What do an engineer, an accountant, and a drag queen all have in common?
Like me, a multimedia journalist at the Star, they signed up for a beginner improv class at Bad Dog comedy studio, a small theatre academy in the heart of Chinatown.
As we waited for our first class to start that Tuesday night, eight of us — representing a variety of ages, gender expressions and backgrounds — sat wordlessly in a circle of folded chairs in the bright, white room.
The silence was broken when our instructor Jen burst into the room with a smile, and asked us all to introduce ourselves and share what inspired us to try improv. There was a U of T professor from Brazil who wanted to be a better teacher, an artist hoping to curb her perimenopause-induced brain fog, a 23-year-old computer scientist looking for a new hobby.
As my turn approached, I noticed I was nervously wringing my hands as my heart pounded in my chest.
It was a feeling I knew all too well. In fact, it was the reason I was here.
“Just be yourself, they’ll love you!” my mother yelled from the car window as she dropped me off at my new school. I believed her — after all, I’d switched schools before and always managed to make friends. But this was the seventh grade, the brutal limbo between childhood and adolescence, and I was the eccentric new girl from out-of-province, wearing a Transformers T-shirt and cargo shorts. I never stood a chance.
It went badly. So badly that within six months I transferred schools again. This time, I decided that being accepted was more important than being myself. I also vowed to avoid any social situation that would put me at risk for mass rejection ever again.
Well, until I signed up for improv.
After we had finished our introductions, Jen started the class off by sharing the most important “gift” we could give ourselves: to suspend all judgment. This was a good place to start, since we very quickly proceeded to make fools of ourselves. We took turns doing rapid-fire word associations, improvising interpretive dances, and butchering tongue twisters until my face hurt from laughing. We ended with a scene in which two classmates and I were accused of straightening all the paper clips in our imaginary middle school. “Do you really think I’ve made anything more straight in my life?” retorted Andre, our resident drag queen. The class erupted with laughter, and we successfully evaded the charges.
Over the next few classes, Jen emphasized the importance of connecting with your scene partner: “If you feel lost, you can often find the answer in your partner’s eyes.” This was tough for me: I had long struggled to make eye contact, even before becoming a social pariah in high school. So when Jen introduced a game called “mind meld” where we stared into each other’s eyes and attempted to say the same word at the same time, I was nervous. The task seemed as impossible as it did uncomfortable. But to my surprise, after only a few rounds my partner Shakir and I got it on the second try. Perhaps poetically, the word was “mirror.”
Throughout, we were reminded of improv’s golden rule: “yes and,” which challenges actors to accept their partners’ “offerings” — no matter how outlandish — and build on to them to keep the scene afloat. In order to get comfortable saying yes, we played a game called “Yes, let’s!” where one person would propose an activity and the group would enthusiastically agree to act it out. “Let’s rob a bank!” rose a voice from the back of the room. “Yes, let’s!” the rest of us cheered, as we donned imaginary balaclavas and shovelled invisible wads of cash into bags.
Still, the principle often proved harder to apply in a scene. After all, how could you use a VCR to stop a hurricane? Or what do you do when someone brings a cat to the Westminster dog show? It turns out that it’s often easier to reject an idea than to figure out what to do with it, but also that the introduction of the unexpected creates the conditions for stories to emerge. Through these scenes, and Jen’s infectious appreciation of the art form, I started to understand that improv isn’t just about being funny, it’s about building a world with someone.
After every class, I stopped for a solo drink at El Rey in Kensington Market to take notes on the day. After my third lesson (and second drink) I worked up the courage to strike up a conversation with the person next to me. What would have felt like an impossible feat only a few weeks before suddenly felt easy.
In the Uber home, I had an epiphany. Ever since I was 12, I had been telling myself that people would always judge me for being myself. But what if I was the one judging them by assuming that? What if in my efforts to self-preserve, I had been closing myself off to a different story?
And so, I decided to break my routine. After our last session, I invited all of my classmates to join me for a drink. To my delight, almost all of them said “Yes, let’s!”
As we sipped spicy margaritas, I looked around the crowded tables and smiled. A month ago all of us were strangers whose lives may have only ever intersected on an overcrowded streetcar car or in adjacent self-checkouts at a Shoppers Drug Mart. Yet here we were, sharing an evening where tales of terrible roommates and psychedelic frogs in South America flowed as freely as the tequila. In class, the collective agreement to remove judgment made that room feel like a sacred space, but we didn’t need the classroom to connect; just permission to be ourselves.
Trying something new is scary. Being vulnerable with strangers is even scarier. Taking an improv class forced me to do both, but it also showed me what magic can happen when we all agree — even for a few hours — to let go of judgment and be radically receptive.
After all, isn’t life just one extended improvisation? The least you can do is be a good scene partner.
