Doing Things That Scare Me: Episode 2 — The Class Acts
Breaking barriers… improv, dance, peace
In my first piece about conquering fears, I was at the point where I could barely cross the street without overthinking myself to oblivion.
Basic acts of city lifestyle were like stubborn walls I had to break through in order to feel worthy of self-merit.
Now, the thought of withholding myself from the outside world puts me on edge.
It’s curious how quickly things change.
I was initially going to subtitle this “A parody of peculiarities” because the second phase of my mortal challenges was quite trivial.
I considered actions such as making it in and out of the Columbus Circle Whole Foods without needing a horse tranquilizer to be a courageous feat in itself. (No matter where you stand in there, it feels like you have two seconds to think and two inches to move if you don’t want to get trampled.)
But so much more has transpired since my first “episode,” we need to jump to the big leagues.
I did start off small…
In Training
The second weekend I was here in my Manhattan abode, I had to go to New Jersey for a dance production I was involved with.
Commuting by train is no big deal, but getting off in a new place from a new station — half asleep with huge bags and a preoccupation over a rehearsal you have to go straight to, in pouring rain — is a recipe for, well, “Get me out of here!” mentality.
I had been to New York’s Penn Station a few times before, years ago, but I remember thinking, “Thank God I don’t have to commute here every day!” I wouldn’t say it was particularly more crowded or frantic than Grand Central during peak hours, but the setup was foreign to me, and I had no idea where I was going until a minute before the train left.
I spent the train ride reminding myself the hard part was over. I was on time. I was going to the right place.
When I got to the destination later in the night, I had to wait for my uncle on a dimly lit platform outside the train tracks, where only two other men were sitting a few benches away. This shouldn’t be an immediate cause for alarm, but since moving, I have tried to be extra mindful of any situation that could leave me vulnerable.
I had my stun gun ready. Then another man approached me, seemingly out of nowhere, spewing out a “What’s up?” as I acted distracted on my phone. He lingered a bit, seemingly with no purpose. I had a friend call me, and the guy took off.
The interaction, or lack thereof, was harmless enough, but my body wanted to get off the bench and run into a nearby store.
These are the things I did not sign up for, but that I expect nonetheless (especially as a small woman) in places both foreign and familiar.
I sat firmly on the bench, convincing myself that fleeing every time I felt uncomfortable probably wouldn’t build me up in the long run.
My uncle showed up, and off I went to the rehearsal. I guess that was my first test in fear endurance.
Showtime
The production was partially in honor of my cousin Amara, our book and our charitable D.A.N.C.E. mission. I had to narrate a story I wrote through a series of expressive dances performed by others.
It was time to get my show biz face on.
(“Show biz” is its own intimidating bubble. Between the medley of egos, talents flaunted about, judging authorities pushing their perfectionistic agendas to use you as a pawn in their game, and the constant proving of worth to be “on” for the big gaze… you need a certain skin to withstand the pressure.)
I grew up confidently dancing, singing, acting and performing in numerous types of productions, but as I got older, my mighty faith in my performing pursuits weaned. Every time I prepared to step on stage as an adult, it was a mind game to master.
For this production, I expected to go into the same self-judgement mode.
This show was extra important. It was close to the heart. It was for causes beyond myself and mere entertainment.
But it was different this time.
This time, I felt at ease on the stage with dancers I just met. I had to conquer my initial jitters of performing a speech — and finding/getting into the building— but the speaking came natural to me seconds into the rehearsal.
I was more focused on our mission and the beautiful energy of the empowering women around me. I reminded myself that this was my scene… no pun intended.
Of course, the show the next day can be its own episode of conquering fears, but I’m not counting it as a “doing things that scare me” task because performing on stage is something I have always done, and it’s a run-of-the-mill adventure for me.
The show was a success, and after having slipped back into the theater atmosphere with comfort and grace, it provided a warming reminder that I’m “braver” than I give myself credit for.
I realize many people freeze up with stage fright, and I’m grateful to have this repose on stage.
I think my lesson is that focusing on your strengths and the purpose of your performance — leaning into the passion — can trump any ounce of fright.
So, on to the really new things…
Got Class
I thought I would need at least one month before venturing into a new hobby and community of strangers, never mind three circumstances of this nature.
I told myself I would ease into novel pursuits long after I was settled, choosing one new class or hobby to get myself out of the apartment with purpose.
In a turn of expectations, I just dove into the abyss.
This leads us to the heart of Episode 2 in the “Doing Things That Scare Me” series: “The Class Acts.”
One of my reasons for moving to New York was to get out of my comfortable bubble. So, naturally, I signed up for a comedy improv class.
But I realized dance would help ground me… so I went ahead and signed up for a dance movement therapy class as well.
Then I signed up for a humming (sound healing) yoga class in the dark… because why not?
I did them all in one week.
My “registration rampage,” as I call it, was an attempt at not thinking, just doing. It was liberating.
I schlepped myself to three new neighborhoods to face three different crowds of people doing very vulnerable, wacky and intimate things.
Normally, one trip out to a new place in the city would be enough to push my boundaries, but I figured I might as well go all in.
For the improv class, we had to stand in a circle and introduce ourselves with an expressive adjective and gesture. (In case you’re wondering, I said “quirky” on impulse and made an awkward, head-tilt-shoulder-scrunch-bent-leg-lift gesture…)
The majority of the class involved pairs and groups of three enacting unscripted scenes, each with two prompts (one activity and one topic for dialogue). So, I found myself “doing laundry” with a random man, talking about how I polluted a river during my time as a volunteer at a wilderness camp whose members carried around defecating animals in their backpacks. I can’t tell you how or why that premise was unleashed from my precious brain.
By the end of the class, my character was a dramatic klutz who lost her phantom glasses and got stalked by Starbucks baristas. I threw myself onto the floor, stumbling and scrambling to find my imaginary accessory as the rest of the class watched with intention. I awkwardly but shamelessly tapped in and out of the group exercises with a light heart, pushing myself to give in to the purpose of the class — to let loose, experiment and have fun.
I can honestly say I felt more comfortable goofing around as an actress than I did standing there and saying my name. I attributed the ease in my theatrical antics to my youth which was, of course, filled with time spent performing.
This nudges me to remember that most of our social anxiety really is self-originating, and taking ourselves out of our elements (even out of our heads, distracting ourselves with stories yet focusing our minds into the frames of other characters) is truly freeing.
I left the improv class feeling extra self-assured.
Daring to Dance
By the time the dance class rolled around the next day, I felt better equipped to not only stand awkwardly next to strangers against a wall waiting for the door to open (and asking someone for the 20th time what and where something was), but letting my body loose.
This wasn’t a typical dance class. It involved — you guessed it — introducing ourselves with a name and gesture in a circle formation. (This time, I did a graceful, up-and-down arm wave, like a painter.) We also had to present our backstories.
The class was made up of many people in a similar boat as me — looking for some sense of belonging and a cathartic activity to soothe the soul.
The scariest part wasn’t when we were instructed to follow our visceral whims around the room — moving our bodies freely and impulsively — acting like childlike aliens visiting Earth for the first time… exploring, touching and smelling objects in the room like we’ve never seen them before…
It wasn’t when we had to saunter around the space and deliberately make eye contact with every person we passed, later throwing and catching multiple tennis balls to whoever locked our gazes with equal strength.
It wasn’t when we had to split up into two groups and cut paper masks of our own creations to conceal our faces as we danced around to circus music, slowly making our ways closer to the mirror, doing whatever movement felt right.
During these exercises, we were all one. We were all exposed, in a novel situation, self-conscious, open, wanting to heal, doing our best.
What was scariest was when we had to individually walk up to the mirror, look ourselves in the eyes and say, “This is me.”
This was what caused me to nearly break down into tears.
It was like every moment up until this was an accumulation of sentiments… gratitude, compassion, shame, hope, love, fear, hurt, anger, grief, longing, lostness, freedom, peace… a collection of challenges that came to the surface in split seconds; my personal time to face my progress and the inner, dormant, goddess.
It wasn’t a fear of others looking at me. The mountain to overcome was me looking at me; how I would lock in my self-image for this new journey and beyond.
I wanted the moment to be one of triumph and solidification; an anthem to my strength; a mantra of faith.
I walked slowly up to the mirror and uttered the words with equal fire and gentleness.
I was so proud.
During the act itself, I felt fearless.
I think most people in the class were emotional, and everyone had their own tone, intensity and approach. It was one of the most powerful scenes I’ve ever witnessed in real life. The utter vulnerability was simply beautiful.
It was like a movie where you finally get the satisfying, happy ending after a grueling marathon of obstacles and realizations. The instructor took us on an entire journey in 60 minutes.
I was reminded of how far I’ve come and of the woman I am, and I felt like I could conquer almost anything.
Newfound Peace
When it came time for yoga four days later, as I once again trekked up narrow stairs in an unmarked building, searching for a random door with a whole other world behind it… I found a sense of prowess. (I was evidently becoming used to the whole, “Where am I going? What will it be like? Who will I talk to?” deal.)
I waited in a bright, open room full of strangers once more… shoeless, phoneless and eager to sink into a personal sanctuary.
Sitting and staring out the window, stretching and looking around the room, I realized how accustomed we are to having safety nets of distraction and connection in our hands. While seemingly torturous at first, simply waiting for the yoga/meditation session to start was meditative in itself.
When we got into the dim but highly heated room, there was a loud but soothing humming and mats spaced about two feet apart each.
I had to locate my mat, sit quietly facing the students across the room (noting they were not, in fact, staring into my soul), and await the moment where my agility was put on (imaginary) spectacle.
The instructor guided the class into basic yoga positions before leading us to a resting position to bask in the presence of what sounded like singing bowls and gongs.
The heat and balancing with a band was challenging, but I ultimately got lost in the flow. I told myself the only way I’d benefit from the class was to soak up the sights, sounds and atmosphere of the room.
At the end, I sprawled out on the floor in the dark — breathing in peace and exhaling fear; breathing in calm, exhaling judgement; soaking up power, releasing doubt.
It was another brand new experience for the books, leaving me so different from before.
After having done so many new things in such a short span of time, the type of actions that seemed colossal to me before don’t seem to faze me much.
Exhibit A: Finding my way to the right section of Central Park and walking around there as the sun goes down. (I know, I know, I’m careful.)
Before these classes, such a task was a personal mission of survival.
Now, I relish the time spent among the trees with my personal musical oasis. I take in new spaces with arms wide open.
It’s ironic how I came here for connection and community, but a major part of my sanity and grounding has been the moments I shared with myself — so impacted but so untouched by the outside world… like my experiences kissed me with an invisible force, shifting my perspective and taking me down a new path independent from the outside noise.
It’s a path I have to walk on my own. But as I immerse myself deeper into the world, I feel this solitary power radiate within me.
All of that substance out there… we absorb it on the inside.
We change.
We constantly begin anew.
And we continue to surprise ourselves.
And all the walls tumble down into pieces; their rubble taking a new form that provides mighty stepping stones to the other side.
