“Eck-schoo-zay, eck-schoo-zay.” The tan well-dressed woman in sunglasses caught my eye, and I followed her beckoning gesture to the pay-for-parking machine. Her well-dressed Italian husband, also in sunglasses, typed something into his smartphone and showed me the screen.
Please. I do not speak English. Would you show me where the scoundrel is?
I tried not to laugh. I could see what they wanted – help in paying for parking – and though I carried a bag, lunch sack, and books, and I was on the way to my car, I paused. “You press OK, here. Uh-huh, and then you push OK again, yep, and then you insert your payment card…”
The machine said: UNABLE TO READ CARD. TRY AGAIN.
I pointed to my eye and then to his payment card, and shook my head. “The machine won’t read the card. We have to try it again.” The woman pointed to the dollar sign on the machine. “Oh, yes.” I nodded. “You can use cash, sure. Twelve dollars.”
The woman said something to her husband and he pinched a few crisp American bills from his wallet. He bent forward and fed a ten into the machine. The machine spit it out.
“Everything okay here?” A man wearing a parking-attendant shirt approached.
“Hi,” I said. “They don’t speak English and—”
“That machine doesn’t take cash.” The attendant directed his voice to the man, who still hunched over the machine.
“Oh. Well, his card wouldn’t work and… would you please help them? I’ve got to go.” I shrugged and headed for my car. The attendant repeated to the man, in English, that the machine didn’t take cash. I looked back over my shoulder and smiled. It was funny that as I hurried to an improv class, where I intended to improve my communication skills, I communicated better with non-English-speaking Italians than I did with a helpful parking attendant and fellow American.
In Berkeley, I found Shotgun Studios near a last surviving Fosters Freeze, and felt instantly comforted. It was a good omen that as I embarked on something so new and strange for me, I encountered a fast-food icon from my youth, one that appeared little changed from my memory. A sign in a front window said IMPROV CLASSES, ENROLLING NOW. I approached the front door and saw something like a ballet rehearsal room inside, but without a barre or mirrors. A man stood up from a chair, smiled, waved, and approached.
Kenn Adams took my hand in a warm and firm handshake and introduced himself as the instructor. He showed me to the rehearsal room, and told me about the restrooms. On my way to the restrooms I grinned over my shoulder.
“Am I the only one who signed up?”
Kenn said he expected two others. When I returned to the front room, a man in his late twenties sat in a chair next to Kenn. I shook his hand and learned his name was Ted. The other person was a no-show.
Weeknight improv classes were difficult to fill, Kenn explained, and while he would teach that night’s class for Ted and I, he encouraged us to join other classes on different days. That sounded fine to Ted, but for me, I had this weeknight free, and that was it.
We stood, assembled in a little circle (well, triangle) and stretched. To begin, we played a say-the-first-word-that-pops-into-your-head game. If one person began with “red,” the next person might say “strawberries”. The game required that I cue the next person by making eye-contact after my turn, but not just eye-contact – a look that conveyed openness and anticipation. It made me think: at work, when I made eye-contact with my co-workers, did my look convey a receptive, responsive mind?
Ted and I played another game in which we gave each other invisible boxes, or gifts, and the receiver spontaneously decided what the container held. Ted gave me an ice cube. Ted decided I gave him a flower, which made me laugh. The exercise felt awkward, but not in a bad way. It underscored our ability, and my tendency, to assign meaning to the communication received from others. The significance of this was not lost on me. How often did I mistakenly interpret a co-worker’s, or anyone else’s, intent?
Also, in both exercises, I was unpracticed in communicating with only the present moment in mind. At the office, while I appeared to listen to a co-worker, I busied myself with thinking about how what they said affected my workday, how they made me feel, and how quickly I could get back to work. Kenn’s “Patented Three Rules of Improv,” which he provided during our exercises, challenged this thinking in an instructive and profound way. More on that in a minute.
Before I knew it, it was time to go. Ted and I thanked Kenn, and as we headed for the door I noticed something interesting. Ted and I had formed a friendly bond, though we’d known each other for less than two hours and we had nothing but improv in common. The cause, I thought, was the synergistic thinking Kenn’s improv coaching encouraged. I wondered if, with practice, this way of thinking could become second nature for me, like it appeared to be for Kenn. If so, I could imagine the benefits to my work life and beyond.
Weeks later, not only did enough students sign up for Improv I, but the class would feature five bright, witty, daring women: Delisha, Leona, Lauren, Alyssa, and Karen. In our first session, Kenn encouraged us to introduce ourselves to the group. I said an improv class was something I always meant to do to become better at speaking in public and a better communicator at work. That was true enough, and one or two others echoed this. I didn’t say that the class was something I hoped would help me find my voice and distract me from my anxieties. The others also had similar deeper reasons – I was sure of it.
Alyssa said she was there because her boss – her Type-A boss – informed her she was a poor communicator. I looked at Alyssa and saw a shy, but also a smart, creative, and fun-loving person. I soon realized that whether someone was a Type-A, Type-B, or other, Kenn’s “Patented Three Rules of Improv,” offered benefits outside the rehearsal room, and for me, applying these three rules to my thinking at work proved especially beneficial:
Rule #1: Be spontaneous
I had no idea how to “be spontaneous” at work, until I realized that I could try doing the opposite of my usual reactions to typical workday situations. For example, if I saw a co-worker struggling to complete a project before its deadline, I normally wouldn’t volunteer to help. Also, I typically didn’t ask about the purpose behind a task, and I usually didn’t engage with my co-workers in small talk. “Be spontaneous,” opened my eyes to my habits, and prompted me to see opportunities for spontaneity in the workday paths I would otherwise not explore.
The benefits were immediate. In volunteering to help a co-worker with their project, I felt useful and I learned about my co-worker’s role and the challenges that were unique to their job. When I showed interest and asked questions about a task, I was seen as attentive and curious. When I engaged in small talk (knowing that small talk topics often lack spontaneity) I offered less-typical questions like: have you ever been to see the Northern Lights? I was delighted by the stories my co-workers offered in response.
Rule #2: Make your partner look good
For as long as I can remember, how capable I appeared to my boss and my co-workers was my main focus at work. How good my co-workers appeared was up to them, and didn’t concern me. In contrast, “Make your partner look good,” required me to buck the trend of my thinking, see the best in every co-worker, and view their success as an extension of my own.
If my boss asked me why something wasn’t done, instead of saying so-and-so didn’t do something, with Rule #2 in mind, I could say I knew so-and-so was working hard to complete what was needed along with several other projects, and I should follow up with them to see if they could use my help. Or, I could speak highly of a co-worker to a client. Rule #2 was a stretch for me at first. Then, I had two important realizations: it was not my job to evaluate my co-workers, and it felt better to support my co-workers, rather than to second-guess them. I haven’t mastered Rule #2 yet but, as I get better at it, I feel my sense of well-being at work improving.
Rule #3: Build on your partner’s idea
Typically, when first presented with a co-worker’s idea, I looked for and expressed all the reasons why I thought the idea wouldn’t work. The “Yes, and…” improv game woke me up to the fact that negative responses to others’ ideas blocked productivity for all involved. The “Yes, and…” game is an exercise in accepting and expanding on your partner’s story idea, as you build a scene together. One player says something like, “Let’s explore this dark cave…” and their partner then says, “Yes, and… let’s take these torches with us.” I made the connection that when a co-worker approached me with an idea, instead of blocking it with skepticism, I could react with Yes, and… in mind. The result was a new and better perspective on my co-workers’ creative thinking and problem-solving practices.
Now, thanks to Kenn’s training, I see every interaction with someone as a chance to improv. Also, I now know it is more fun and interesting to partner with someone in a conversation, rather than try to direct the conversation to a place I think it should go. At work, my days are more enjoyable and less stressful when I apply the three rules, and I sense that I’ve only scratched the surface of what improv-training offers me in becoming a skilled communicator and creating a roadmap to a better mind for the daily grind.
If you live in the San Francisco Bay Area, you can find Kenn’s classes here. I recommend Kenn’s book, How to Improvise a Full-Length Play: The Art of Spontaneous Theater. For a deeper look at how to apply improv principles to the workplace, Kenn recommends his friend Kat Koppett, her training and coaching materials, and book Training to Imagine. Ms. Koppett also has a podcast: Dare to be Human.
This essay is a part of my series on lessons I learned during my quirky career path. Topics include conflict at work and a better mindset for mistakes. I hope you found it helpful.
Feedback is appreciated. Email me at authoralisawilson@gmail.com.