Notes from the Field XIX

A September (and early October) to Remember

While I normally reserve this section for my adventures as a storyteller, I have lately come to recognize that to restrict my musings here to just that part of my life, I’m really not telling the whole story. My life, like most people’s, I suppose, is made up of a web of many different strands. My work as a dancer, clown, storyteller, and yoga teacher weave in and around each other constantly. Each one colors, informs, and enriches the other individual pieces, and creates the whole tapestry that is my life. In just sticking to writing about storytelling here, I would, in effect, be presenting just one ball of yarn, instead of a fully woven piece, ready to be viewed.

So, from now on, my “Notes from the Field” will be notes from the whole nine yards of my field, because life, like all good stories, has many layers. And so on that note…

I am writing this while sitting at the Shanghai airport – yes, that’s right – CHINA!!!!! Crazy, right? And, while in a normal month, or even a regular old six months, this would have been BIG, HUGE news – this time, it is only one part of a truly amazing period in my life.

Around the third week of July, I received a phone call from the head of the volunteer department at Harlem Hospital. Because of my work for the Big Apple Circus, performing there, they have always considered me part of the family. Through the years I have volunteered my time to clown “off hours” at hospital events, walked as part of the Harlem Hospital Center team in various fundraising walks, and pretty much anything else these great folks have asked me to do. I thought they might need me for an upcoming back to school event when Ms. Harewood called. Instead, the conversation went something like this.

“Julie, this year during the 9/11 commemeration ceremony, all the city hospitals are being asked to select two volunteers to read the names of the victims alongside a victim’s family member. We’d like you to represent Harlem Hospital. Would you …”
“YES!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!”
“You’d have to…”
“YES!!!!!!!!!!”
“There would be..,”
“YES!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!”

How could I not? How could I not accept this tremendous honor, and pay homage to the people, who, unlike myself, weren’t lucky enough to have already exited the World Trade Center that day fifteen minutes before the first plane hit as I had. Those folks like Stewart Meltzer, whose sister-in-law, Rachel, was my partner for the ceremony, and had only worked for Cantor Fitzgerald for three months, had two small children, and enough internal calm to call his wife as the building was being consumed by fire, to tell her that he loved her.

Like all New Yorkers, and many others, 9/11 always had a “face” on it for me. It was never an abstract disaster, a far off catastrophe that had happened to “somebody else”. I saw with my own eyes that billow of smoke dust and ash that ballooned into the beautiful September sky. But this year, as I sat in a cold, wind and rain soaked tent, besides Rachel, and she told me the story of her family’s deepest sorrow – the massive loss of the day became emblazoned in my soul. As I looked around the waiting room before Rachel, and I took the stage, it was sobering to know that every second person in there had lost a brother, sister, husband, wife, mother, father, or other part of their family.

I have never been so honored, moved, and nervous in all my life. I had studied the CD they provided with the correct pronunciation of all the names – loading it into my i-pod, so I could study as I worked out, and I prayed to any and every God I had ever heard of not to blow it. I knew there were people standing in the rain, waiting to hear the name of their loved one that had been ripped from them.

Rachel was a source of inspiration to me in two ways – she, and her husband’s devotion to helping raising Stew’s two children is a lesson in compassion and selflessness, and her dignity and grace as she sought to put words to her family’s feelings for Stew, blew me away. It was a day that made me remember, once again, the preciousness, and fragility of life. It was a day that I connected to Rachel, her family, and anyone who lost a loved one eight years ago. It was a day I was proud to be of service in any way I could, it was a day I’ll never forget.

And then, less than three weeks later, I was on a plane to China, to perform comic dances, and clown at a festival – SUREAL – but that’s my life!!

Here’s the scoop on that.
I, along with about 30 other performers were going to perform for a ten days during China’s National “Golden Week” – a country wide vacation time. Now, while I have travelled all over North American and Europe, China was a big departure from that! Not only wouldn’t I be able to speak the language, I wouldn’t even be able to make out any letters on the signs! And, more importantly – could I make these people laugh. I know I may not be what people think of when they say “All-American Girl”, but I am as American as apple pie (albeit one on the browner side). Would what’s funny in Harlem, NY go over in Hangzhou, China?

Short answer – yes! There is a universality in play, silliness, and fun – people like funny, people like to, want to, need to, laugh. And kids – they are the same EVERYWHERE. Of course, there are cultural differences – various histories and social set-ups – but, kids, as they say, are kids. And everyday – I got to look down into the ADORABLE faces of children who, most likely, had never seen a brown skinned American woman before, and have the privilege of bringing a smile to their faces.

And, I hope I’m not going to come off as sounding pretentious, or ridiculous, or both, but I think that with every laugh we performers got, with every little connection we made with a child, and their family – we spread a little peace. We all know how easy it is to make a villain of a faceless person or persons, but when “THOSE PEOPLE” become “that person with the great smile”, it’s a lot harder to demonize them. It’s a lot easier to hear their individual story, and even if it’s way different from yours – still respect, and honor it.

I’m airborne now – the screen on the seat in front of me says I’m somewhere over the Bering Sea – I don’t know that I have a tidy little paragraph to sum up this essay. An ending that will sum up my experiences of September 2009 in an articulate and thought provoking way. I have a feeling that what I have seen, heard, smelt, touched, and felt these last few weeks, will take me a long time to process, and will resonate in my life for many years to come – weaving its way through my storytelling, clowning, dancing, yoga, writing, and life – at least, that’s what I hope.

UPCOMING PERFORMANCES

The following list includes my public performances only. No school or private performances are listed here. Things change from time to time, so do be sure to check the schedule.

October 2009:
10/18: New Jersey Storytelling Festival 2PM

November 2009:
11/21: Afro-American Historical Society Museum, Jersey City, NJ 12PM

December 2009:
12/12: Community Diversity Council, Glen Gardner, NJ time: TBA
12/19: Glen Ridge Country Club, NJ 1PM
12/20: Glen Ridge Country Club, NJ 6:15PM

February 2010:
2/2:Grounds for Sculpture, Hamilton, NJ: 10:15AM, 11:15AM
2/3: West Orange Library, West Orange, NJ: 7PM
2/17: Hoboken Library, NJ 3:15PM

March 2010:
3/14: County College of Morris Storytelling Festival: 1PM, 2PM

UPCOMING PERFORMANCES

The following list includes my public performances only. No school or private performances are listed here. Things change from time to time, so do be sure to check the schedule.

December 2009:
12/20: Glen Ridge Country Club, NJ 6:15PM

February 2010:
2/17: Hoboken Library, NJ 3:15PM

Notes from the Field (XVIII)

THE TRUE STORY

QUESTION: “So, how is it you got into storytelling?”

ANSWER: “After many years of dancing in musical theater tours, I was seeking a performance outlet that I could control. One where, I would be my own boss, create my own work that would encompass my dance, acting, clown, and maybe even my American Sign Language and stilt walking. Something where I wouldn’t have to spend soooo much time on the road, away from the guy I loved. And, one day, I went to something called a storytelling festival. I watched a woman named Carmen Deedy hold an audience spellbound for an hour, and just like that, I knew I had found what I was looking for.”

While the information above is absolutely, positively, 100% true – it is not, as so often is the case, the whole story. It is more like the little paragraph on the back of a book jacket, the quick, polite response given to a stranger at a party; an outline I might use before I flesh out a folktale, turning it from a five second anecdote to a ten minute story. All those elements were there, all the facts correct, but there was one other thing that powered my transformation from musical theater gypsy to storyteller. It is the little bump on my right vocal cord.

Looking back, the first indicator that my vocal cords weren’t the strongest part of my anatomy was when, just before my grammar school choir’s Christmas concert, half the seventh grade got sick. Where upon most of my classmates were still able to sing – I lost my voice completely, and stood standing amongst them, in my white turtle neck, and black pants, just mouthing the words.

Fast forward five years, when during my first professional summer stock job, I discovered that I would have to sing, as well as dance. While I knew I could carry a tune, I didn’t know anything about vocal technique, or how to hold onto my harmony line, while being surrounded by others singing different parts – and dancing. After a few days of rigorous rehearsals, I realized my voice felt, well – tired. It was to be the first of many times I would feel that way.

“Get some training, and you’ll be fine,” all the older and wiser performers told me. And so I did. I found a voice teacher, and did as I was told. Being a dancer, I was disciplined and used to hard work, so I learned to breathe with my belly, instead of just my chest. I stayed away from dairy, dust, smoke, and caffeine. No matter how little singing I had to do, I did my full warm-up. And my vocal abilities grew – I was able to sing, even getting solos from time to time. But the “tiredness” always came, sooner or later. There would always come a day, when my voice wouldn’t do what I asked of it. From time to time, my speaking voice would grow a little raspy, but it never deserted me the way my singing voice would. It would simply disappear. Normally, staying quiet would bring it back, but one winter, no amount of rest seemed to help.

As usual, my speaking voice was fine the day I walked into the throat doctor’s office that very first time, so he seemed puzzled to see me. It was only after he stuck a long strobe down my throat, while holding my tongue with a piece of gauze, that I saw IT, and heard him say, “Aha!”

I don’t know how many people have ever seen their vocal cords, but they are sort of alien looking, and if you have any mucous going on that particular day, it is just plain freaky! But, even in that realm of the odd, I was able to see something different about one of my vocal cords. On the right one, there was a ridge of sorts, right in the middle – right where the two cords meet. It was that day that I heard the words polyp, nodule, and node.

Apparently, if the vocal cords, or folds, as they are actually called, come together with too much force, they swell. If over time, the swelling isn’t brought down, a polyp is formed, and if that hardens, and calluses, it’s a nodule, or what singers refer to in frightened hushed tones – NODES!!! My swelling had progressed to the polyp state, so I was ordered to a week of silence, and given tiny white pills called prednisone – a steroid, whose anti-inflammatory skills are REALLY potent. That week was one of the longest of my life! This was before emailing, and texting, so I had to turn my back on everyone, and be deemed rude of not saying, “Sorry,” if I bumped into someone on the subway. There was a peace to it that I liked, though, and, being an avid reader and writer, I chewed through several books, and filled many a journal page.

Some people might have been scared hearing this diagnosis, but for me, it felt like the beginning of the end. I had seen what was wrong with me, I had MEDICINE, and when this week – just one measly week was over, I would be okay.

And I was – for a while, anyway. For though the swelling did go all the way down that time, it would resurface time and time again. I did speech therapy, warming up even to talk – even though my every day speech almost always sounded fine. When I was on the road with shows, I NEVER went out afterwards, always retreating to my room, and SILENCE. I watched with envy while others smoked, drank, yelled, but then had high, crystal clear voices at 8AM.

And I got by. The cord would swell, then go down, swell, and go down. It was a bit like Jekyll and Hyde. One day I had a pretty singing voice, on the next it was a growl – nothing I did seemed to be able to stop it. I cursed that tiny sack on my vocal cord, I cried, I prayed, I visualized, and I was silent – A LOT. But what I didn’t realize at the time, and only grudgingly admit to now, is that that little swelling was one of my greatest teachers.

Always creatively inquisitive, I used my “silent times” to explore other modes of expression. It was because my singing voice was gone, but I spoke just fine, that instead of going to a musical theater audition one day, I went to one for a production of “A Midsummer Night’s Dream”, and got the role of Puck. When I heard of a way to dance and use movement that did not require me to sing, I found my way into the world of mask, mime, comedia, giant puppets, stilt walking, and clown. American Sign Language became a way for me to talk to people, without breaking my times in the “cone of silence”. That little bump on my vocal cord taught me when it was time for me to stop doing, and to just BE. Being blessed with abundant energy, I could power through aches, pains, colds, and heartaches physically – but when my cord was swollen, NOTHING, and I do mean NOTHING I could do, could make it move. It was only being quiet that could heal it. The bodily awareness I developed around what was happening in my throat, I have never been able to top – even now, as a yoga teacher!!

And it was this acute awareness that told me something was VERY, VERY wrong with my voice ten years ago. For one thing, I went hoarse in an instant, always before I could feel it tiring, and for a while compensate, to get through a show or an audition. But this time, I went from have to have not. Even my speaking voice, which was rarely affected, sounded as if it were “covered”, as if there were a giant piece of phlegm I couldn’t swallow, or cough away. Knowing I was in deep dodo I found my way to the office of THE BEST throat doctor in New York City. What I saw when he pulled my tongue out with gauze, and put that strobe down my throat, made me burst into tears. The swelling that I was prepared to see was there – bigger, and badder than ever, but this time it looked like a red tear drop hanging off the side of my right cord. I had hemorrhaged. Even now, that word makes my stomach ache. With even my speaking voice so impaired I thought it was the end of any sort of performing career for me. But then, Dr. Scott Kessler, the hero of this part of the story, pulled out a photograph of two vocal cords that were as red and chewed up as raw ground beef. “I fixed that,” he said, with a kind calmness I’ll never forget. “And I can fix you.” And he did.

It was during the time of silence that followed the surgery that Dr. Kessler performed on me, that I went to the New Victory Theatre, and watched Carmen Deedy stroll on the stage. It was then, when I was without a voice, that I found one, that I knew that I had found what I was looking for. Something that was creative, that would encompass all the skills: dance, clown, acting, even American Sign Language, into performances I could do for all ages. It was then, that I became a storyteller.

So, that is the FULL story of how I came to tell tales for a living. And like a lot of other stories – it goes on. That little bump is still there, much more manageable, but still there, still teaching me to listen to myself, to take care of myself, and that sometimes silence is REALLY, TRULY is golden.

Here's What Students Are Saying About Julie: Baker School

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Here's What Students Are Saying About Julie: HCCC

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Notes from the Field (XVIII)

Connections

There’s a look the audience gets when they are really “into” a story. They could be sitting or standing, leaning in – back ramrod straight; or slumped, as if enveloped in an easy chair. The body positioning doesn’t matter – it’s in the eyes. Even if they are half closed, when a person is wholly, fully absorbed in the tale I am telling, their eyes are trained on me, practically beaming energy and light. As I watch them watching me, I can actually tell that they are seeing the story as I perform it. This look is more than amusement, or enjoyment – it is one of resonance, and human connection, and we all know how elusive and rare that can be. This month, not only was I privileged enough to see this look on more than one face, but I saw it in a place not usually associated with storytelling, or human connection of any kind, for that matter – a Youth Detention Center.

I can‘t say I was scared when I walked through the well guarded doors of the Mercer County Youth Detention Center – I had learned long ago that people were not the sum total of their actions, but I was definitely nervous! I know how the average sullen teenager reacts when they are being FORCED to watch something – eye rolling, teeth sucking, overly loud laughter, the occasional rude comment – but how would this group of young men, who were locked up for doing some very bad stuff – including murder, react?? I did what I always do, no matter the age or environment – I went straight for the funny bone. A well known mime teacher, Tony Montanaro, once said, “Don’t be afraid to make a fool of yourself for the right reason.” I think of that quote so often, I should have it tattooed to my face!! Because, like Tony, I know that nothing, NOTHING, and I do mean NOTHING works like humor. There are many feelings a person may not want to experience – fear, anger, even love – if one’s sick of having their heart broken, but the joyous bubble of emotion that laughing elicits – who doesn’t like that?

And laugh these guys did, first out of shock, I think, as I had my character walk in a loose limbed, wobbly stroll. But then, as they saw me acknowledge just how ridiculous I found myself, they truly laughed – and the first sliver of connection began. The real deal, the true resonance occurred during my second tale. It was a Jewish folktale about being judged by ones appearance, about assumptions – often erroneous, that people make about one another in a blink of an eye, about how nothing one can say or do can sway those impressions, that can be so very damaging and hurtful. It was during this story that I saw their eyes, some half closed, some trying to look away, but failing, take on that intense focus that told me, they were with me. Really, really, with me; reliving a cruel reality of life that everyone in that room had fallen victim to. And in that blessed moment, in a place of lock downs, pat downs, and guards, we connected.