This morning I picked up a canister of steel cut oats by the lid. If you've ever made the same mistake, you know what happened next. I spent about 15 minutes vacuuming up those little bastard oat shards out of every crevice in my pantry. I'm pretty sure it was regenerating itself as I was cleaning it up. I was like Oatmeal Jesus, except the true miracle was that I didn't murder anyone during this moment of hunger and irritation.
Today's prompt comes from conflict resolution expert Priya Parker. I would have appreciated her help this morning, but something tells me her expertise would be wasted mediating a conflict between an irrational woman and a shelf-stable breakfast item.
Prompt: What’s a memory of a collective ritual, inherited or invented, that was meaningful or formative to some part of your identity? Write about it. Who was there? What was the activity? What were the words that were used? What time of year was it? How did it make you feel? And years later, how might it have shaped you?
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My high school had a stellar arts program that cranked out award-winning musicals year after year. When I was a kid, still in elementary school, my grandmother worked at the high school. Most years, she would snag tickets and we'd go see the Spring musical together.
I remember watching teenagers, just a few years older than myself, absolutely crush it on stage. I thought only famous people could be that talented. How could real people memorize all those lines? How could they sing like that? And dance at the same time?
Over the years, the amazement gave way to desire and misplaced confidence. If those people up on stage were actually just normal human people, maybe I could be one of them.
As it would turn out, I have a singing voice that might inspire a bystander to call an ambulance. For me or for themself, anything to make it stop, as even the siren's wail would be more sonorous. My high school musical dreams were crushed. I wanted to be part of that magic so badly.
It was then that I discovered what seemed like an adequate consolation prize: stage crew. It was a lot of plywood, paint, and power drills, which turned out to be WAY more enjoyable than being in the cast. They were subject to daily verbal abuse from the prima donna musical director, who sat stroking his Pomeranian and hurling insults at actors who missed a cue or failed to hit a high note.
Still, I couldn't help but feel undervalued or somehow second class compared to the actors. They got all the accolades, the glamour, the applause. The stage crew had to dress head to toe in black and make every effort to remain unseen.
There was, however, a pre-performance ritual that brought us all together, cast and crew alike. On opening night, we would hold hands in a circle behind the closed curtains. Borrowing from Broadway tradition, we would carry out the ritual of the Gypsy Robe (which was, for obvious reasons, renamed the Legacy Robe in 2018).
The previous year's robe recipient (sometimes a returning college freshman, which added to the exotic allure) would emerge from the wings in a silk robe elaborately and outlandishly embroidered with mementos from previous years' productions. As they ran around the circle, three times in a counter-clockwise direction, we would reach out and touch the robe for good luck. The Gypsy would come to a stop beside the new recipient, who would often be moved to tears by the honor (typical drama kid).
After experiencing that ritual, I felt like I was part of a grander tradition. I wasn't just an ugly, untalented lackey lurking in the wings with the next set of props. I was still that, but not just that. Looking back, I appreciate the lesson I was forced to learn - that behind what you see on the glittering surface of anything great, there are many supporting characters and unseen helpers. Those efforts have value, and it's not necessary to be the center of attention to contribute to something larger than yourself. Also, what happens at a cast party stays at a cast party.
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