moccasin-ing
I remember it extremely clearly- sitting in my eighth grade English class, absolutely mesmerized, looking at the way the light trickled through the blinds and onto the desk and listening to my teacher captivatingly read aloud a story that wedged itself deep into my heart and even further into my convictions. The story happened to be Walk Two Moons, by Sharon Creech, and the teacher happened to be my dad. Whenever I tell people I had my dad for eighth grade, they generally apologize in some form or other, but I loved it. I loved watching him up in front of the class, especially when he read aloud. He loves to read aloud to his class; when he reads, his voice takes on this really particular quality, the words creating what seems to be the most important story you've ever heard. This last Christmas break, my mom and I visited his work and waited outside the door as he finished an English class. I teared up a little bit listening to him read because his voice still has that same spell-binding quality it had nine years earlier.
I don't know if it was the storyteller or the story or a little bit of both, but that day in English class Walk Two Moons became one of my favorite books of all time. (I actually gave this book to my theater as a parting gift, a long standing tradition that graduating seniors participate in). If you haven't read it, I highly recommend it. It's written for children, so it won't take you too long, but it is an incredibly lovely tale about Idaho and Illinois, fathers and daughters, female friendship, first love, and storytelling. It's full of delightful words like "huzzah huzzah" and "chickabiddy" and "caboodle." Essentially, I'm pretty sure it was written just for me. Upon further reflection, I think I give it at least partial credit to the way I view the world. (I'm not exaggerating here!) The novel's title comes from the line that begins and permeates the book: "don't judge a man until you've walked two moons in his moccasins." As the protagonist, Salamanca Tree Hiddle, learns to breathe, slow down, walk two moons with people and hear their stories, she, in the process, learns to tell her own. "Beneath Phoebe's story was another one," she says. "Mine."
I gave the theater this book because my journey through Workout (the theater ensemble I was in) mirrors much of Salamanca's journey. I learned about listening to my colleague's stories, about walking two moons with them- being willing to journey with them, be in the middle with them, see them as their true self to the best of my ability, and reconsider them. I learned about slowing down, being present, and seeing my own story as a story worth telling. I learned to tell and step into the stories of others and I found that as I told these stories, I was telling mine, too.
This is what I love so much about theater and storytelling as art forms. My acting professor often tells his classes that we- as we are- are the only way our characters live. They do not exist outside of our own bodies, and consequently, their stories live only in us, the inheritors of the text. Inside every character's story are thousands of other people's stories. Bits and pieces of beauty and love and heartache and remorse. We have to advocate for the character in the best way we know how- telling their story honestly and taking it seriously. There is nothing like seeing a play and watching a character and thinking "that's just like me." Learning to tell each other's stories is, I believe, one of the most profoundly uniting, selfless, and beautiful acts of love that anyone could ever undertake.
But the magical thing is- and I say uniting because of this- as we become the characters, we, as actors, share parts of ourselves as well. We discover parts of the character where we too identify, where we too can unzip our hearts and say, "that's just like me. That's just like me." Even writing this now makes me cry because the feeling of standing before an audience, heart open, telling the audience that their story matters- that our story matters- that they are not alone, it brings a healing that we need, friends! We all need it. Actors and audience alike in a beautiful dance of storytelling and connection.
I had the privilege of going to Much Ado about Nothing in the woods with a fellow Workout graduate who lives in San Jose this weekend, after several months of not being to the theater. There is something special about seeing Shakespeare done outside, despite the swarms of yellow jackets who also wanted our prosciutto. Since then, I've been thinking a lot about my own experience working on Much Ado last year with the Wheaton Shakespeare in the Park company (consequently feeling a little homesick for my Wheaton friends starting work on The Tempest this weekend- go see it! August 30, 31 and September 1), and about advocating. I played Margaret in our production, a very minor but pivotal character known for her promiscuous behavior, who is often played pretty flatly and without much of an arc. But there is so much to her story that I learned to advocate for, so much that I see in myself: a passion and drive, a very real tendency to be jealous, a love of laughter and spotlight, a deep desire for intimate connection, a fast tongue and excitement about adventure, and the capability to make bad decisions sometimes. A good friend said to me afterwards: "Margaret is all the girls! She is all of us!"
What I'm trying to say is that no story is by itself! Each story carries within it other stories, and most of all our own, and until we learn that our own story is important and messy and necessary, we cannot tell and validate the stories of others, or advocate with love and without judgement. And if we cannot do that, we will never, never, be united with our brothers and sisters.
This week, the City Year corps participated in what they call Beloved Community Days or BCD (alluding to MLKJ's belief in the creation of the "Beloved Community"), two days dedicated to team connection and fostering a heightened awareness to and clarification on the dividing walls of oppression, power, privilege, systemic racism, sexism and classism in the country today, especially in the neighborhoods we serve in. One of the facilitators who I am thrilled to get to work with this year said that the best way we can fight for our fellow citizens is through "moccasin-ing." When asked to explain, she replied that it was in reference to one of City Year's "founding stories," a collection of twenty-five stories and quotes they build their values and mission statement off of. This story, Moccasins, is based off the Cherokee prayer:
"Oh Great Spirit, grant that I may never criticize my brother or my sister until I have walked the trail of life in their moccasins."
Or, as Sharon Creech puts it,"Don't judge a man until you've walked two moons in his moccasins."
Friends, I believe that kingdom work and social justice rests on humanity's ability to see itself in each other, and represent each other well, with grace and dignity. We must practice moccasin-ing! I say "we" because I mean to include myself in the need! I am not perfect at this, by any means. It is easy to brush past or brush off, intentionally close your eyes, or not stop talking long enough to listen. My team starts school this week (on Tuesday!!) and I cannot wait. I will be supporting Ethnic Studies and English classrooms, and thanks to my manager, hopefully the drama club or other enrichment club as well. The temptation to rush in with my own ideas and plans and projects and ways to make things "better" exists in full force within me and is about as unhealthy and prideful as you can get sometimes. However, as I enter this school year, I pray for a quiet tongue and patient ears, a soul full of grace, and an unzipped heart full of humility.
As I learn to transform moccasin into a verb, I think about all the people who already do it so well: my dad- the best storyteller I know, my Workout family- all of you and your vulnerable work, the Wheaton Concert Choir- musicians I have been privileged to sing with who tangibly advocate for others in their own beautiful way, and the new community of City Year from whom I still have much to learn.
How wonderful that we are not alone in this! And I think that might be the point.
-Alyssa
P.S. On a totally different note, can someone please comment how in the world to take care of a succulent?! I am well on my way to killing my fourth one in the last year. It's looking very sad and kind of brown and droopy. Thank you!