A few years back I was performing in an improv show in a different city. In the middle of the longform set, a player in my troupe launched into an anti-trans joke, pretending to be a non-binary slice of pizza. My face got hot, and I felt a drop in my chest. My confidence plummeted, anger rising up. I’m transgender, and the joke came completely out of the blue. The player kept bringing the reference back, making fun of non-binary experiences with this bizarre, un-funny character. The worst part was that my partner and best friend, who are both genderqueer people, were in the audience watching it all play out.
Standing on stage, I wondered to myself, What am I doing here? Even the performers who knew I was trans didn’t understand how hurtful the joke was. Nobody interrupted the joke, or said a word about it after the show. That day, I realized that I could never perform to my fullest creative potential if I was not in a place where my lived experience was respected.
In the weeks after the show, I hungered for a space where I could be my full self and create some kick-ass improv. I couldn’t find one that already existed, so I decided to make one myself. I called it “Come As You Are.”
Three years later, I’ve just wrapped up teaching 4 classes of Come As You Are: QTBIPOC Improv, at Berkeley Theatre. In those four weeks, our cohort became deeply cohesive, creating a space that was filled with mutual respect and spaciousness to be brave. Each of us brought open hearts, ready to receive with compassion all of the unique stories and ideas we could create.
One night we played a round of “Whoosh-Bong” (classic!) that took a twist with a new rule. Someone turned to their neighbor and said, “Tinder!” to which they replied, “Scissors!!” Then everyone else would shout, “Scissors,” making two scissors with their hands and smashing them together in reference to the coded lesbian sex term. We could not stop laughing!
Another night we got deep into “I Am a Tree,” playing out all kinds of queer trios. First it was, “I am a child,” then “I am your inner child,” then “I am your therapist.” Next it was, “I am your therapist,” then “I am a queer person,” then, “I am polyamory.” After that? “I am polyamory,” “I am monogamy,” “I am sexual confusion.” On and on we riffed on these themes, a lot of which are directly related to our lives. But it was freeing to play around with them in a silly, free-association style.
The impact of our collective play went even deeper than these little jokes and references. What was especially powerful was seeing how players would hold one another’s stories with the utmost care. For example, one night our homework was to bring to class an object that inspired a story. One improviser would share the story of their object; then, another improviser would take their place and retell the story from a new point of view. To this prompt, one of the players told the story of coming out to her mom. It was a brave story to tell to the group, with a challenging ending. To all of our wonderment, the player who retold the story took a unique twist. They chose to appear as the queer ancestors of the storyteller, insisting that they would always be looking out for her. In just a few sentences, they had captured the groundedness that so many of us feel when reflecting on queer ancestry. Queer people have been around as long as humans have lived; we’re not a new fad. It was the first time many of us had seen anything like this come up in an improv scene.
Later that night I had the chance to tell my own story, and have it reenacted for me. My object was a black thermos, one that I had carried with me to work every day in a job that made me severely depressed. I shared my memories of waking up before the sun and riding the train to work. Sitting on the platform, waiting for my transfer, I wouldn’t have seen the sun for the first hour of my day, and all I could do was sip the coffee from my thermos, hoping to find some bravery and convince myself that this day wouldn’t be as brutal as the last.
Two improvisers listened carefully and then jumped up to retell my story. They turned to each other immediately, mirroring body language and discovering in seconds what the scene was going to be about. They played it out as time travelers, exploring the distant world of my past. They pretended to wade through the dark fog of depression, crouching over and even crawling on the floor. Then they found the thermos, holding it close and feeling the light and joy it sparked. Watching them re-enact my own story gave me the chance to accept what had happened to me all those mornings. A small part of me was healed, and I could feel myself sighing with relief.
What a different place I’ve found myself in since starting Come As You Are. I’ve never felt more confident onstage, or more supported by scene partners, than in this class, and in other affinity groups at Berkeley Improv, such as the All Queer No Fear and Globalls house troupes. We all have powerful stories to tell. I’m so grateful for spaces like these, that prioritize the perspectives of QTBIPOC in improv.
Without fear of being cut down or made the butt of a joke, we can be even more brave with our creativity onstage. Connecting with each other in a culture of mutual respect and love becomes utter magic. As improvisers of all identities and histories, let’s be brave with our sharing, and even bolder as listeners, making space for the magic that comes from deep within.
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