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Performative wokeness

The world is currently reeling because a police officer, Derek Chauvin, killed a black man,  George Floyd, while fellow officers passively watched and civilians filming begged him to stop. Of course, we’re horrified. It’s even more horrifying to think that Chauvin had at least 10 official complaints about police brutality and had been involved in 3 police shootings. The fact that Chauvin was kept in his position of power despite being demonstrably unable to exercise it safely is an example of a much bigger problem with the way systematic racism and preferential treatment enable awful things to happen. The police, in this case, are an example of how a closed community looks after its own, to the exclusion and harm of others.

We should be outraged, and we are. We should protest, sign petitions, vote accordingly at the next opportunity, signal our disapproval so that it’s clear we care, that black lives matter to us. And a lot of us are doing that. But we should also be examining how we do things in our own communities, where we have the most power to effect change. As the weeks and months slip by, what are we actually doing with our time and energy to ensure that similar systems are not excluding or harming people around us?

The improv community has been visibly trying to work on its diversity problem in the last few years and to create safer spaces in classes and on stage. Things like diversity scholarships and codes of conduct have gone from rarities to requirements in a matter of years. Well, that’s nice.

I still see lots of problematic behaviour, though, and it’s often from people who are going out of their way to appear ‘woke’ and liberal. I see people publically lauding their diversity policies one day and privately casting an entirely white cast the next, rather than holding an open audition. I see people publically using all the feminist vocabulary in the world, but staying friends with known abusers. I see people looking after their ‘friends’ by allowing them to escape deserved consequences.

The next wave of diversity efforts in our community needs to address this. Being performatively woke but still carrying on business as usual is, if anything, worse than doing nothing. It gives the illusion of a moral high ground, and that makes it even harder to have needed conversations. We all want to believe we’re good people, but if we’re so convinced of it we can’t listen then we create a dangerous situation. Part of being a good person is a willingness to self-examine, to change, and to put in the work. If you’re not willing to be inconvenienced by your values, you don’t have values, you have aspirations.

The really tough thing about this is that improv as an art form is social. It’s community-based, and we are broadly nice people, so we want to look after our community. It’s a great instinct on the surface of it, but what does it really mean to look after a community? And who gets to be part of that group?

A lot of people find improv easier and more comfortable with people they know. As teachers, we spend a lot of time in classes and with ensembles making sure people bond as a group and feel comfortable. We know that when their class showcase comes up they’ll have a nicer time stepping on stage with people they know and like. And we know that people whose class group bonds well are more likely to stick with improv, often taking more classes together or forming a group. This is really useful information at that level because it allows us to structure people’s experience of our art form, to help them treat each other kindly, and to help them form communities.

When we get to a certain level, though, we stop applying this to ourselves. Instead of seeking new people to collaborate with and actively trying to bond with them, we close ranks with the people we already know. We’re all busy people, and gosh it’s so much more convenient to rehearse and put on a show with a cast of people you already know and like. You could do it in half the time because you all know each other, you think the same way, you speak the same language. Sure, I get it. But by constantly working with the same people, by closing ranks rather than inviting people in, we’re creating a clique where outsiders feel very unwelcome. Because we’re not welcoming them.

If when I say the word ‘outsiders’ you immediately picture people of colour, women, LGBTQ folk, people who speak a different mother tongue to you, or people with disabilities, know that that is felt by those people.

As soon as we progress beyond showing up for an improv class hoping to be shown a good time, we subconsciously start creating our own little friend groups and communities. This isn’t inherently bad at first, but it easily becomes a problematic habit. When you find yourself more and more in charge of organising things, it’s valuable to take a step back and reevaluate your processes. Are you asking friends privately to put on shows, or are you holding an open audition? Are you casually putting people in charge of things because you already know and trust them, or do you have a fair system? If you find yourself being presented with an opportunity, do you pause to think about the fairness of your having received it? It’s always flattering to be asked to be in things, but the more experienced we are the more we can afford to say no once in a while if someone else would benefit from an opportunity, or if we know that we’re not being asked for the right reasons. And on the flip side, if we know somebody has been cast or hired simply because they’re friends with the person in charge, we won’t respect them as much as if they’d come about the opportunity fairly. It’s a lose-lose proposition.

There’s a darker side to this, too. We look after our community in both good ways and bad. We want to believe that we’re good people and that our friends are good people. In many ways, we have to believe it, because we step on stage with people needing to trust them. So, we hear that our friend did something a bit creepy and our gut tells us to brush away the concern because they’re part of our circle. We hear that someone did something properly bad, but we invite them to perform at our theatre or festival because they’re a great performer. Maybe they’re also just fun to drink a night away with.

It’s so much easier to let poor behaviour slide than to have the conversation. Nobody wants to be the person who calls-out friends, because that person burns bridges. They make people uncomfortable, they miss opportunities that being in the clique affords. But, having been that person quite a few times, I can tell you that new and better opportunities come along. Or you make new ones. There are always new people to work with and new connections to form. And if we sit by and passively accept bad behaviour, or benefit from an unequal system, we’re allowing ourselves to be part of the problem.

If you want to say lovely things about diversity, you need to be willing to put your money where your mouth is. Hold open auditions. Say no sometimes. Make things financially accessible to those who need. Educate yourself about racism, sexism, homophobia, transphobia, ableism, class issues and anything else that becomes necessary for you to be an effective ally without having to ask people to explain things to you like you’re 9 years old. And if someone in your community or friend circle is behaving in a problematic way, say something to them. Say something to other people. Refuse to work with them again if you need to. It’s difficult to burn bridges in a community-based art form, especially if this is your income source, but some bridges are not worth having. And think about all of the new ones you could build.

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How To Hold Space

There’s a difference between a safe space and a held space. When I imagine safe space I imagine a document outlining the rules about how I should behave. When I imagine a held space I imagine a person. For me, that’s a crucial difference.

The very phrase, “Safe Space” can be problematic because it implies that it’s possible to make a space safe. There’s no such thing as a safe space if we are all bringing ourselves fully into the room, because we are all different humans with different experiences and personalities. In improv especially, where our gut instincts are laid bare, being completely safe is neither possible nor desirable. The rules for creating even the illusion of absolute safety would be so restrictive they’d turn us into cookie-cutter artists.

Although I am a staunch defender of having a code of conduct and checking in on (and respecting) boundaries, there is no boundary check-in so thorough that it will cover every possibly triggering eventuality. That doesn’t mean we shouldn’t ask about things like physical contact and off-limits subjects, of course not. But people’s boundaries are constantly changing, and we’re constantly discovering new ones. Not to mention that we might accidentally give a character the same name as your dead childhood pet, a hand might slip, or an asteroid might crash into the theatre.

For me, a held space is one that feels safe. There’s no guarantee that you’ll never be harmed, but there is a guarantee that there is someone there with you who will do and say what needs to be done or said. There’s the feeling that there’s an adult in the room.

We cannot and should not make ourselves completely safe. What we can do is make each other feel safe enough to take risks, to be vulnerable, to allow ourselves to be held. We need to feel safe enough to be creative, and free enough to fail. Here are some ideas about how to do it.

One Adult in Charge

Co-leading is certainly possible with the right people and relationship, as is group leading. It’s often tricky though and ends up feeling like nobody is in charge. If two leaders argue, or hand off to each other constantly, or look like they’re discussing what to do next at length, the feeling of being held can easily start to slip. It’s easiest to hold space as a solo facilitator because everyone knows you’re the leader. That sounds quite simple, but it’s important. Knowing that someone has the situation in hand allows us to relax and feel taken care of.

Act Like You’re In Charge

When we walk into a room we often have a sixth-sense for who the leader is. It might be because they’re greeting people, gently directing the conversation, or standing at the front of the room, but it might also be more subtle. Are they constantly looking to others for approval, or are they making decisions? There’s a fine line between checking-in and palming off responsibility. The way we communicate sends signals about status and social dynamics; try these ideas when you’re talking with your group.

  • Instead of asking people what they want to do, try offering two choices and going with a simple majority.
  • If people are feeding-back, ask specific questions rather than just asking what they think.
  • Direct the conversation by calling on people to speak, asking them to put their hands up. This is especially helpful online, where it’s easier for people to talk over each other.
  • Direct turn-taking if needed, so that everyone gets roughly equal time and attention. Remember that your attention as the leader is valuable.

Follow The Speed Of The Group

In the same way that a conductor of an orchestra sets the tempo, a facilitator sets the speed for a class, meeting, or rehearsal. This power can only go so far though! If you try to push or pull a group too far away from its own internal pace the participants will feel off balance. Keep an eye out for people losing focus and chatting, or looking eager to jump in and have a go before you move on.

Follow Your Own Rules

If you set up a system for how a class or discussion will be run it’s important to follow and enforce them evenly as much as possible. Knowing that there are systems, even simple ones like raising your hand to speak, can make the leap into the unknown that improv represents feel safer. This goes doubly for code of conduct rules; letting minor offences slide by creates an environment where major offences are a bigger worry, not just because they’re more likely to happen but because people won’t trust you to deal with them.

Demonstrate Your Good Intent

It’s becoming more and more common to ask pronouns as well as names at the start of a class, or to include them in an email signature or online name. A lot of theatres are phasing out phrases like, “Ladies and gentlemen” in favour of more inclusive greetings like, “Folks,” “Everyone,” or, “Guys, gals and non-binary pals.” Small things like this send a subtle message that it’s important to you that people feel seen and welcomed. This one only counts if you also follow through on looking after people, though!

Be A Human

Being the adult in the room doesn’t mean you need to be infallible. If you make a mistake acknowledge it, apologise if necessary, and move on. It’s important that we read a room well enough to realise and acknowledge that something hasn’t worked and that we listen to people if they tell us directly. We can earn trust and diffuse tension simply by having the courage to take responsibility.

Holding space for others is a difficult skill to learn, but a very important one. It allows groups and communities to flourish, individuals to grow, and spaces to be truly inclusive. Being the kind of leader who allows creativity to thrive means you’ll always be surrounded by new and interesting art. You’ll also have the privilege to see people as they really are: flawed, vulnerable, and beautiful.


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Consent to Receive Criticism


Constructive criticism is something that I find a lot of improvisers struggle with, both giving and receiving. In a way it can feel contrary to the spirit of our art; it’s our job to make our scene partner look good, to accept and build on their choices, to make classes and rehearsals feel safe. Certainly, beginners need space to experiment and safely fail, which tends to mean setting them up for success more than pointing out their failures. When do we lose those training wheels though? And how do we make it ok to receive criticism without losing the fun of what we’re doing?

For me, criticism is a very personal thing. I try to approach criticism the same way I’d approach physical contact in improv. There are a lot of parallels, really; touch is something that experienced players use as a tool, understand, and are broadly comfortable communicating about. It’s becoming quite common to have a chat about physical boundaries before a show (who is ok being touched where and how), and it feels like a vocabulary that we’re getting comfortable with. Touch is something that beginners are often hesitant about (with a few exceptions), and we certainly wouldn’t expect somebody at their first improv class to be fine cuddling a stranger, let alone kissing them. Experienced players are often fine with both, and/or confident enough to explicitly say what is and isn’t ok.

Accepting criticism is a similarly vulnerable act. We all have a certain image of ourselves, and as beginners particularly it’s difficult to separate our own ego with our stage self and the choices they make. Because improv exposes our gut instincts, I’d argue that you can’t and shouldn’t completely separate your ‘real’ self from a character or stage persona; it’d feel very disingenuous and might block creative impulses. That means that we’re exposing ourselves onstage, and that makes it hard to hear criticism.

Of course, at a certain point in our development, we simply need to hear it. Not just have somebody tell us what we’re doing wrong, but have the ability to hear what they’re saying and consider it without letting our own defensive ego flare up. Letting the criticism in long enough to think about it, to try out a suggestion and see if it suits you, is as vulnerable an act as letting someone touch you on stage and seeing how that makes you feel. Both acts require trust, vulnerability, and self-assurance.

How then do we develop this, in ourselves and in our students? As with touch, there are broad steps to take and personal ones. With classes and casts, I think that making sure people feel safe and bonded as a group are incredibly helpful. Taking a few minutes to learn names, find a few things in common, or have time working with each person as a pair or small group can make even a drop-in feel more comfortable. For casts spending more time together, a nice long chat about boundaries and non-improv group bonding can both be huge aids to cultivating this experience.

Here are a few more broad tips for managing criticism:

As a Teacher:

Note in a way that’s appropriate to the level

The same note applies in very different ways depending on who you’re noticing needs the feedback. For example, in somebody’s first-ever improv class, if they’re too quiet I’ll usually just make a mental note to myself that they seem nervous. If they’ve had a few classes, I’ll mention projecting, using the stage, etc. as a short technical note. In an advanced class if it’s still an issue I might spend some time on vocal exercises so that everyone has the tools to succeed. With a cast or with people I know well I’ll happily just shout, ‘speak the fuck up!’ and trust that it’ll be heard in the loving manner in which it was intended. People feel most like they’re being seen and met where they are if we suit the feedback to the player, even if it’s the exact same content.

Note on what you’ve already taught in a general class

If people are feeling self-conscious, having a framework to work in can make them feel safer. In the same way that something like the alphabet game gives beginners confidence because they know the alphabet, having a structure you’re working within is often comforting. If you’ve not taught a person about object work, for example, and you give them a lengthy note on it, it can feel like a dressing down that’s coming out of left field. They might start to think that they just don’t have a talent for improv when really it’s simply a skill that’s not been addressed yet. If you’ve already talked about object work, though, being noted on it can feel positive, because they know the rules and are just being reminded. That makes it a tangible and achievable goal for them, and students will be less defensive and more excited to do better next time.

Make expectations clear and note in relation to them

Because improv is the kind of art where just about anything could be a good/appropriate choice in the correct circumstances, it’s very easy (and tempting) to argue for your choices. It’s difficult to hear/accept a note if it feels like you’re being told you’re doing improv wrong, especially if you’re an experienced player. Making it very clear what a show is/needs in the beginning and then noting in relation to that can make the process much more clear-cut, and less personal (in a good way).

As a Performer/Student:

Think about the note applying to a character

It’s really easy to take it personally when a teacher tells you that your choice was wrong, or that you could have done something differently. This is especially true if you’re personally invested, which you should be, and if you’re thinking of the character you’re playing as basically yourself, which is a more difficult choice. Try making sure every time you go on stage you change one thing about yourself, even if it’s just making sure your character has a different name. Then, if your choices are criticised, think of that criticism applying to the character. You might find you can listen to it in a less emotionally heightened place, which can make it much easier to hear what’s being said.

Think of notes as a fun suggestion of a new thing to try

Part of the fun of improv is being pleasantly surprised and getting to try new things. As we progress, we can get quite attached to the style we like playing and the choices we like making. If you receive a note that sounds contrary to your own beliefs, or that sounds difficult, or goes against a note somebody else has given you, try to hold it lightly. Treat that note as a way of potentially being surprised and delighted, and give it a try even if it seems wrong. If you don’t like it, you don’t have to do it again, and if you do like it then hey, you learned something unexpected!

Remember your teacher/director is a human too

Teachers and directors have all kinds of reasons for giving notes. It might be specific to the show they’re trying to create, it might be about the vibe of a particular group, it might be a skill they’re trying to test or instil so that they can push in a different direction. They’re not the boss of all improv, but they’re the boss of the specific thing you’re doing. They’re going out on a limb to hold space and make something and to try and help students develop. They might not do a perfect job, but unless something is actively harmful I’d suggest going along with notes you’re given to see where they lead. It’s not your vision, after all, and that’s part of the fun.

If your teacher/director is somebody with less privilege than you, for example, you’re male and they’re female, or you’re part of the dominant culture in that country and they’re not, keep in mind too that they’re having to prove their worth more often than you. Taking a note gracefully is a helpful show of support, and will help reinforce the trust everyone has in them to lead. It’d be nice if this didn’t matter, but we certainly live in a world where it still does.

Having said all of this, just like with touch everybody is an individual and it’s important to meet people where they are. If somebody comes to class in a place that means they’re not comfortable being touched at all, we should adhere to that; they deserve to be there too. If somebody is in a fragile state where they’re not able to hear criticism, there are certainly ways to incorporate them into a beginner/intermediate class, too. They might not be able to progress as fast as peers, but the positive reinforcement of being set up for success at that level can have huge effects down the road.

Improv isn’t (and shouldn’t be) therapy, but we should acknowledge that people come for all kinds of reasons, needing to find all kinds of things. Even if what someone needs is to stay in beginner classes for a year or two having their ego gently stroked, as far as I’m concerned that’s completely fine. Assuming they’re not being offensive or problematic, I feel like it’s important to acknowledge that maybe they’re getting what they need and it’s ok if they’re not ready to have their art refined by an outside voice yet. Just as it’d be fine for somebody to play for years and not touch anybody. Sure, there are styles of shows they couldn’t be in, but the beauty of improv is that there infinite possibilities.

With touch, we often take the time to ask every person where they’re at generally, and on a particular day. It’s worth checking in with students and cast members about feedback in a similar way, especially if you’re going to be spending a lot of time working with them. Some very experienced players know exactly what their weak points are already, are actively working on them, and feel nothing but self-conscious having them pointed out in front of a group. Others are of the opinion that if they’re not being noted they’re not learning. Still others are happy to be noted, but only if they feel that you see and hear them adequately, which might mean budgeting time for a conversation rather than a five-minute briefing. These are all valid places to be in as a performer, and it’s efficient to know who in your cast needs/wants what. A good note/criticism is one that can be actively and productively used by the person you’re giving it to. Noting somebody is a generous act, not an expression of your own competency or ego.

When I do a boundary check-in with a group of people I know and trust, I usually just say, ‘I’m all good, come get it!’ or maybe mention a specific emotional or physical thing I need to be off the table. With a group of strangers or people where the trust isn’t there, I’m much more thorough and matter-of-fact. I might mention where specifically people can and can’t put a finger or tongue, when and how it’s ok to pick me up, and that there’s a short list of subject matter/characters I’m not ok playing with strangers.

The same is often true of criticism; from somebody in a position of care whom I trust I’m thrilled to receive constructive criticism. It often makes me feel seen and supported. The same comment from somebody I don’t trust might get my heckles up. I think this is true of many performers; trust is a precursor to vulnerability, and we need to be vulnerable to be open to really hearing criticism. That means trust is priority 1, so that good improv can be priority 2. If you try to skip 1, you’ll get neither.

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The Grindr Chronicles part 3: It’s supposed to be fun! Who is diversity for?


Something I love about Grindr is the huge variety of people I get to meet. I’ve met people from all over the world, from different social classes, of different ages… I’ve met builders, gym bunnies, students, IT people, people with very little English, waiters, businessmen, and all sorts more. Grindr is diverse in a way that few other activities I do are (and not for lack of trying on my part!). Why? Well, lots of reasons. It’s very accessible, being available any time, anywhere, and for free. Sex is something that a large percentage of the adult population are interested in, so it’s a big selling point. But also, it’s fun.

This has me thinking a lot about diversity in improv. I mean, I already thought a lot about diversity in improv, having written a book about it. But I wonder if we’re excited about diversity to the point of fetishising it. Are we creating a welcoming atmosphere and making sure our improv is safe and without assumption? Or are we looking for token visibly diverse people to put in the front of our pictures? Diversity is important because it feeds this art form (and, of course, to be a kind human). Box ticking serves no real long-term purpose, though; we need to make sure that anybody who wants to improvise can do it easily, safely, and joyfully.

My current baseline for what diversity should look and feel like is this: A person hears about improv, and they look up classes. They read about how fun classes are, and see pictures of a variety of people having a nice time doing improv, so they decide to try it. They come to a class, they’re made aware that there are a few rules to keep everyone safe, and then they start learning. Whatever their personal style or experience is they’re both challenged and accepted. Bad experiences are rare, and dealt with professionally by the school and compassionately by peers. Students are taught how to avoid assumptions and stereotypes, actively include peers, and value difference in playing styles and knowledge/life experience. Everyone who wants to be there has a lovely time, nobody is bankrupted or traumatised by the experience, and those who go on to higher levels know that they’re being treated fairly in auditions and castings.

I think there’s a missing piece in there, though, in the mid-level of an improviser’s development. After we finish panicking and before we start taking improv seriously we need to figure out who we are as improvisers and artists. A lot of improv work starts with the idea of putting the group’s needs above your own, of working to build something together rather than bringing in your own baggage, and of surrendering yourself to what’s going on in the moment. This is all true and good and needed for a collaborative art form, and a lot of people find that letting go of their ego to contribute freely to the group’s needs can be very fun and freeing.

There’s such a thing as losing yourself too much, though. I think this is especially true for people who are minorities in a group in any way because the ‘group mind’ that they are contributing to is less likely to reflect our own feelings and experiences. It’s possible for a group mind to actively include everyone, but this takes a conscious effort on the part of everybody in the room, and it means that people who are minorities (in any way) need the skill of actively including themselves. That means that we have to know ourselves even better when we are in the minority and that we as teachers need to help all of our students find themselves and their place in this art form.

Something that strikes me about my experience on Grindr is the amount of control people have over their own identities. Profiles can have as much or as little information as you’d like to provide and can have a picture of your face or not. It’s quite common for people to not share their face publicly, but to send a private message with a picture so that everyone knows who they’re talking to. It’s also possible to meet people without ever seeing their face. It’s common for people’s profiles to include notes about how they like to be treated or spoken to, specifically what they like in bed, as well as the standard hobbies and job kinds of information. There’s scope for people to lie, but in my experience the vast majority are truthful; if anything, they get to the point quicker on Grindr than they would anywhere else.

Grindr’s first port of call is to give people agency over their own identities online. The second thing you do is chat with people 1:1, getting to know them and negotiating a potential encounter. The third part is where Grindr starts to feel like a community, because you meet more and more people and some become friends. In terms of diversity, Grindr is definitely winning over improv. As an example, the racial breakdown of the different people I’ve met is almost identical to the racial breakdown of the population of London (i.e. 1/3 of Londoners are black, about 1/3 of the people I’ve met are black, etc). Anybody who has been to an improv show in London can attest to the fact that we do not reflect our community as effectively (though this is slowly improving).

Improv does things in a different order; we start with the community (group) work, and then pull away into pairs and as individual performers. We need to be conscious of all of these steps, and of what’s needed for our students. Giving individuals some agency right from the start can be really helpful in people asserting their differences and boundaries in an effective way, and feeling heard more meaningfully. In a beginner class, this might be including things like a one-minute life story, telling a folk tale or story from childhood, character painting or playing somebody you know, knowing that ‘yes and’ doesn’t mean you always have to say yes, or having the freedom to edit some scenes yourself. For intermediate players it might mean talking about different types of improvisers (for example Pirate/Robot/Ninja), finding formats that fit your style, trying different groups or styles of improv to see what feels natural, or making up your own games or formats. There is wealth to be mined in ourselves and our students if we use the tools to help self-reflect and build agency right from the start.

Grindr isn’t diverse because it set out to be diverse. It’s diverse because it’s fun, accessible, and people can find what they’re looking for. It’s also diverse because people have control over their own identities, and that means that they can feel safe, be seen and heard as they wish to be, and assert boundaries firmly when needed. We can learn from this as improvisers; I’ve certainly been letting my teaching practice evolve as I’ve reflected on the truly diverse community I’ve found. Making sure students have fun, and also have a voice/agency within a group can make a huge difference to our community.

A tiny caveat to finish: improv isn’t for everyone. Yes, everyone should be welcome, yes, it teaches valuable life skills, and yes, we need to try harder to create inclusive classes and shows. But it’s still not going to be for everyone, and that’s ok. Some people will never like improv. Some people aren’t in a place in their lives to make space for improv. Some people are in need of emotional or psychological support beyond what an improv class can provide. Some people have had bad experiences and are reluctant to expose themselves to more. This is all legit, and we can’t push improv on people who don’t want it. We joke sometimes about improv being a bit cult-like; let’s not make it true. Diversity is an active practice, not a contest or exercise.

Bonus diversity to-do list:

Actively work to make your classes and shows inclusive

Actively work to find your own voice as an improviser

Actively work to help others find their voices as improvisers

Make sure anybody who had a bad experience can speak and be heard

Consider that diversity can mean a lot of different things

Seek diversity in your own life outside of improv

Notice if you’re losing particular demographics and ask why that’s happening

Have fun

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The Grindr Chronicles part 2: Bad Things Happen Sometimes

Welcome to part 2 of my series of blog posts about my 2019 new year’s resolution to meet men from Grindr. An odd thing to put on a professional improv website, perhaps, but it’s turned into more of an eye-opening journey than I’d anticipated. I think that a big part of learning to improvise is learning the unspoken rules of the community (helpfully spoken more and more in codes of conduct), and the personal growth that comes from following them. Things like agreement, positivity, building things together, emotional literacy, etc. all have personal resonance when we practice them regularly. By joining a new community with its own set of rules, I’ve had the opportunity to reflect on how we as improvisers build our communities, and how following those rules can also result in growth.

One thing in particular that improv can be helpful with is resilience. The flexibility, positive interpretations of situations, and group bonding can all be beneficial in building the ability to bounce back after a setback. Sometimes, though, people fall by the wayside. Something is too difficult, or too much of a stretch or something bad happens in a class or show and there’s nowhere to turn; improv loses its lustre. I’ve been reflecting a lot this year on what we as a community, and teachers especially, can do to keep people. And on who the people we’re losing are, in terms of diversity of life experiences.

Something I didn’t mention directly in the first part of this series was personal safety. I can certainly imagine some people reading thinking it’s simply not safe to meet a random stranger from an app for casual sex. Or to invite them directly to your house, or go to theirs, whether or not you’ve promised anything. One hears things about serial killers targeting gay men, or opportunistic thieves. The statistics about violence towards trans people worldwide are particularly unsettling. Looking at the broader group of people who use the app, though, as well as gauging by my own experience, the vast majority of experiences are good (well, safe; no promises about how good the sex will be).

Our safety and our perception of our safety are two different things, though. We’re never safe, not really, no matter where we go or what we do. Driving a car is incredibly dangerous, but millions of people do it daily without thought. We learn to be relaxed about it because it’s familiar. It’s completely fine most of the time, and when it’s not there are people there to support us. You can call roadside assistance, the police, an ambulance, and when you talk to people afterwards they’ll be sympathetic (unless you were drunk or texting, perhaps). Should you avoid cars forever because of the danger? No, of course not. The environment is a different story, of course, but the point is that we can’t live in fear.

Likewise, my experiences on Grindr have been 99% totally safe and fine and, crucially, when it wasn’t there were lots of people I could reach out to. Late last spring I had an encounter that started consensual and ended up very much non-consensual. I’ll spare you the details, because this isn’t the place for a gory retelling, but boundaries were definitely crossed physically and emotionally. Physically I was better after about a week, but I was shaken for longer (and full of adrenaline, which is both physical and emotional fallout). Just like with the car analogy, crucially the vast majority of experiences I’ve had have been good, and there were lots of people I could reach out to when one wasn’t.

As I left the apartment of the man who’d raped me, the first person I messaged was somebody I’d seen casually a handful of times and was enjoying chatting with, Felix. My gut told me he was nice, but I didn’t know him super well at the time. I initially messaged him that night in the context of a planned meeting, but the whole story quickly came out. Felix was supportive, outraged on my behalf, and helped me mentally frame what had happened. We chatted late into the evening, and he also met me for tea the next morning, again being supportive and also pointing me towards some services that would help.

Felix and I also had sex later that day, at my initiation. For me, a big part of what I’ve loved about being active on Grindr has been finding trust with people. All kinds of people, some of whom I connect with briefly and never see again, some of whom become friends or regulars. The scary thing about being assaulted was the thought that I might lose that sense of trust, so for me jumping right back on the horse with somebody I knew was a good egg felt like the right thing. I’m not saying that anybody else should navigate a similar situation the same way, of course, but for me, that felt right.

To bring this back to improv, because I can (and do) make anything about improv, we need to know that bad things are going to happen sometimes. There’s no code of conduct so stringent, nor teacher so vigilant, that it could possibly be prevented. Those things should still exist, of course, but to err is human (and very improv). Even with the best of intent, somebody will get groped, or injured, or mis-pronouned, or called ‘mom’ one too many times, or have their culture mocked, or have something triggered. Maybe even something worse will happen; we’re not in control of everybody in our improv culture.

I talked about vulnerability in my first post about Grindr, and how we should all strive for it. Here’s how we can help make it possible for others to find and stay in a vulnerable state when things go wrong. First, of course there should be official channels, policies, resources. Theatres and companies should have rules, and enforce them. In 2020 I think a lot of us have already cottoned onto this and actioned at least some points.

The second thing, and for me the big one, is to make ourselves personally available. By being available when I needed to talk, Felix was effectively an ambassador for the whole Grindr community. I’ll say again, we didn’t know each other very well at the time. If you’ve done an 8-week course with somebody, and maybe gone to the pub after, you know them just as well. If you’ve been improvising for a while, there are a whole lot of people you are at least that closely connected to. You don’t need to be an authority figure, or somebody’s best friend, to show up for them. Sometimes authority figures and close friends are the hardest people to talk to, in fact.

If somebody needs to chat about an improv thing that triggered them, was bothersome, or something that was straight-up not okay, be there to listen to them. Be on their side. Be outraged on their behalf, if appropriate. And sure, pass on info about official channels they can go through if needed. But know that your reaction has the potential to feel representative of your whole community.

One more thing, just to bring this back to a topic close to my heart. We need to make sure that the vast majority of experiences people have in our classes and theatres are positive, not just because it’s more fun and better for our art form, but because it makes people feel that they’re welcome. If diversity is on your 2020 list of goals, being willing to show up and support people when they need it is crucial, as is ensuring general safety and good vibes. The more ‘diverse’ people are, the less safe they are (and feel) out in the real world. That means that it might take fewer bad experiences for them to feel unsafe or unwelcome in your space, simply because it’s reinforcing what the world is already telling them. And by, “Your space”, I mean any space you are improvising in. You’re partly responsible for it, even if you’re ‘just’ a student or punter, because we’re all creating this community together, one interaction at a time.


p.s. I’m totally fine, thanks 😊

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The Grindr Chronicles part 1: The power of vulnerability















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Gender for actors/improvisers




The Bechdel test







Imagine the following situations:










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5 quick takeaways:

  1. Listen with an open mind
  2. Check your ego at the door
  3. Establish rules and systems for behaviour





A note about picking people up.



Here are some great ways to initiate a productive conversation:







Shine Theory









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What it means to be trans

What it means (to me) to be trans














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Privilege in improv

Privilege and diversity in improv- it’s not just about money

Fast ideas to make sure everybody feels good:

Make sure everybody who wants a go gets one.
Be proactive about making sure good choices are made in class.





















Stephen Davidson

Further reading (a very small sample):

Why We Need Love and Support in Improv

Click to access kraus.socialclass.2010.pdf

Black Lives Matter Fall 2016 Syllabus