In the White Mountains of New Hampshire, my husband's family and I have spent hours hiking to waterfalls and exploring the woods. Back at the house, we eat grilled chicken and discuss making s'mores before the kids go to bed. I LOVE making fires. I quickly volunteer, and my 10-year-old niece Rachel begs to help. Rachel gathers the wood, and I find the lighter. Always looking for a teaching opportunity, I ask if she knows what we need to build a fire, and she correctly answers: air, fuel, and something to ignite it. We pile up little sticks with pine needles in the middle, and surround them with larger pieces of firewood. The pine needles don't burn quite as well as I had hoped - they just create lots of smoke - and after I have sent Rachel inside to find some paper, hoping it would make a better fire starter, I am slightly discouraged.
"I sure hope that we'll have this fire going before everyone comes outside to roast their marshmallows," I sigh, as Rachel returns with 3 large sheets of paper. She carefully places some crumpled pieces of paper in the pile of sticks and replies confidently: "Don't worry, we will." Rachel then furrows her brow and begins to wax philosophical. "Fires are like humans you know," she starts. "They start off slow, and then they begin to roar." As she adds more sticks to the now growing flame (the paper worked wonders!), she adds thoughtfully, "And if you don't feed them, they'll die."
Wednesday, June 30, 2010
Sunday, June 13, 2010
A Lesson from Mark Twain
When I realized that I was going to say no, I began to cry.
Why would I turn down such an opportunity? Why would I walk away from such an offer? My friend Patti says I have a "Nokay Problem" - that is, that I can't say no. I start to, but I can't hold my ground, and it quickly becomes a yes, and sounds something like this:
Nooooookay.
But this is different. In this case, I wouldn't be saying yes because I feel obligated to, or because I feel bad for someone, or because I lack a pair. I really WANT to say yes. It would be an amazing opportunity that would benefit me directly, and for reasons that are different than the normal ones, I can't believe I'm saying no. But I have to.
A few months ago, I got an email from the DC Theatre Technicians list that I'm on, from a theatre company looking for an Assistant Stage Manager (ASM), some backstage crew, and two followspot ops. I applied for the ASM position. The production manager (we'll call him Bob) gave me a call a few days later and said that he had already filled the ASM position, but he was still in need of backstage crew if I was interested. I happily accepted (when working with people you've never worked with before, sometimes you've got to start at the bottom). A few days in to tech rehearsals, Bob pulled me aside and told me that he realized he should have hired me as the ASM instead. When the show closed, he asked me what I was doing the following month - he was looking for a full stage manager for the group's next production. Unfortunately, I was already committed to working on the opera Shadowboxer, so I couldn't. Bob promised to keep me in mind for future projects.
Then, 3 or 4 weeks ago, I got an email from someone else. He (whom I'm naming Jason) told me that I had been recommended to him as a stage manager by Bob, that same production manager from a couple months before. I was flattered. I had scheduling conflicts with the first couple of small projects he offered me, but there was a 4-month-long major production that he wanted to meet with me about, slotted for the beginning of 2011. I was both nervous and excited about the possibility of stage managing such a show. Jason and I met over coffee (I had hazelnut hot chocolate), and we hit it off right away - he said he had been impressed with me before we even met, because I was the first person he'd ever interviewed who had thought to tell him what colour shirt he should look for her in. The more he and I talked about the show, the more excited I became! Jason and his team had come from New York to start a theatre company in DC, after they got tired of the NYC attitude, and began to grow faster than they had ever anticipated. In the last year and a half, they have had to add 4 board members because their budget has doubled. The show will first be performed in North Carolina, and then come back to DC - to a theatre space that I'm intimately familiar with, having stage managed there before. The fact that the show will be performed in 2 different states would look amazing on my resume. I asked if I would be able to have an ASM, and Jason was completely open to the idea. He said that he doesn't deal with the contracts, so he couldn't offer me anything official, but he was very excited for me to meet the other two founders of the company at preliminary auditions for the show next Saturday. Everything seemed perfect, and I felt so fortunate to have the job practically fall into my lap.
But then I read the script.
Jason had told me that it was a risky play to produce, because it was a heavy drama and audiences don't always like that. They tend to prefer comedies, classics, or plays that make a controversial social point. Jason said that he had talked with other potential stage managers, and it had been evident from the start which ones wouldn't like the play. "But I feel like you're an open-minded person, and we seem to be on the same page," he told me. He still wanted me to read the script before I committed to anything, and promised to email it to me.
Knowing only the basic plot of the play I opened the pdf with trepidation, fearing that after reading it I would have to join the other SMs who had said, "Thanks, but no thanks." I wanted so badly for this show to work out! The first time I came across the f-word, I wasn't surprised. The play, after all, is about a man whose wife is raped and murdered on their anniversary, and the story is his journey of healing. The stakes are pretty high. Who wouldn't swear after something like that? But then the swearing became too common. Three times the f-word was scripted. Ten. Twelve. Seventeen? Twenty-three? After about thirty, I lost count. After that, the number didn't matter anymore.
"So there's some bad language," I told myself. "Well, it's only natural when you're dealing with such intense content. The play is so powerful! I can forgive some cursing here and there." I rationalized for the playwright, I rationalized for the theatre company, and I rationalized for myself. I reminded myself of the money, the experience, the connections, the resume-building. I told myself that it would be rude to turn the opportunity down, especially after I had been recommended to Jason personally. What if Jason went to Bob and said, "Boy, she sure didn't work out." Bob might never suggest me to anyone again. DC Theatre is an incredibly small world - people talk. I told myself how silly and juvenile it would sound to say, "Sorry I can't do your play. I don't like bad words." I thought of how fun it would be to work with Jason and the others - they seemed like a great group.
I rationalized and rationalized, all the way up to the point of writing Jason back and saying how much I loved the script (though there was a little bit too much swearing for my taste, but it was okay). I wrote the email, and offered some times for a follow-up meeting. But I didn't send it. I couldn't pinpoint why, exactly, or what it was that stopped me. But I decided to save the draft and send it later. Later came and went, as did the next morning, and still I didn't send the email. What was my problem? I became frustrated with myself because I couldn't figure out what was holding me back. I decided I must be feeling guilty for compromising my standards. "But you've thought through this," I told myself. "It'll be fine. It's a great play otherwise, the swearing isn't really THAT bad - just look at August: Osage County! That play is way worse. Besides, the opportunity is so perfect. It would be stupid to turn it down, and you'll regret it if you do."
But still I left the email in my drafts folder, unsent. I'm not sure what the turning point was for me today, but I found myself actually considering turning the job down. I couldn't believe I was doing that. "You wouldn't," the voice in my head said. "This is DC. Theatre people TALK - if you say no because of something as trivial as a few curse words, no one will want to hire you." But I began to change my mind, a little bit at a time. I came across a quote from Mark Twain this morning, while doing some preparation for the youth camp I'm co-running in a week. The theme for this year is "Courage in Action", and Mark Twain says:
"It is curious...curious that physical courage should be so common in the world, and moral courage so rare."
It was like a slap in the face. How could I teach these teenage girls to exhibit moral courage if I couldn't do just that? I tell you, few people can sniff out hypocrisy faster than teenagers. If I was going to talk the talk, I needed to hike the hike (sometimes a mere walk doesn't cut it). I also realized that if I stage managed this show, I wouldn't allow my husband, my parents, or my friends to come and see it. It's a bad sign if I'm too ashamed to include those closest to me in my work. I had thought about praying to help me make my decision, but kept deciding against it. I was afraid that I already knew what the answer would be, and I didn't want to hear it. Red flag number two.
I went to church today not thinking about the show, and with no intention of asking God what I should do. But He told me anyway. I didn't have a seizure in the middle of the chapel, angels didn't come down from heaven and call my name, and the bishop didn't point to me from the pulpit, saying, "Sister Albrecht, you know what you need to do." None of that happened, but I got my answer all the same. Yes, the one I wasn't looking for. Completely unprompted by any other cognition, I suddenly thought, "I'm going to say no." I was rather taken aback, because the thought came out of nowhere. I didn't just realize what I needed to do, I knew what I was going to do. That's the part where I began to cry.
If only knowing that a decision was the right one made that decision easy - easy to make, and easy to follow through with. If only making the right decision guaranteed one puppies, butterflies, and a life of pure joy. But it doesn't. If having moral courage wasn't so difficult, Mark Twain would have seen a lot more of it. So although I knew that I was doing the right thing, I still cried. I mourned the loss of a lucrative opportunity, and feared the repercussions by those who don't respect my moral boundaries, or respect me for having any.
I don't know how Jason will react to the email I sent him today - perhaps he will applaud my decision to hold my ground and not give up my morals, no matter what worldly advancement I may lose by doing so. But perhaps not. Perhaps he will ridicule me, or even worse, be offended that I would turn him down over such a trivial matter (since he's directing the play, the language obviously doesn't bother him). He may never want to work with me again. I console myself by saying that if that's the case, I suppose he's not the type of person I would want to work with either.
But saying no is still. Hard.
Why would I turn down such an opportunity? Why would I walk away from such an offer? My friend Patti says I have a "Nokay Problem" - that is, that I can't say no. I start to, but I can't hold my ground, and it quickly becomes a yes, and sounds something like this:
Nooooookay.
But this is different. In this case, I wouldn't be saying yes because I feel obligated to, or because I feel bad for someone, or because I lack a pair. I really WANT to say yes. It would be an amazing opportunity that would benefit me directly, and for reasons that are different than the normal ones, I can't believe I'm saying no. But I have to.
A few months ago, I got an email from the DC Theatre Technicians list that I'm on, from a theatre company looking for an Assistant Stage Manager (ASM), some backstage crew, and two followspot ops. I applied for the ASM position. The production manager (we'll call him Bob) gave me a call a few days later and said that he had already filled the ASM position, but he was still in need of backstage crew if I was interested. I happily accepted (when working with people you've never worked with before, sometimes you've got to start at the bottom). A few days in to tech rehearsals, Bob pulled me aside and told me that he realized he should have hired me as the ASM instead. When the show closed, he asked me what I was doing the following month - he was looking for a full stage manager for the group's next production. Unfortunately, I was already committed to working on the opera Shadowboxer, so I couldn't. Bob promised to keep me in mind for future projects.
Then, 3 or 4 weeks ago, I got an email from someone else. He (whom I'm naming Jason) told me that I had been recommended to him as a stage manager by Bob, that same production manager from a couple months before. I was flattered. I had scheduling conflicts with the first couple of small projects he offered me, but there was a 4-month-long major production that he wanted to meet with me about, slotted for the beginning of 2011. I was both nervous and excited about the possibility of stage managing such a show. Jason and I met over coffee (I had hazelnut hot chocolate), and we hit it off right away - he said he had been impressed with me before we even met, because I was the first person he'd ever interviewed who had thought to tell him what colour shirt he should look for her in. The more he and I talked about the show, the more excited I became! Jason and his team had come from New York to start a theatre company in DC, after they got tired of the NYC attitude, and began to grow faster than they had ever anticipated. In the last year and a half, they have had to add 4 board members because their budget has doubled. The show will first be performed in North Carolina, and then come back to DC - to a theatre space that I'm intimately familiar with, having stage managed there before. The fact that the show will be performed in 2 different states would look amazing on my resume. I asked if I would be able to have an ASM, and Jason was completely open to the idea. He said that he doesn't deal with the contracts, so he couldn't offer me anything official, but he was very excited for me to meet the other two founders of the company at preliminary auditions for the show next Saturday. Everything seemed perfect, and I felt so fortunate to have the job practically fall into my lap.
But then I read the script.
Jason had told me that it was a risky play to produce, because it was a heavy drama and audiences don't always like that. They tend to prefer comedies, classics, or plays that make a controversial social point. Jason said that he had talked with other potential stage managers, and it had been evident from the start which ones wouldn't like the play. "But I feel like you're an open-minded person, and we seem to be on the same page," he told me. He still wanted me to read the script before I committed to anything, and promised to email it to me.
Knowing only the basic plot of the play I opened the pdf with trepidation, fearing that after reading it I would have to join the other SMs who had said, "Thanks, but no thanks." I wanted so badly for this show to work out! The first time I came across the f-word, I wasn't surprised. The play, after all, is about a man whose wife is raped and murdered on their anniversary, and the story is his journey of healing. The stakes are pretty high. Who wouldn't swear after something like that? But then the swearing became too common. Three times the f-word was scripted. Ten. Twelve. Seventeen? Twenty-three? After about thirty, I lost count. After that, the number didn't matter anymore.
"So there's some bad language," I told myself. "Well, it's only natural when you're dealing with such intense content. The play is so powerful! I can forgive some cursing here and there." I rationalized for the playwright, I rationalized for the theatre company, and I rationalized for myself. I reminded myself of the money, the experience, the connections, the resume-building. I told myself that it would be rude to turn the opportunity down, especially after I had been recommended to Jason personally. What if Jason went to Bob and said, "Boy, she sure didn't work out." Bob might never suggest me to anyone again. DC Theatre is an incredibly small world - people talk. I told myself how silly and juvenile it would sound to say, "Sorry I can't do your play. I don't like bad words." I thought of how fun it would be to work with Jason and the others - they seemed like a great group.
I rationalized and rationalized, all the way up to the point of writing Jason back and saying how much I loved the script (though there was a little bit too much swearing for my taste, but it was okay). I wrote the email, and offered some times for a follow-up meeting. But I didn't send it. I couldn't pinpoint why, exactly, or what it was that stopped me. But I decided to save the draft and send it later. Later came and went, as did the next morning, and still I didn't send the email. What was my problem? I became frustrated with myself because I couldn't figure out what was holding me back. I decided I must be feeling guilty for compromising my standards. "But you've thought through this," I told myself. "It'll be fine. It's a great play otherwise, the swearing isn't really THAT bad - just look at August: Osage County! That play is way worse. Besides, the opportunity is so perfect. It would be stupid to turn it down, and you'll regret it if you do."
But still I left the email in my drafts folder, unsent. I'm not sure what the turning point was for me today, but I found myself actually considering turning the job down. I couldn't believe I was doing that. "You wouldn't," the voice in my head said. "This is DC. Theatre people TALK - if you say no because of something as trivial as a few curse words, no one will want to hire you." But I began to change my mind, a little bit at a time. I came across a quote from Mark Twain this morning, while doing some preparation for the youth camp I'm co-running in a week. The theme for this year is "Courage in Action", and Mark Twain says:
"It is curious...curious that physical courage should be so common in the world, and moral courage so rare."
It was like a slap in the face. How could I teach these teenage girls to exhibit moral courage if I couldn't do just that? I tell you, few people can sniff out hypocrisy faster than teenagers. If I was going to talk the talk, I needed to hike the hike (sometimes a mere walk doesn't cut it). I also realized that if I stage managed this show, I wouldn't allow my husband, my parents, or my friends to come and see it. It's a bad sign if I'm too ashamed to include those closest to me in my work. I had thought about praying to help me make my decision, but kept deciding against it. I was afraid that I already knew what the answer would be, and I didn't want to hear it. Red flag number two.
I went to church today not thinking about the show, and with no intention of asking God what I should do. But He told me anyway. I didn't have a seizure in the middle of the chapel, angels didn't come down from heaven and call my name, and the bishop didn't point to me from the pulpit, saying, "Sister Albrecht, you know what you need to do." None of that happened, but I got my answer all the same. Yes, the one I wasn't looking for. Completely unprompted by any other cognition, I suddenly thought, "I'm going to say no." I was rather taken aback, because the thought came out of nowhere. I didn't just realize what I needed to do, I knew what I was going to do. That's the part where I began to cry.
If only knowing that a decision was the right one made that decision easy - easy to make, and easy to follow through with. If only making the right decision guaranteed one puppies, butterflies, and a life of pure joy. But it doesn't. If having moral courage wasn't so difficult, Mark Twain would have seen a lot more of it. So although I knew that I was doing the right thing, I still cried. I mourned the loss of a lucrative opportunity, and feared the repercussions by those who don't respect my moral boundaries, or respect me for having any.
I don't know how Jason will react to the email I sent him today - perhaps he will applaud my decision to hold my ground and not give up my morals, no matter what worldly advancement I may lose by doing so. But perhaps not. Perhaps he will ridicule me, or even worse, be offended that I would turn him down over such a trivial matter (since he's directing the play, the language obviously doesn't bother him). He may never want to work with me again. I console myself by saying that if that's the case, I suppose he's not the type of person I would want to work with either.
But saying no is still. Hard.
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