Theory: Episode 1
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How can you remain progressive when progress becomes dangerous?
Isabelle is a young, liberal professor of film theory. She creates an Internet discussion board for her class as a learning tool and encourages them to speak freely. A mysterious student posts questionably offensive comments and videos, testing Isabelle’s open-mindedness. Isabelle abides by her principles and refuses to censor. Amid backlash from her students and urging from her wife, Isabelle must decide on whether to take action against the online offender. She becomes obsessed with this game of cat-and-mouse where she and her tormentor blur the lines between predator and prey. The harassment becomes increasingly vicious and bizarre, attacking Isabelle’s personal and professional life, dismantling her ideal of liberalism.
Theory was written by Norman Yeung, and features Sascha Cole, Ash Knight, Starr Domingue, Qasim Khan, Kyle Orzech, Darrel Gamotin, Audrey Dwyer. The original production was directed by Joanne Williams and the workshop production was directed by Esther Jun.
Artivist?
I referred to myself as an activist in a conversation recently. I’m not sure the word is a fair descriptor.
About six years ago, I was in that phase of “early career” as a director/performer when I had more downtime than gigs, and I started to question my choice of career. I started putting up inspirational post-it notes in my room and writing in a journal to fight off impending depression. And then I thought (selfishly), maybe if I stop worrying about my own problems and start helping others, this existential crisis thing will fade.
The next week I was volunteering at the Downtown East side Women’s Centre, in their day centre helping with lunch service. Within a year, I found myself on staff working the night shift in their low barrier night shelter as a support worker.
I didn’t last long at the night shelter. I “took the pain inside,” as one of my coworkers put it. But it changed me.
Around that same time, I read Shaw’s Mrs. Warren’s Profession. It made me angry that he was writing about the same institutionalized misogyny and sexism that I was seeing in my own community over 120 years later. I started to research sex trade law in Canada and found out that our legal system, rooted in keeping prostitution out of the public eye, was forcing workers underground, thus risking their safety and endangering their lives.
In 2014, I staged a post-modern adaption of Mrs. Warren’s Profession at a local punk music venue in Vancouver’s downtown eastside. The Supreme Court had recently struck down a few major federal sex trade laws, deeming them unconstitutional. The government had been given a year to come up with a new set of laws so the piece felt extremely timely.
I wanted the public to come down to Main and Hastings, feel the vibe of that neighbourhood, and maybe understand their own complicities in the capitalist machine that allows our community’s women to go missing and murdered.
And I wanted them to witness this seemingly historical drama for what it was: a piece of deeply truthful and articulate political rhetoric that was highly relevant to our times.
We held post-show panel discussions with local advocates, donated a portion of tickets to two local organizations supporting and advocating for sex worker rights (Wish Drop-In Centre and PACE Society), and hosted an interactive website (www.mrswarrens.ca) where you could learn more about our local sex trade through mini documentaries. We even had the audience dialogue with the show’s themes through smart phone texting projected anonymously onto our preshow curtain.
I wrote to my local MP and posted regularly online to spread the word about how our laws were affecting these women’s lives. I felt this sense of accomplishment like I was opening people’s minds or something… And maybe I did. But was that enough? Does that qualify as activism?
Shortly after the project wrapped, the federal government revealed its plans to implement the “Nordic model” making it illegal to buy sex but legal to sell sex. This is a paradoxical system in which the sex worker is again put at risk by having to take her business underground to attract clients. Studies have shown that this system actually increases criminal activity and violence against sex workers.
When the news about the government’s decision broke, I felt empty and helpless – and I gave up. I haven’t been back in touch with WISH and PACE and my Facebook posts about the cause have slowed down. I’ve moved on… to other issues. The year after Mrs. Warren’s it was climate change with Jordan Hall’s Kayak, and then social services with Hannah Moscovitch’s Little One, and now First Nations reclamation with Quelemia Sparrow’s O’wet/Lost Lagoon.
Sometimes I wonder what would have happened if I’d pushed through my helpless feelings and continued to cultivate a community dialogue on sex work. Would I have created social change? Would I have burnt out?
I’ll never know because I’m not an activist. I’m an artist. Albeit a politically and community-engaged artist, but right now I’m only an artist. I interpret, question, and maybe sometimes even evoke… but I don’t actually do that much about the issues I bring up. And I’m very lucky to be that position. I think it’s important to make that distinction, and I think humility is a highly underrated quality in this profession. We need to start giving more props to those doing the real work out there or we risk losing touch with our audience.
That’s not to say that I don’t believe in the power of theatre to create change. When I was in grade five, I saw my first Green Thumb Theatre show about literacy and dyslexia. At the time, I was really struggling with reading and that show had a huge impact on me. It didn’t make me want to become a theatre artist – that came later. But it inspired me to fight through my disability and learn to read. I don’t know if those Green Thumb actors were activists but they did create change in me somehow. What’s the word for that? I’d like that title someday.
Comedy and Theatre as Disability Activism
Disability is still most often understood as individual tragedy. Response to issues affecting disabled people overwhelmingly takes the form of charity.
Theatre has largely reinforced these types of narratives of disability. Playwright Victoria Ann Lewis argues that the problem is not in the lack of disabled characters, but that theatre over-represents disability as punishment for sin and evil, or as individual triumph. Little consideration is given to the systemic, institutionalized oppression which disabled people face.
Canada has a long, rich history of disability activism. This has led to being the first country in 1981 to include disability under the Human Rights Code, and to some of the strongest legislation around accessibility and employment. This activism reframed issues as rights rather than charity by making a fundamental distinction between impairment and disability. While impairment refers to differences in mental and physical functionality, disability refers to the institutional arrangements and practices which disadvantage people with impairments.
My theatre practice represents my contribution to both disability activism and to theatre and performance. I join the long line of Canadian disabled artists such as David Freeman, Persimmon Blackbridge, and Lyle Victor Albert, whose work frame impairment and disability in terms of identity and culture. Much of my work focuses on masculinity, disability, and sexual relationships. Through the use of dramatic narrative, comedy and movement aesthetics, I strive to present impairment and disability as valid parts of identity, as critical sources of artistic exploration, and to expose social barriers.
My performance career began in stand-up comedy touring with Yuk Yuks. My material deliberately chose many uncomfortable subjects related to disability such as finding employment or getting a date. The use of comedy allowed me to frame these needs and desires as normal expectations and the barriers and social responses as ludicrous and absurd. For example, I discussed being surprised by a job interview which was focused on my disability, on explaining why I was physically different from everybody else. I said it was because I was so good looking.
Literary theorist John Morreall discusses comedy as the playful exploration of inconsistencies in expectations for audience enjoyment. He notes the effect of using humour can promote bonding and critical thinking. The above narrative is constructed to force the audience to identify with my expectation to be treated fairly. The discrepancy of the actual experience is treated playfully. My ridiculous response frames the interviewer’s focus on disability as being ridiculous.
Still Waiting for That Special Bus was my first solo theatre work. It explores disability, dating and relationships while waiting – not so patiently – for adapted transit. It debuted at the Ottawa Fringe festival in 1999 directed by Dawn Hannah. The show was quickly picked up by the Paralympic Arts Festival in Sydney, Australia and toured to Bermuda, Taiwan, England, and across Canada. I continue to tour it both nationally and internationally.
The narrative begins with a familiar premise. A disabled man, Mark is lacking love and romance within his life. Traditional narratives would frame this lack in terms of Mark’s impairment. For example, Canadian playwright François Archambault’s play 15 Secondes tells the story of Mathieu who is in love with Charlotte. He has cerebral palsy and is unable to attract her interest. His struggle is represented as his only chance at love. Yet, Charlotte’s attitudes are never questioned. No room is given for the possibility that someone else might find Mathieu attractive. 15 Secondes won the 1998 Governor General’s Award for French language theatre.
The narrative of Still Waiting…frames Mark’s lack of love and romance in terms of inadequate public transit, the high costs of cabs, and the physical inaccessibility of most dance clubs. These barriers are more often the reasons why many disabled people have difficulty pursuing meaningful sexual relationships. My character Mark has met someone who is interested in him. The narrative focuses on his struggle to actually get to the date.
Scholar David Simpson describes the narrative structure of a dramatic comedy as involving the uphill struggle and eventual success of ordinary people in extraordinary but non-life-threatening predicaments. Mark’s expectations for getting to his date are framed as typical and normal. It is the circumstances of adapted transit and inaccessible clubs which are extraordinary. This inconsistency is constructed as comedy to engage the audience into critical thinking around barriers to social inclusion and disability.
The play takes place in Mark’s living room and opens with Mark staring out in mock disbelief. He states: “Picture this. It’s Friday night and once again I’m stuck waiting – waiting for that Special Bus.” These lines are delivered with sarcasm, disrupting the perception of disabled people as passive and accepting of the limitations they experience. Mark is already questioning the level of service that he is receiving.
In a series of flashbacks and flash-forwards, Mark tells us how he met Linda and his hopes for the evening. His excitement is overplayed and parodied for humour. He asserts: “They better pick me up because I’ve got an incredibly hot date to get to! It’s our first time going out together, so I’ve gotta do EVERYTHING I can to impress her, because this woman may be the one – the one who falls completely and madly in love with me.”
The narrative is driven by Mark’s excitement and anticipation. It is in this way that barriers which isolate Mark are revealed. For example, as the bus gets later and later he contemplates calling a cab, but he rationalizes that the $80 round-trip is too costly for someone he barely knows. The focus is not on his particular impairment, but on the nature of these barriers and how it affects his social life. The play ends with Mark giving up on both the bus and the date just as the phone rings. It is Linda calling from the dance club. Mark runs out the door yelling for a cab. He makes it to the date, though not with the help of adapted transit.
Throughout my theatre career my practice has focused on complexifying rather than simplifying understandings of disability. This work both continues and is continued by a multitude of artists and performers who are stretching the form, content and aesthetics of theatre to include more accurate and interesting portrayals of impairment and disability. This is as much of a project around disability activism as it is around breaking and remaking conventions around theatre.
#CdnCult Times; Volume 7, Edition 2: SEXUALITY AS ACTIVISM
When we started working on this edition, it was about activism and the ongoing question posed by those who use theatre for social change: does this even work? Then this funny thing happened. The discussions about making positive social change converged with conversations about the body. Sex.
The body is a political site. We know this. But how politics play out in relationship to the body — and what the body even means — changes depending on the community you are in. Who one has sex with, that one might receive money to have sex, or that one even has sexual desire are, arguably, private details of one’s life. But these private aspects can be publicly leveraged to access resources, challenge legislation, or change assumptions of ability or capacity.
Each of the artists writing for this edition are engaged with how elements of their own or others’ sexuality. They consider how the act of staging aspects of sexuality, sex work or dating proposes alternatives to conventional narratives. Because this is often connected to who they are as people, does it then mean that they are in fact activists by staging this work?
In this edition Darrah Teitel explores her relationship to her sexuality and her past in her writing, Alan Shain discusses how theatre can upend conventional narratives about disability, and Marisa Smith recounts how a show about sex work in impacted her own artistic practice. Cumulatively they allude to how much bravery and honesty this work requires.
Adrienne Wong and Michael Wheeler
Co-Editors: #CdnCult V7
In and Out of the Queer Theatre Closet
Recently, I was asked to be a speaker at a queer theatre conference in Vancouver on a panel called: The Queer Playwright. Not for the first time, the facts of who I sleep crashed against the theatre I write. Maybe this time I actually had to deal with it? Maybe not.
The truth is I’m a feminist bi-poly slut and my primary partner is a bi-poly sis dude. Or maybe not.
The truth is I’m the mother of a three-year-old in a mostly monogamous heterosexual marriage. Or maybe not.
The truth is I’m a survivor of sexual assault. Or maybe not.
The truth is I was raped. Was it rape? If I don’t tell people, can I not be raped?
The truth is I’m having a hard time writing this because I don’t tell all these truths to the people I am close to. Especially to the people I am close to.
In my mind, I keep ledgers and tallies and important notes. Who have I confessed what to? How many people have I told? Too many? Who can I never tell? Who am I lying to? I’m lying to myself. This record keeping makes me anxious.
So I write to keep myself honest and sane. (Who doesn’t?) Sometimes my work is queer as fuck. In fiction, I explore my desires and fantasies. I work through abuse in my plays and my politics. Since I was a kid, it was queer theatre that mentored me and reflected my persistent obsession with sex and gender. I went to Buddies to learn how to be a playwright and I’ve never written a single thing that doesn’t have queer characters in it, even the Holocaust play. But I’m not a queer playwright because I am not a queer person. Am I?
Shrouded in the armor of “allyship”, I do what I can to participate in the conversations that obsess me – without discussing who I am. In this way, I don’t require the permission and acceptance of any person or community. Is this all about a childish fear that my gorgeous, cool queer friends won’t want to play with me at recess? Probably. That sounds like me.
I’m someone who has enough conventional signifiers in place that I get all the privileges that a straight, white, married, procreative, able-bodied professional woman can get in this racist, hetero-patriarchal world, Although I know how to accuse the world of hetero-patriarchy, I still benefit from that oppression every day. I feel like I just don’t deserve to call myself stuff. Stuff like queer. Stuff like survivor. I am so straight-seeming that sometimes people forget that I’ve told them I do gay things, like fuck women.
Sometimes, because my traumas are so unprocessed and so private people forget – lovers even forget that I once told them I was raped. I guess that’s fair because I don’t wear it or own it or talk about any of it very much.
Except when it behooves me to do so for my career?
Ah. Here we go.
The truth is that I’m writing this now, hoping it will serve as the basis for what I can speak to at this damn queer theatre conference I’m attending. They’re flying me to Vancouver! The truth is that I wonder if, after I write this, I can apply for a few more grants, or try to get Buddies to support my next play, which is about rape and bisexuality. The truth is that, bolstered by the possibility of economic reward and career success, I may be brave enough to come out at this point.
Doesn’t that make you mad? If I were gay or trans and working in the theatre, that admission would make me mad. Here I am with all the privileges of my cute little straight family and now I am exploiting the few transgressive fucks I’ve had in order to share in the meager privileges that genuinely oppressed people have gained for themselves.
I will make another excuse: it’s the industry that made me do it. More and more throughout the time that I’ve been alive and making art, I am asked to exploit and explain the social or political value of my writing beyond the obvious. Because I write about sexuality, someone evaluating that work wants to know that I am a queer playwright. It will help them legitimize the work, it will help them feel better about what they fund, it will help them feel better about themselves. Right? That makes me uncomfortable. I’m going back in the closet.
Here’s the thing about the closet that contains my bisexuality and polyamory: there is assault in there too. I keep conflating the rape and the sexuality here, and it’s not because these are the same thing. That comparison is downright offensive, actually. Homosexuality is not a sex crime that happened to me. But they go together here, because with both, I am suppressing experiences from becoming who I am in public.
This isn’t an act of privacy; it’s an act of compartmentalization that has come at a psychological cost. Because I’m invisible as a queer person, I erase the traces of these experiences from my body and language. Because I have learned to forbid myself from including rape in my personal narrative, I’ve actually made myself vulnerable to abuse.
I was in a terribly exploitative and discriminatory work situation and didn’t acknowledge it. I was in a relationship where sex was always painful and I never once said anything to my friends or my boyfriend. No, rape and bisexuality are not the same thing, but for me, refusing to tell the truth about one has made it difficult for me to celebrate the other. Denial is a fortress surrounding the sacred truth of my sexual desire and my sexual history.
The irony is that I am great at naming and confronting injustice and abuse in every way when it has nothing to do with me. I have written literally dozens of formal political speeches about women who are not me and the feminist problems they face. In these texts, I am bold and I accuse perpetrators while vindicating victims. Couching stories of what’s happened to me in statistics, politics or even the lives of fictional friends is a conversational skill of mine. I’m good at it but it might be ruining my brain.
I have a mix CD that was made for me by my friend Jonathan about a decade ago. He’s an austere Albertan of Dutch ancestry and he’s gay. In the front cover of the CD he wrote: “To my queer but straight friend, Darrah. Love your gay but heteronormative pal, Jonathan.”
For years that clever little line made me proud because I felt like my strange contradictions were acceptable to my out gay friend. It made me feel like I was getting away with this closeted thing I do even though some of my desires bled out around the seams once in a while. These days, it’s making me anxious. I wonder if Jonathan, who is also a theatre maker, would be happy for me if I go to Vancouver in a few weeks and declare to a crowd: I am a queer playwright.
Grade 8: Episode 3 – the Interview
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In this bonus episode, Laura Mullin and Chris Tolley of Expect Theatre interview the award-winning spoken word artist behind “Grade 8″, Dwayne Morgan. Dwayne speaks about becoming a poet, his struggle to overcome being an “extreme introvert”, and how the birth of his daughter inspired his play.
Grade 8: Episode 2
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The conclusion of Grade 8. Puberty, training bras and sexting boys. What’s a single dad to do?
Grade 8 is a heartwarming story of a father’s love. Told with charm, wit, and vulnerability, Grade 8 is a roller coaster of emotions, that will leave you holding on tightly to those you love the most.
A Toronto Fringe Festival hit, Grade 8 looks at what it means to be a black father today, and the role men play in young girls lives as they grow up and become woman.
Told through spoken word, this one-man show is part beat poetry and part urban lyricism.
Grade 8: Written and performed by Up From The Roots founder, Dwayne Morgan.
Grade 8: Episode 1
Podcast: Play in new window | Download
Subscribe: Apple Podcasts | RSS
Grade 8 is a heartwarming story of a father’s love. Told with charm, wit, and vulnerability, Grade 8 is a roller coaster of emotions, that will leave you holding on tightly to those you love the most.
A Toronto Fringe Festival hit, Grade 8 looks at what it means to be a black father today, and the role men play in young girls lives as they grow up and become woman.
Told through spoken word, this one-man show is part beat poetry and part urban lyricism.
Grade 8: written and performed by Up From The Roots founder, Dwayne Morgan.