– Callie (they/them)
Callie Jayne grew up in a white world. Faced with mental illness and addiction, they had to learn how to overcome the pressures of a predominantly white and racist world. But those struggles, piece by piece, changed her expectations of what their life as a black woman could look like.
“When I get pregnant with Liliana, I am five months sober. I am given two options: get married or get an abortion. So I choose the path of creating the life that was expected of me.”
– Zanyell (she/her)
In the face of racism and daily microaggressions, Zanyell spends years starving herself and self-harming in an attempt to disappear. Eventually, she finds love and yoga and starts to feel more comfortable taking her rightful space in the world.
“It isn’t a conscious thought in the moment, but I know that this is when I decide I don’t want to be seen; not for my blackness.”
Want More Black Stories Matter Content?
Stories have the power to increase visibility, raise awareness, change people’s hearts and minds, and inspire people to take meaningful action. We are making every effort to ensure all of our Black Stories Matter content is easily accessible, widely consumed, and is accompanied by tools to deepen the impact.
Watch: We will share a story from our Black Stories Matter archives every weekday in June. Please follow us on Facebook, Instagram, or Twitter to easily access this content.
Listen: The TMI Project Story Hour, Season Two: Black Stories Matter, launches on July 16th. Learn more and subscribe to our podcast HERE
Host: a Black Stories Matter viewing party and discussion from anywhere in the world. Click HERE to learn more and sign up.
Share: TMI Project’s mission with Black Stories Matter is to elevate the underrepresented stories of the Black experience in America – the full spectrum – the triumphs, humor, beauty, and resilience. Click HERE to submit your story to be featured on the TMI Project blog.
– Ezra (he/him)
11-year-old Ezra is playing in the street with his two friends when the cops were called for a “disturbance.” During his questioning, Ezra begins to worry about how he’s perceived. He realizes he has a small panic attack every time he sees a police car.
“I don’t realize I’m doing it but I try to act white and never fall into the black stereotype. I don’t listen to rap music. I listen to Taylor Swift, Katy Perry and pop music. I don’t use much slang. I’m afraid of a stereotype that I don’t even know much about yet.”
– Twinkle (she/her)
While our newest group of storytellers immerse themselves in TMI Project’s true storytelling workshop in preparation for performing their stories live at Black Stories Matter at Black History Month Kingston on February 15th, we’re diving into TMI Project’s Black Stories Matter archive.
Follow along all month as we share stories from the eight brave storytellers who performed last Summer. First up: Twinkle Burke.
Twinkle isn’t a teacher or a nurse, but sometimes she plays one on TV. Because in the acting world, producers and writers like to cast women of color as nurturers and teachers and nurses are the most popular.
“I realize that being Black means a lot of different things. It’s making the choice to not be a nurturing Mammy; to embrace Betye Saar’s machine-gun-toting Aunt Jemima archetype. It’s the declaration that I’ll nurture you on my time in my way IF I want.”
Want More Black Stories Matter Content?
Stories have the power to increase visibility, raise awareness, change people’s hearts and minds, and inspire people to take meaningful action. We are making every effort to ensure all of our Black Stories Matter content is easily accessible, widely consumed, and is accompanied by tools to deepen the impact.
Listen: The TMI Project Story Hour, Season Two: Black Stories Matter, launches this fall. Learn more and subscribe to our podcast HERE
Host: a Black Stories Matter viewing party and discussion from anywhere in the world. Click HERE to learn more and sign up.
Share: TMI Preoject’s mission with Black Stories Matter is to elevate the underrepresented stories of the Black experience in America – the full spectrum – the triumphs, humor, beauty, and resilience. Click HERE to submit your story to be featured on the TMI Project blog.
TMI Project recently had the opportunity to interview the nationally recognized musician, drummer, poet, master teacher of hand drumming, and 2019 Agent of Change honoree Ubaka Hill.
Ubaka Hill (she/her) has been a performer of percussion, poetry, and song for over 30 years and a teacher of hand drumming for over 25 years. She is the visionary founder of the Million Women Drummers Gathering Global Initiative and the founder and curator of The Drumsong Institute Museum & Archive of Women’s Drumming Traditions of women’s folkloric and contemporary drumming. She is also one of three Agent of Change honorees at TMI Project’s 2019 Voices in Action: Benefit & Storytelling Showcase. Read on for our Q & A with Ubaka.
“It was during this “coming of age” where I awakened to being a Woman, a Black Woman and the role I have in representing myself and all of us. My Pride deepened as a Woman of Color and as a Lesbian which required self-honesty, deep healing, and unpacking internalized racisim, sexism, classism, and homophobia through self-love and acceptance.”
TMI PROJECT: What does being honored as a TMI Project Agent of Change mean to you?
UH: Being an Agent of Change honoree lets me know that my creative service and activism (artivism) in local and national communities are recognized and appreciated by TMI Project; that my visionary work and achievements of over 30 years matter and are worthy of public recognition. This honor will also show the importance of the arts and of artists as influencers, leaders, and activists (artivists) in the movements of social change.
TMI PROJECT: What would you say most motivates you to do what you do? What are you most excited or passionate about? What are the goals you most want to accomplish in your work, the goals you hold personally?
UH: I know that I have the power to encourage and inspire positive social change through the power of music, art, and spoken word.
My biggest personal goal is to inspire another generation to use the power of their creative intelligence to make positive changes that are impactful and sustainable. I am either in the planning stages of or actively working on so many other projects: I plan to produce a few more CDs, to write a historical book and presentation about the ancient and emerging Women’s Drumming Traditions; and I am working on a music video called “She Who Rises”. I am also an oil painter and would like to continue to produce my art as prints and note cards, just to name a few.
TMI PROJECT: Did you have any life-changing experiences that put you on the path that led you to be doing what you’re doing today? Tell us about them.
UH: I was born in the Bronx, NY in 1956 a Brown-Skinned African American Woman. From my youth into early adulthood years I lived in Jersey City, NY. I’ve had life-changing experiences throughout my life, and I continue to have them.
I was a child during the timeline of MLK and MX, Angela Davis and James Brown and many others who are historically noted and not noted. As a 13-year-old, I was aware of the Civil Rights Movement and the violence and devastation from the organized forces pushing back against change. The riots were in my neighborhood, on my block, and on TV. I was also aware that many White families, friends and business owners were afraid. I did not yet have the political acumen to understand what was going on and why. I felt helpless, afraid, and confused. I wasn’t sure if things would get better but I held that possibility in my heart.
By High School, I learned that Black people were systematically mistreated, disrespected and oppressed by racist white people who didn’t like us, who didn’t want us to have equal rights, who didn’t want us in their neighborhoods or to go to schools with their children. I learned that my family came from Africa as slaves held captive by white colonizers, missionaries and global capitalists. The Black Panther Party was very active during this time, and it was also a time of my own political awakening grounded in art, poetry, music, graffiti, novels, dance, and theatre.
By the time I was 17, I knew that I wanted to be part of the movement for positive change, equal rights and justice for “my people” because I was afraid and I was heartbroken and I knew that life had to better for us. I also knew that non-violence was my way of influencing change and that art and creative expression was my medium. I was 13 when I was presented by my art teacher with my name Ubaka.
At 17 I met a woman drummer for the first time named Edwina Lee Tyler. She made a great impression on me. Here was a woman drumming on the Conga Drum and later an African Djembe. I had only ever seen men drumming. Seeing her gave me permission to drum as a girl. During this period of time, I helped to form an ensemble of musicians for positive social change. We called the group the Spirit of Life Ensemble. I played jazz on my Conga with a lot of great Jazz musicians like Daoud Williams, Calvin Hill, Pharaoh Sanders, and Joe Lee Wilson to name just a few. I was the youngest member and the only woman for many of the 8 years that I was a core member. This is where I learned to drum and I experienced the power of music and the arts in the movement of social change.
By my early 20’s I legally changed my name to Ubaka, and moved to Brooklyn where I “came of age” again as a Black African American Woman, Lesbian, and artist. It was in Brooklyn where I learned to Drum like a powerful Black Woman with a cause. It was there in Fort Greene Brooklyn where I learned and witnessed the beauty and passion of Black Women’s art, music, storytelling, body, adornment, and creative self-expression. It was there and then where I sat in the audience of and around the kitchen table of Audre Lourde, Nikie Giovani, Pat Parker, Edwina Lee Tyler, Sapphire, The Women of the Calabash, Jewel Gomez, and Sonia Sanchez and so many more artists and activists. My Pride deepened as a Woman of Color and as a Lesbian which required self-honesty, deep healing and unpacking internalized racism, sexism, classism, and homophobia through self-love and acceptance.
During my time living and growing upwards in Brooklyn, I learned what it meant to be a feminist. In addition to Edwina, there were many Women that were an inspiration who influenced me and had a positive impact on me in different ways: Dorothy Stoneman, the founder of the Youth Action Program / Youth Build USA; Lisa Vogal, founder of the Michigan Women’s Music Festival; Maya Angelou; Harriet Tubman; Oprah Winfrey; Vicki Noble, Author / Motherpeace; Audre Lourde; Madeline Yayodela Nelson, founder of Women of the Calabash; Kay Gardner, Musician/Composer; Elizabeth Lesser, founder of Omega Institute; and Bev Grant; Musician /Artivist of the Human Condition; Eve Ensler and Holly Near. What all of these women have in common for me is that they went big with their visions for healing and progressive change. They did with self-permission and courage while pioneering new pathways for peace and dignity.
My life changed when I embraced the fact that all women and girls are targets of systematic, organized patriarchal oppression and violence. I became acutely aware that our collective, worldwide oppression is the common drive that powers our collective movement for our human rights. Teaching drumming to women has informed the focus of my teaching over the years. I’ve deepened my research and added more knowledge about women’s drumming traditions and drumming as a healing tool. In addition to teaching women how to play and to play the rhythms and music, I included drumming as a healing modality and healing circles, tools for personal transformation, encouraging joy, wellness, and building community.
I would have to write a book to speak about the influences of the Women that I have mentioned. There are also men who have inspired my coming of age and that had a very positive life-changing impact on my development as an artist and activist. Nelson Mandela, Sun Bear, Baba Olatunji, Daoud Williams, Cliff Watson to name a few. What all of these Women and Men have in common for me is that they went big with their big vision for radical progressive change not just for themselves but for the greater good of many.
TMI PROJECT: What’s next for you in your work in our Hudson Valley community? What are you looking forward to?
UH: In 2010 I was called by a vision to focus on being active in the environmental sustainability cause from the point of view as a drummer, a consumer of wooden musical instruments made from trees and I founded the Million Women Drummers Global (MWDG) Initiative. I’m now focused on the ongoing development of the (MWDG) Initiative, which includes collaborating, partnerships and community organizing to plant trees and play music together locally. MWDG also includes information, mindfulness, and consciousness-raising to influence a “new mindful model” for a sustainable future and to increase the number of trees in our neighborhoods for environmental and health benefits.
I’m also looking forward to working with the Center for Creative Education as the Music Director of the Percussion Orchestra of Kingston (P.O.O.K). I’m excited to build upon the long legacy of founder Ev Mann and to continue to teach and feature the creative intelligence of children and youth of Kingston. To create a model of art education and socially responsible mindfulness and leadership through creative self-expression, self-development and community involvement.
In the face of racism and the daily microaggressions churned out in a white world, Zanyell (she/her) spends years starving herself and self-harming in an attempt to disappear until she finds yoga and starts to feel more comfortable taking her rightful space in the world.
Storyteller Zanyell Garmon wrote and performed our Story of the Week as part of TMI Project’s newest Black Stories Matter true storytelling performance Black Stories Matter: Truth to Power, which was presented at Pointe of Praise Church in Kingston, NY on June 21, 2019. Read on below.
The air is humid, my skin still damp from swimming in the creek. My arms are swinging, feet skipping in time with my friends. I’m about ten or eleven years old. I smile and feel a sense of belonging, like in my favorite movies when you’re with your group of close friends.
Then, one of my friends turns back to look at us and laughs.
“Zanyell, it’s so dark I can’t see you,” he says.
My other friends either laugh or stay quiet. At first, I don’t understand what he means, but when I do, I fall silent too. It isn’t a conscious thought in the moment, but I know that this is when I decide I don’t want to be seen; not for my blackness.
I start to worry about how I look, how I act, and how I’m perceived. My mother tells me I have to work twice as hard because I’m black and a woman. It’s exhausting, but it soon becomes an obsession. In high school, I get called an Oreo because I speak white and listen to the wrong music. I’m placed on the honors track with mostly white students and I’m told that I act like I’m “better” than my black friends. Black and white beauty standards are also different. My mother praises my curves and my “J-Lo” booty while my white friends often ask me if their butts look big or their hair is too poofy.
I watch America’s Next Top Model and see thin women with straight hair and straight teeth. On the dark web of Tumblr, I re-blog women with thigh gaps and protruding ribs, straight hair, and sunken in eyes. I fantasize about what it would be like to be them.
In a chat room where we talk about anime, I use a picture of a blond white anime character, as my avatar. It takes me a couple months to think, oh wait, I’m lying. I don’t look anything like that.
In real life, I wear extensions and perm my hair. I skip meals to lose weight. The first day of high school, after I starve to lose almost 30 pounds, my friends say, “You look so good!” At 99 pounds, I have achieved my original goal, but I still feel like I take up too much space. Ultimately, I want to disappear.
I meet Caitlin online. She’s bulimic and self-harms like I do. The cutting help us control the pain of overwhelming emotions. It’s the intense shock of that pain, cutting into the flesh and drawing blood, that distracts from the feelings we can’t handle. I feel like she’s the only one who understands. We starve together, compare our calorie intake, offer support on the days when we felt weak. We promise that we’ll get better together.
“Don’t die on me Cait. We can do this,” I tell her too many times.
Her grandmother sends her to mental hospitals, deletes her accounts, and takes away her phone but she always finds a way to talk to me again, texting me from new numbers and messaging me from new blogs.
The last time I speak to her, she is withering away, 86 pounds at 5 feet 11 inches. And then, when I’m in 11th grade, Caitlin disappears. I have no way to contact her, no last name to look up. I search for her for a year and can’t find her. Just like that, she disappears. I decide I will not disappear like Caitlin.
A friend brings me to a yoga studio. The teacher is black. It’s a very diverse and authentic yoga studio. Doing yoga makes me feel better.
I spend a month in an ashram in Nepal training to become a yoga teacher with other American trainees. We practice yoga three times a day and three times a day, eat the same meal of rice, dal and roti. Eating is difficult for me at first. I cry a lot and everyone in my group is supportive. They are like a family to me. I realize that I’m eating with people who genuinely care about me and that this food is meant for me to eat. I begin to take up more space in my own body.
One day, we all walk an hour to buy ingredients for a chocolate cake. We make the cake and everyone eats it. The workers at the ashram eat the cake. Even I eat the cake. That was a very good day.
Returning from my training in Nepal, I stop practicing yoga three times a day and fall into a really bad depression. In the middle of my hopelessness, I meet Ryan. He tells me ‘you need to breathe,’ and he just sits there and breathes so calmly and deeply that I have to breathe with him. Ryan is like a beacon of light, guiding me through the vast oceans of my sorrow. He teaches me to trust, to love and truly connect again with another human. My walls come down and I let him see me, but only the parts I have let myself see.
One day, lying in Ryan’s arms, I announce, “I’m going to change my hair.”
As soon as I say this, my heart starts beating quickly. He has only seen me with my twists and I worry what his reaction will be. My struggle with my hair is one of many that I keep in a locked box. I have not been “natural” since a young child. My mom has learned how to do this crochet weave in style, one that will change my twists to free flowing natural-looking curls. She says I need a change, and I reluctantly agree.
Ryan smiles, “Yeah?”
“I’m excited,” I lie and he agrees.
But when it’s done, he doesn’t like it. His hands awkwardly pat my weave of ringlet curls.
“It’s so big,” he says.
“I don’t know if I like the fake curls,” he says.
“Why don’t you go natural?” he says. “How do you wash that anyway?”
His words sink into the pit of my being. Now the box is open and I’m bombarded with flashbacks. The white customers when I worked at Shoprite asking the same questions, making the same statements in condescending tones.
“How long does that take? It can’t be all yours. How do you wash it? Can I touch it?”
I don’t get why my hair seems so exotic to them. Haven’t they seen other people wearing these styles? I feel like a spectacle. An animal at the zoo. I try to summon the courage, gather the words to express my relationship with hair, one of the most hated and loved aspects of my blackness. I see Ryan as another white male who will never understand. All the love we share and he will never understand. I remember his statements about being colorblind and wonder how he sees me? Did he forget I was black? Did my disappearing act work better than I thought?
“Don’t shut down on me,” he says.
My friends told me this would happen, that he would not understand. “It’s ingrained,” they said. “Implicit bias.”
They tell me “Your new style makes you look more black, that’s his problem. He just got comfortable and forgot you were black.”
“You’re putting up a wall,” he says, and I was.
Weeks pass before I remember my decision to be seen, to be true.
One night, over dinner with Ryan, I open the box. I say “You asked me to go natural but you don’t understand this is a battle I have to get through.”
I tell him what I went through in school, constantly perming my hair to make it straight until I got braids. How random people want to touch my hair or ask me, ‘‘How do you wash your hair?”
The same ignorant question he asked me. I tell him that my hair is a part of my blackness that I both love and hate. The shock on his face is almost comforting. Maybe what everyone said about him is not true. We speak about intentions, other microaggressions, my feelings on black hair, on blackness. As I see me, he sees me.
He says, “I just want you to feel free and be yourself. If this makes you happy that’s all I want.”
“I love you,” he says.
I start to feel that I can trust him and trust his intentions. I can’t always expect him to know things but when I do talk about these things, he really listens to me. We can communicate through this.
I don’t have to run away and I don’t have to disappear. I am learning to love me, my body, my hair, my blackness, my soul.
Would you like to see the full production of Black Stories Matter: Truth to Power? Download our Viewing and Discussion guide and host a viewing party! https://tmiproject.org/host-a-viewing-party/
– Zoey (she/her)
You wouldn’t know it looking at her, but Zoey’s half-black. In fact, her family is a full tapestry of colors. Growing up, she was bullied for hanging out with all kinds of people: all races, all genders, all weirdos.
Our phenomenal cast of storytellers have been working hard this week rehearsing BRAND NEW stories in preparation Black Stories Matter: Truth to Power taking place on June 21st at 7:30pm. we’ve been plunging into the TMI Project archive to rewatch some of our favorite and lesser-known Black Stories Matter stories from the past four years. After we hosted a true storytelling workshop at Kingston High School, we presented our first-ever high school production of Black Stories Matter, where Zoey shared her story about how her family’s diversity.
About Black Stories Matter
Black Stories Matter is TMI Project’s way of making an impact in addressing incidents of hate, bigotry and racial injustice in our local community while also participating as an organization in the national outcry of injustice. TMI Project’s mission with Black Stories Matter is to elevate the underrepresented stories of the Black experience in America – the full spectrum – the triumphs, humor, beauty, and resilience.
While our storytellers rehearse their brand new stories, in preparation for Black Stories Matter: Truth to Power, taking place on June 21st at 7:30pm, we’re diving into TMI Project’s archive. Kesai Riddick’s story about family and his unique upbringing debuted in TMI Project’s original Black Stories Matter production in 2017. Kesai was raised by his white mom in the East Village. He missed having his dad around to model what it meant to be a black man. Luckily his uncle became like a surrogate father and introduced him to Buddhism and the concept of “Nam-myoho-renge-kyo” which eventually helped reunite Kesai with his dad in adulthood.
Meet Kesai:
TMI Project presents
Black Stories Matter: Truth to Power
About Black Stories Matter
Black Stories Matter is TMI Project’s way of making an impact in addressing incidents of hate, bigotry and racial injustice in our local community while also participating as an organization in the national outcry of injustice. TMI Project’s mission with Black Stories Matter is to elevate the underrepresented stories of the Black experience in America – the full spectrum – the triumphs, humor, beauty, and resilience.
by Allie Quinn (she/her)
In the Fall of 2015, one of my therapists at the Mental Health Association in Ulster County (MHA) suggested I sign up for a TMI Project true storytelling workshop. Even though my interest was piqued, I couldn’t fathom telling my story to strangers. Some of my family and friends didn’t even know the extent of what I had gone through.
I had vaguely learned about mental illness in psychology classes, but I never imagined that at age 21, days after my junior year of college ended, I would develop a sudden and severe mental illness. In a matter of days, I went from writing 20-page papers to feeling too overwhelmed to read or write; from working 3 part-time jobs to being too paranoid to leave the house without my parents. Within a few weeks, my extreme fight-or-flight responses made driving too dangerous. Over the next several months, I was hospitalized five times, in three different facilities, spending nearly three months total in the hospital. By December, I had gained 30 pounds, withdrew from college, and had accumulated more misdiagnoses and medication changes than I could count. Most of all, I had lost a sense of who I was. I knew I needed to re-evaluate my goals, but I couldn’t find the motivation or hope.
Over the next year and a half, I attended all of my appointments, practiced coping skills, and found stability on the correct combination of medications. I even got my psychiatric service dog, Joey, who helped me gain back my independence. Still, with all of the tools I had gained and the progress I had made, I still felt that a piece of myself was missing. I signed up for a TMI Project true storytelling workshop not knowing if I would have the courage to show up on the first day.
I walked into the MHA conference room and sat toward the end of the table, not wanting to draw attention to the fact that I was terrified. As people began introducing themselves and reading their writing, my anxiety and self-consciousness worsened. I couldn’t help but ask myself what happened to the outgoing, stage-stealing, referee-challenging young woman I used to be. I completed my first session, and even though I didn’t make any groundbreaking revelations, it felt satisfying to hold a pen and feel my words flow onto the page.
As the weeks went on, I arrived feeling excited and increasingly more comfortable telling the “TMI” parts of my story. Each time I wrote, I felt a familiar fire inside that I so desperately wanted to return. On week 8, each group member received their finalized monologues from the TMI Project facilitators. When I first read the monologue out loud I experienced an overwhelming feeling of relief and self-empowerment. I stopped and said, “This is how I’ve always wanted to tell my story.” Taking ownership of my struggles and strength was exhilarating. When it came time to read my monologue in front of family, friends, my therapy team, and strangers, I felt strong and confident. I realized that sharing my story and my experience with mental illness could help others who are dealing with mental health issues.
In January of 2016, I started my own blog, and the TMI Project facilitators asked if I’d share my story at other venues. I wrote pieces about mental health and my own illness for The Mighty, MTV, and as a contributor in the book Project Semicolon: Your Story Isn’t Over. That October, I received the Next Generation Award from the YWCA Ulster County for writing and speaking about mental illness. The next month, I applied to SUNY Empire State College to study Community and Human Services. Returning to college had been a goal of mine, but I didn’t know if I would ever be ready. My participation in the TMI Project true storytelling workshop and the culminating live storytelling performance gave me the confidence I needed to reach my goals.
In December 2018, I earned my Bachelors degree and was prepared to use both my education and personal experiences to help my community. I applied to MHA, remembering their deep commitment to me and others battling mental illness. I was hired in February as a Wellness Resource Coordinator, a dream job for me.
As the next TMI Project storytelling workshop at MHA session was drawing near, I asked to be the MHA staff member to sit with the new participants as they wrote their stories and found their strength. Walking into the room on the first day of the session induced a flood of emotions. I was excited for the new writers, nostalgic as I thought about the people who had been in my group, and so grateful for the personal and emotional growth that had occurred for me in that same room. Before participating in my TMI Project workshop, I resented my illness and mourned the young woman I “used to be.” After TMI Project, I embraced my struggles and took pride in my story. I realized I’m never going to be the person I was before mental illness and that’s for the better. I’m so much stronger now.
– Hayley Downs, TMI Project Workshop Leader
“Remember, I’m not only the Hair Club President, but I’m also a client.”
– Sy Sperling, President, Hair Club for Men
My colleague Micah Blumenthal recently reminded me that TMI Project Workshop Leaders are like that beloved 1980’s cable ad about the Hair Club for Men: we are not just facilitators, we are also clients. We all have first-time true storytelling workshop experiences that got us hooked.
In October 2016 I was embracing my new home in Kingston, but the sadnesses of my life had piled up inside me, and it was getting harder to carry them around. With only a vague idea of “making more time for writing,” I signed up for the free 10-week TMI Project true storytelling workshop at The Mental Health Association in Ulster County (MHA).
It was a motley crew including TMI Project storytellers Morris Bassik, Beth Broun and Barbara Stemki. For weeks our workshop leaders Eva Tenuto and Sari Botton led us in timed writing exercises designed to help us bypass our “inner editors.” We read them out loud to each other, first tentatively and then boldly. There were stories about schizophrenia, multiple sclerosis, familial rejection, and other heartbreaks. I remember laughing a lot. Collectively we were a group who had earned the right to find humor in our scars. And so we did.
When I began to unearth my own stories — of struggling with drugs, my relationship with my mother and my husband’s battle with cancer — they seemed to transmogrify from traumatic experiences that made me feel shame and sadness to open source content, the property of the universe and no longer mine to bear alone. Once tragic tales were like former toxic roommates, no longer hostile occupiers of my personal space. And lo and behold tragedy + time = comedy! I felt lighter. It was the beginning of a subtle and steady shift in my life.
In the workshops I have since facilitated I have realized I’m not alone in this transformation. Here are four things to expect when you take a TMI Project true storytelling workshop at MHA:
My co-workshop leader Dara Lurie and I are now midway through teaching our fourth workshop at MHA. It’s an important turning point for participants. Themes emerge like photographs in darkroom fluid. Participants begin to see the story they want to tell. By the end, it’s like we’ve been to sleepaway camp together.
At the start of the workshops, many people come in carrying their stories like the “ponderous chain” that Charles Dickens character Jacob Marley. Granted, Jacob Marley was fictional and a ghost and we are real and alive, but we are often weighed down by invisible chains wrought from the traumas of our lives: abuse, illness, addiction, and death. But to submit to the process is to court the possibility of the psychic unburdening of at least one story that you’ve locked away because it felt like “too much information.”
In 2016 I wasn’t focused on the issue TMI Project and MHA are addressing – destigmatizing mental illness through storytelling. I just wanted and needed to unload the million jumbled stories festering inside me; I definitely had my own ponderous chain. But when I settled in and looked around I realized that I was surrounded by a dazzling mix of people who are just like me.
At the time of my first workshop, I didn’t “identify” as a person with mental illness, which is kind of funny because my entire adolescent and adult life have been defined by therapy, medication, suicidal ideation, and one hospitalization.I have since come to appreciate my propensities and even embrace them as a kind of low wattage superpower.
I remember reading an interview with Mia Farrow in which she said she doesn’t believe anybody should ever be bored. I thought, “Oh my god, what the hell are you talking about, Mia Farrow?”
I am bored a lot – at the gym, at work, grocery shopping, walking MishiMish, my special needs chihuahua — and I don’t need Mia Farrow judging me for that.
But the two hours a week I spend around the big conference table under those unforgiving fluorescent lights at MHA are always a respite. Not for a moment am I even thinking about checking my phone. I am ALL IN. It’s that way for everybody. As others read our bodies are still, like monuments to active listening. We are rooting for each other as we tug and pull our stories from down deep. And together we turn all that raw material into something profound. We’re not bored because the stories are so damn good.
There’s a reason that TMI Project true storytelling performances always culminate in an enthusiastic standing ovation. In the cafeteria of MHA with the tables pushed aside at two in the afternoon on a Thursday, the audience – and you – will laugh, cry, and experience more gratifying, cathartic, soul cleansing, rush of human connectedness and this-is-what-we’re-here-for-edness than at any hit Broadway show in the front orchestra seats.
I’m going to go out on a limb and say it’s better than Hamilton. Did I mention that it’s free?
