“Now I will break their yoke from your neck and tear your shackles away.”
—Nahum 1:13
Taking an improv class has been great for pushing emotional boundaries. Last night, our instructor spent the first ninety minutes of class evaluating our weaknesses and the last thirty minutes of class putting us in situations to exploit those weaknesses.
When my turn came, he pointed out that while I’m willing to walk to the edge of the emotional cliff, I seem unwilling to take the leap off. “I want you to jump off,” he said.
A few minutes into my scene, he paused us to say, “I want you to look out over the class and into that ‘camera’ and deliver a monologue that’s going to win you an Oscar.”
I think the whole class could see how uncomfortable I was with the idea—being in the spotlight, expressing big emotions—but I played along.
For about thirty seconds anyway. Then, I tried to resume the scene.
“Do it again,” he told me.
So I complied, bigger this time.
“And again,” he said.
So I did, even bigger.
“Again!”
That’s when I really jumped off, shouting passionately for my class and the “camera” to see.
I drove home feeling like I should throw my whole life away and move to L.A. to chase down a Hollywood dream.
I started reflecting on why it felt so good to leave it all on the table, and I realized it was because I grew up in a household where the over-expression of emotions was discouraged.
Quiet compliance was, well, encouraged in my home. So I learned to bottle up my feelings and operate on a pretty narrow emotional wavelength, to the point where expressing big emotions remained suppressed, even during an acting class. Being given permission to break through my usual calm and reservation was like being given the key to those restraints. Being forced to deliver an Oscar-winning monologue drove me over the precipice of emotional resistance.