Oh my God! I became my mother!

So I share my “issue” with her. I shared that I believe my career is doing irreparable damage to my child’s self-esteem. And I know that the fact that he takes his time is a part of his disability. Unfortunately, the way I have structured my life and my career, I do not have the sacred resource of time to share with my child. The years are flying by and I am busting my ass and giving my all to other artists, sacrificing time with MY CHILD to run a small perpetually under-resourced company. My son and I have lost years that I will never get back. This is a young precious life that I must value to the fullest, but yet, if I don’t do the vast majority of the heavy lifting in my org, there would be no org. The org would fail.

And yet, the artists that work with my org have NO idea the sacrifices I make and what I have to do to give them the little that I can. Their expectations of the dance company’s traditional “heroic leader” are high and I am too under resourced, too overworked, and too underpaid. I cannot meet these expectations. And all the while, the most important person in my life gets yelled at because I am too busy. It feels like a lose, lose situation.

I share and yes, I am afraid she is judging me, as I fear readers may be judging me right now. I feel like a terrible mother who is choosing a career, a thankless career with no financial gain at that!, over my child’s wellbeing.

So I share all this with my newfound acquaintance while choking back tears and then I leave. I leave because I have something else to do. Somewhere else to be.

When I come back into the workshop, I find that my newfound acquaintance created a sand drawing story based on my “challenge” that transformed my struggles into a wonderful desired outcome.* She started out with a hare. That is me. Busy and always on the go. Then I gave birth to a tortoise. My son. A true child of the desert that likes to take things as they come. He moves slowly, observing the world and his surroundings like a leaf floating in the wind. A sharp contrast from his mother, a bulldozer with laser vision.

The third image is that of a rabbit/hare hybrid. That is a new and improved me. That is the me that I need to become to be a better mother. Retaining some of my hurry up hare nature while adapting to the needs of my tortoise child.

It is perfect and just what my heart needs. And yes, I cry.

*This “newfound acquaintance” in this story is Nicole Gurgel-Seefeldt who is also the editor of the MPA project blog.